Roland smothered a groan. In his frenzied imagination, he could quite clearly see Alaun licking his lips.
His fancy was made all the more real when Alaun all but purred, “Better and better.”
It was all too much for Roland. “Devil take it, Alaun—she’s old de Versallet’s daughter!”
“Sweet saints, she is.” With a smile of leonine anticipation, Alaun uncoiled his long length and stood. He handed his goblet to Bilder. “She’s a widow, did you know?”
Muttering curses mixed with imprecations, Roland followed Alaun out of the room.
*
From her seat at the end of one of the two smaller boards added at right-angles to each end of the lord’s table, Eloise surveyed the hall. All was as it should be, the fire in the huge hearth already blazing while the steward’s staff scurried about filling goblets. She’d given her orders; there should be little to demand her attention during the meal.
The guests, dressed in their finery, were drifting in, but the seat beside Emma remained empty. On Eloise’s left, the Chevalier d’Osceux, a Gascon knight, was chattering animatedly to Blanche, beyond him.
From the gallery above the far end of the hall, the trumpeter gave a single long blast, the summons for latecomers. Of course, the sound would penetrate the thick walls only so far—a typical male conceit.
From the corner of her eye, Eloise saw movement beside Emma, and turned, prepared to witness another example of man’s folly.
A single glance informed her that she’d misjudged.
Montisfryn smiled lazily down at Emma and made some remark; Eloise grasped the opportunity to study him. His choice of attire, she reluctantly conceded, was masterly. Just as she stood out—or rather, she hoped, back—from more gaudily-clad ladies, so he, with his restrained elegance, eclipsed men of lesser stature who relied on their clothing to make their mark. Montisfryn, nude, would yet look better dressed.
Unbidden, the vision of his naked torso, gleaming in the sunshine as he’d sat on the forest floor, flashed into her mind. She glanced away, annoyed to feel heat in her cheeks. Disgusted, she forced herself to look back, to prove that she could view him dispassionately—without any ridiculous fluster—only to find his gaze on her.
Despite the distance, she felt its touch. And his warm approval as his glance swept her exposed neck and shoulders. His eyes returned to her face, sleepy sensuality in the golden depths. Their gazes met—and she knew beyond doubt that what stirred behind those golden orbs was not sleepy at all. It prowled, hungry, infinitely dangerous, frighteningly fascinating.
With an effort, she tore her gaze from his, only then realizing that she needed to breathe. Dragging air into her lungs, she turned to the Chevalier. “Have you spent much time in England, sir?” She ignored Blanche’s frown.
Her father entered and took his seat, and at a signal from Emma, the banquet began.
Alaun bided his time. Given the number of eyes on him, he was careful not to let his dwell overmuch on Eloise de Versallet. Other men, he noticed, were not so restrained. She was the most stunning woman in the hall. The graceful arch of her neck, exposed by her hairstyle and gown, drew male eyes like a beacon. In her black, ivory, silver, and gold, she was the raw material for any number of fantasies. The black called attention to her widowhood, the richness of the fabrics to her station, while the elegant cut of the robes set the imagination to dwell on the ripe fullness of the charms concealed.
She was temptation incarnate.
Resisting manfully, he smiled and charmed the sweet innocent at his side, for thus he saw Emma. She might lie beneath old Henry on occasion, but it was plain her lord had not married her for sons.
Memories of the previous lady de Versallet returned to him; she had had Henry’s measure. A strong woman, a woman to bear a warrior’s sons, to rule in his absence and support his position. Alaun glanced at her daughter, sitting chatting seriously to the Gascon by her side. Was Eloise de Versallet of the same ilk as her mother?
“Can I serve you some of this spiced pork, my lord?”
With a lazy smile, Alaun returned his attention to Emma.
Henry also bided his time. He waited until the fourth course of the six scheduled, the meal being of but medium size given the contests tomorrow, before taking advantage of a lull in the conversation to lean back in his great chair and, over his wife’s head, address his principal guest. “The lists have been drawn, my lord of Montisfryn, yet I did not see your name among those wishful of joining the contests.”
