Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  Eloise saw out the last two courses with unshakeable calm, but when the dancing girls entered, she had had enough. The tone of the gathering degenerated rapidly. The salt was virtually at the other end of the room, so great had been the turnout of knightly nobles, yet despite the fact that the majority in the hall were well-born, and there were many ladies deployed among their ranks, the dancing girls quickly reduced the men present to the status of elemental male. Disgusted, Eloise grasped the opportunity of a query from the cellarer to quit the table, and then the hall.

  The door from the dais gave onto a corridor. She turned left, strolling through the familiar dimness to where a deep embrasure surrounded a window—a mere slit for bowmen. The window faced west; a cooling breeze wafted through.

  Free of the stale, smoky air of the hall, the tension in her temples, the inevitable reaction to her self-imposed control, made itself felt. Instead of further stewing in her fury, she determinedly put it from her. Resting her hands on the sill, she drew in a deep breath. It was peaceful outside.

  *

  In the hall, Alaun slowly stood, his action noted by few. Both Emma and Julia sat with eyes downcast, trying to ignore the increasingly licentious activities in their hall. All the men had their eyes fixed, feasting, on the scantily-clad girls writhing in time to a tambor and a naker drum. He, however, had a different woman in his sights.

  The corridor was empty. He paused, silent and still, his eyes adjusting to the poor light. This was not the main corridor leading to the hall; the only illumination came from small cresset lamps, high and widely spaced along the inner wall. To his right stood steps, presumably leading to the solar. He hesitated, then turned left, his leather-soled hose making no sound on the flags.

  The faintest stirring of air at her back alerted Eloise to his presence. She whirled, gasping, her hand rising to her throat. Just so had Raoul approached her, like a stalking cat.

  “Nay, lady.” Montisfryn frowned. “I meant not to startle you.”

  Wide-eyed, she stared up at him. The deep, rumbly resonance of his voice lapped about her; an odd little quiver ran through her. Irritated, she sucked in a breath and lifted her chin. “Then you should cultivate a firmer tread, my lord. I like not men who creep up on ladies in the dark.”

  With the lamps behind him, she couldn’t see his expression, but his reaction, a stilling, as if he’d clamped a lid on his response, suggested her barb had found its mark. Unfortunately, instead of growling and going away, he propped a shoulder against the wall, effectively blocking her exit, and silently looked down at her.

  His quiet scrutiny was unnerving. The sense of facing a predator at very close quarters was strong. She wished she could gather her skirts and sweep past him; instead, as the silence lengthened, she held herself rigid, hands clasped before her, her head high. It was his move.

  “I would apologize, lady, for my gaucherie in naming you in the hall as my prize.”

  Eloise blinked. Those were, quite definitely, the very last words she’d thought to hear. Stiffly, she inclined her head. “I’m glad, my lord, that you realize such an outcome can never come to pass.”

  “Lady, if so you think, you have not thought enough.” His face wreathed in shadows, Alaun studied her intently. “Your sire and I have moved too far for that.”

  She drew herself up, straightening until her forehead was on a level with his lips. Even in the poor light, he saw her eyes flash.

  “If you believe I am such a mouse as to feel obliged to honor a wager made without my consent, you’ll find yourself done out of a prize, my lord.”

  His lips twitched. “Nay, lady. I stand in no danger of thinking you a mouse.” Anything less like the incipient virago bristling before him was, indeed, hard to imagine. “Yet three days hence, you will leave here with me.”

  The wry humor in his first statement was not repeated in his second. That was imbued with sufficient determination to send a shiver of disquiet through Eloise. “Nay, my lord—you will find you’re mistaken.” Intending to cut short the interview, she nevertheless felt compelled to ask, “But why, if you are still intent on this foolish wager, apologize for naming me as prize?”

  “Not for naming you, but for naming you in the hall. The matter could have been dealt with with greater discretion.”

  She couldn’t resist—she cast her eyes heavenward. “You’ll forgive me, my lord, an’ I do not feel much appeased. I fear I, in common with the majority of my sex, place little value on such nonsensical nuances. In staking my honor as prize, you do me grave insult. Apologizing for mentioning my name in so doing is hardly like to ease my ire.”

  Alaun looked at her sternly. “Lady, tis not your honor that is at stake.”

  Her eyes flamed. “My hand, my honor—for me, tis the same. I know well that many men consider widows to possess but the barest remnants of honor. Permit me to tell you that such men are varlets and fools!”

  With an effort, he held onto his temper. “Tis—”

  “Nay, my lord.” With an imperious gesture, she cut him off. “I see no benefit in arguing the matter further. I view this wager you have made as contemptible; there is nothing like to change my mind.”

  Pleased to have been able to vent her feelings, Eloise condescended to issue a last warning. Gathering her skirts, she looked up at him. “Regardless of the outcome of the tournament, I respectfully suggest, my lord, that you prepare for disappointment. Even should you win each and every contest, an unlikely event you’ll allow, I will not be leaving Versallet Castle in your company.”