Alaun met Henry’s gaze, his most urbane smile to the fore. “I fear, my lord, that I rarely enter the lists these days. Not without a royal command.”
Henry humphed. “Your knights seem keen enough to joust for gold and honor—do not such prizes tempt you?”
“Nay.” Laying aside his knife and reclaiming his goblet, Alaun settled back. “There was gold and honor aplenty on the battlefields of France. I fear I’ve had a surfeit and am unlike to be tempted more.”
As all England was ringing with tales of the grand exploits of Edward’s recent company, Henry realized that might well be true. William had embarked with the king from Southampton, but had been left as part of the force garrisoning Caen, the first major town taken, thereby missing both the glory and spoils of later events. Henry shrewdly regarded Montisfryn; the desire to see William measure up against him grew. “There must be something will stir you from your lethargy?”
Alaun’s lips twitched. He’d already decided to be a late entrant, quite why he hadn’t decided, but there was no need to tell old Henry yet. Considering his next words, he let his gaze stray to Eloise de Versallet. As if sensing his regard, she looked up.
Calmly, coolly composed, she returned his look with one of haughty disdain.
He did not look away. “What else could a knight rightly aspire to claim by such means?” To any casual observer, it would appear he was staring across the hazy chamber while considering his host’s words.
“Why—whatever was offered as prize.” Henry leaned forward. “A jewel, perhaps? One with meaning.”
Alaun arched a brow. Eloise continued to meet his gaze, but distantly, as if acknowledging him at all was beneath her dignity. Within him, something primitive stirred.
Determined not to lower her eyes again, Eloise fought to hold Montisfryn’s steady gaze while ignoring her fluttering pulse and giddy head. She’d been certain she could simply outstare him, and drive him to acknowledge her lack of susceptibility by looking away. Instead, his golden gaze held hers, the pressure of his will steadily escalating, increasingly compelling, as if he would force her to submit, to lower her eyes and thus acknowledge some fundamental right over her. His intent reached her clearly. Grimly, she kept her gaze locked with his, refusing to yield, to admit to any womanly consciousness of his powerful presence.
“I have in my keeping a certain sapphire, worth a duke’s ransom.”
Henry’s words reached Alaun, but distantly. Ten minutes before, he would have settled on the famed Aladdin’s Stone, captured by a crusading de Versallet, as a sufficiently tempting prize. Now, his mind was no longer on the material plane. “Nay,” he replied shortly. “I have no need of gaudy gems.”
“A destrier, then. Or perhaps a colt from your father’s stallion?”
Alaun’s gaze didn’t waver. “There are many strong stallions in the fields around Montisfryn. I have many prime destriers—I need not more.”
Henry couldn’t hide his exasperation. “Name your prize,” he growled, “and if it’s within my power, it’ll be yours for the taking.”
His words dropped into Alaun’s mind, crossing the train of much deeper thoughts. Eloise’s defiance, the unspoken challenge in her haughty gaze, consumed him, aroused him, taunted him as little else had for years. He was determined to have her, to feel her arching, naked, beneath him, frantic in her need, her nails scoring his back in urgent entreaty, her long legs wrapped about his hips as he conquered her. What price her haughtiness then? H
er surrender would be a prize worth fighting for.
Slowly, he raised his goblet. Sipped. “Your daughter.”
Silence engulfed the high table. A tangible presence, it spread through the air and held, quivering with anticipation.
Stunned, Henry glanced at Eloise, the first of the rest of the company to do so. Only he was in time to witness the seething glare she flung across the chamber, directly at Montisfryn. Visions of hell, surging fire and brimstone, contained less heat than her furious response. Then, as if the episode was no more than a joke entirely beneath her notice, she turned gravely to the Chevalier and engaged him in conversation.
Alaun fielded her fury, triumph surging through him at having finally breached her walls. As she looked away, haughty to the last, he shifted, easing the fullness in his groin. Slowly sipping his wine, he allowed his gaze to drift idly over the hall, and patiently waited for Henry to draw back from his ridiculous suggestion.
The idea was, of course, ludicrous. Even had she been unmarried and within Henry’s writ, the days of tournaments being fought for a fair damsel’s hand were long past. Besides, it wasn’t her hand that had tempted him, a fact he was certain Henry understood. True, if she agreed to stand as prize, there was no reason the absurd couldn’t come to pass, but the chances of her doing so were, Alaun would wager, rather less likely than that the heavens would fall.
No—the entire concept was the fruit of his disordered brain. The only excuse he could find for having voiced it was that, at the time, he’d been wholly intent on subduing her and had seized on any avenue to victory.
“This prize…” Henry sounded pensive.
Alaun turned to find his host regarding, not him, but Eloise. Then Henry’s head came around, his gaze piercingly acute.
“I would want it understood,” Henry stated, his voice even, its volume undimmed, “that any prize we agree on would be for you alone to claim, should you be declared overall victor of the tournament.”
Surprise flashed through Alaun; intense interest immediately swamped it. “I had thought,” he said, his gaze locking with Henry’s, “that that was what we were discussing.”
“Just so. The rules of the tournament have already been declared, the victor to be decided by the final joust.”
Alaun had assumed as much; he inclined his head, and wondered what Henry was up to.
Playing for time was the answer, while Henry feverishly considered every angle of his plan. The plan that had, entirely without warning, burst upon him but moments before.
For the first time in the past five years—in all of her life, if it came to that—Henry had seen his daughter respond to a man. She was, did she but know it, the bane of his life. A hardened warrior, he’d loved his first wife dearly, and held all their five children very close to his heart. But Eloise had confounded him from the first. He had never known how to show his love to her; with sons, it was easy, but with daughters…daughters, so Henry believed, were sent by the saints to keep a man humble.
He’d arranged her marriage to Raoul de Cannar believing it the best he could do for her, but de Cannar had died and Eloise had retired to her convent. After visiting her there, Elaine had returned, suspicious that Eloise had not enjoyed her brief marriage. Elaine had gleaned nothing specific to support her belief, which, in retrospect, was just as well; if she had, he would have roared north with his men to descend on the de Cannars, even defying the king’s edict to do so. Just the thought that de Cannar had not done right by Eloise was enough to make Henry see red, even now.
Through the smoky haze, his gaze rested on her; unshakably serene, she gave no sign of being aware of it. She was a daughter an old warrior could be proud of, with her matchless beauty and indomitable pride. Her hand was sought by the rich and powerful, as well as by the warrior clans. In vain. She spurned all her suitors with chilly disdain—he’d heard more than one complain of frostbite. Yet he would swear she had her woman’s dreams, along with her woman’s pride.
She remained an enigma, one that worried him well-nigh to death.
Men were nothing to her—that much, he understood. Why it should be so was another matter. Yet here, today, before his very eyes, he’d seen her respond to Montisfryn with a look Henry understood very well. The devil had baited her; his suggestion of her as his prize had been a ploy to rattle her defenses.
The wonder of it was, it had succeeded.
Memories of his courtship of Elaine of Montrose remained vivid in Henry’s mind. Eloise was Elaine’s daughter through and through. Which meant that, if handled correctly, this joust with Montisfryn might just hold the key to his salvation.
“And this prize?”
Montisfryn’s casual, almost bored tone deceived Henry not at all. The man’s golden gaze seemed unable to remain long from Eloise, and his hunger was imperfectly concealed, at least from Henry, who knew the feeling well. There was a danger, of course, that his scheme might go awry, yet it seemed as if Elaine stood at his shoulder, urging him on. “Ah, yes. My daughter, I believe you said?”
The tension about the high table was palpable; every soul present was hanging on his words. All except Eloise, who continued to ignore it all, and the poor, confused Chevalier, who struggled to emulate her calm.
Henry glanced at his principal guest. The intent expression in Montisfryn’s eyes, the faint suggestion he could not believe his ears, delighted Henry. Nevertheless, in those last, vital seconds, he paused long enough to run through his plan once again.
At the worst, if Montisfryn lost, Eloise would have received a salutary shock; Henry could use that to illustrate the dangers of her position and the advantages of taking another husband.
But if all went well, the match would be an excellent one. Old Edmund would have been delighted; in retrospect, it was a pity Henry and Montisfryn’s father had been so busy preserving the fiction of their enmity that the possibility of linking their families had never entered their heads.
Henry glanced at Eloise. If he played his cards right, he would see her well-settled, Montisfryn well-served, in more ways than one, and his sainted Elaine well-pleased. The potential gain was far too great to ignore.
Reflecting that God preserved the valiant, he met Montisfryn’s golden gaze. “Should you compete in this tournament and be declared its victor, when you leave this castle, my daughter, Eloise, will be in your care.”
Montisfryn’s lashes flickered, then his golden gaze returned to Henry’s face. Talk erupted on all sides.
Unlike the majority of those about him, Alaun did not miss the subtlety of Henry’s phrasing. “In my care?” He’d lowered his voice; none but Emma, between them, could overhear his words.
“Aye.” One of Henry’s brows rose. He, too, now spoke quietly; only deep rumbles carried to the many ears straining for details. “I hear Edward’s suggested you find a wife and get yourself an heir without delay. And with that monstrous pile you call a home, you’ll need a first-class chatelaine. Eloise could be your route to filling all three positions, provided, of course, that you can convince her to agree.” Henry’s eyes gleamed. “Think you can handle the challenge?”
For a long moment, Alaun held Henry’s baiting stare, then he looked at Eloise, talking animatedly to the wilting Gascon. A glance down at Emma confirmed that she was trembling like a terrified rabbit; he doubted she could even make out their words, let alone follow their drift. “I gather that your daughter has shown some reluctance to take another husband.”
Henry snorted. “She treats all those who approach with disdain—her untouchability is legendary. However, with her in your care, living in your household, you’d have an advantage all others have lacked.” Henry paused, then, a knowing glint in his eye, innocently added, “Of course, her walls are said to be unbreachable.”
Alaun shot him a narrow-eyed glance. He understood very well the challenge Henry was, with determined provocativeness, laying before him. His body reacted powerfully even while his brain grappled with the details. But all Henry
had said was true—he could not hope to find a candidate more suitable to take to wife than Eloise de Versallet.
He shifted his gaze to her dark head. She was still deep in earnest discussion, her apparent obliviousness a blatant insult in itself.
If he won the tournament, he would win…a chance to win her—an effective chatelaine, a wealthy and well-born lady of fertile stock, no vapid girl but an experienced woman.
A woman who defied men, who held his sex in contempt.
A woman who could heat his blood to simmering with a single haughty glance.
Viewing the unquenchably regal, openly defiant tilt of her chin, he made up his mind. His gaze steady, he raised his goblet and, with calculated deliberation, saluted Henry. “You may add my name to your lists, my lord.” His voice carried through the hall, hushing the whispers. Then he looked at Eloise. “I will fight.”
At the end of the table, Eloise calmly reached for a platter. “Do try one of these onions, Chevalier. They’re remarkably succulent this year.” Behind her serene mask, her jaw was aching; icy rage consumed her, turning her glance so frosty the Chevalier shivered. An impulse to murder and mayhem lanced through her, fading as the possibilities of prolonged torture superseded it. Regretfully, she banished the notion. Behind her glacial façade, she reined in her seething fury; an explosion would only play into Montisfryn’s hands.
Besides, none of it mattered one jot.
Frigidly contained, she continued to chat at the thoroughly distracted Chevalier.
Those who knew her not wondered at her understanding; those who knew her well waited, agog.
She had no intention of pandering to their ill-bred interest. Within her hearing, lords and ladies both were congratulating themselves on their foresight in having come. Raising her head, she swept a coldly superior glance about the hall, then commented to Blanche, “It seems my father has achieved his objective. His tournament bids fair to being remembered for years.”
“Indeed,” was all the reply Blanche, wary, consented to make.
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