  She’d intended the statement as a parting shot. Unfortunately, Montisfryn showed no sign of shifting, despite her clear wish to escape. He remained rocklike before her. His expression was lost in the shadows, yet she got the impression he was studying her, gauging her, making some decision.

  “Do you care to wager on that certainty?”

  She blinked. “On which certainty?”

  “That I won’t win each and every contest.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Each and every contest?”

  When a nod came in answer, she drew in a slow breath. The chances of a single knight winning all contests, including such diverse activities as archery, fording in full armor, and tilting, were so slight as to be negligible. She was not pleased with Montisfryn for a host of excellent reasons. Indeed, she had a number of scores to settle with him—here, perhaps, was the way.

  Tilting her head, she boldly studied him, taking in his broad chest and the heavy bones of shoulders, arms, and legs. To her not-inexperienced eyes, his chances of winning each and every contest appeared slim indeed. No one with a body so large could exhibit the dexterity required for excelling with the longbow. There was a race, too, and there was no doubt he moved slowly. She’d yet to see a rapid movement from him.

  Her lips curved. There were many satisfying boons she could ask of him—like being her slave for a week. Her eyes narrowed in anticipation; she would enjoy making him rue the day he had first disrupted her peace.

  Lifting her head, she met his gaze. “Very well—I will wager with you, my lord. But as we have three days, why not three, separate wagers?”

  He smiled; even through the dimness, the curving of his lips drew her gaze. “If you wish it, lady.”

  “I do.” She forced her reluctant gaze upward, to his shadowed eyes. “For my first prize, I will have from you a signed and sealed statement that you will not attempt to hold me, now or ever, to the bargain you have made with my father.”

  He inclined his head. “And for my part, should I succeed in winning all the contests held tomorrow, I will have from you…a kiss.”

  She stilled. Wariness intruded. Then again, where was the danger? One little kiss, a single quick peck, hardly constituted any great risk. Regally condescending, she nodded. “Done.”

  He smiled sleepily down at her. Then, stepping back, he bowed gracefully and held out his hand. “Allow me to return you to the hall, lady.”

  The tambor and na
ker drums had ceased. Her interest in her father’s tournament amazingly restored, Eloise inclined her head, a cool but gracious smile on her lips.

  Alaun gritted his teeth. St. George’s bones!—just her smile had the power to make him rise. As she placed her slim fingers across his, he steeled himself against the contact, uncomfortably aware of the ache that was growing, minute by minute, in his loins.

  Turning her toward the hall, he shot her a sharp glance. She appeared coolly distant, aloof, blithely disinterested. Henry’s words echoed in his brain. The urge to shatter her chilly façade—the desire to have her heated and panting beneath him—hardened to solid intent.

  The need to conquer had never been so strong.

  In a courtly manner, he conducted her to her seat at the end of the bench. She sat and graciously dismissed him, then, with unimpaired serenity, took up her part in the conversation.

  To the blank astonishment of all in the hall.

  Resuming his seat, Alaun picked up his goblet. Sipping, he saw Roland, seated down the hall, openly staring at him. He returned the stare blankly.

  Then, straight-faced, he turned his head and looked at Henry, the hint of a question in his eyes.

  Henry met that look with one of frosty, distinctly paternal uncertainty. He knew Eloise too well to imagine that during the last twenty minutes Montisfryn had soothed her ruffled feathers in the time-honored way. Yet there she sat, calmly chatting, no trace of the arctic remaining.

  Deciding not to question the benediction of the saints, Henry raised his goblet to his unexpected guest, and drank.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The first of the three days of the tournament dawned bright and clear. The river mists had dispersed by the time Eloise, with the rest of the ladies, emerged from the castle to take up her position in the stands.

  Gaily-striped tents housing raised benches had been erected alongside the tournament ground, affording the ladies and other noble spectators an excellent view of the arena of hard-packed earth. The rest of the perimeter of the large, roughly circular ground was bordered by grassy slopes dotted with the pavilions of the competing knights. The lists, directly before the stands, were cordoned off with thick rope.

  Calmly claiming a seat on the front bench of the center stand, Eloise inwardly delighted in the bafflement apparent in a great many eyes.

  In the general fuss as others found seats, Blanche, settling beside her, whispered, “I didn’t believe you when you said you would attend. I can’t believe you’re here now.”

  Eloise smiled. “I wouldn’t miss today for anything.”

  Blanche frowned at her, but Eloise ignored the invitation to explain. With unexpected eagerness, she scanned the knot of knights making their way to the field.

  None of them was Montisfryn. Buoyed by good humor, she settled to watch anyway.

  The judges—the sheriff, Sir Geoffrey Harcourt, Albert d’Albron, and her father—all too old to viably enter the lists, were seated in the middle of the same bench as she.

  “Papa mentioned they’d arranged the contests differently this time.” Blanche wriggled, skirts rustling. “I only hope there’s something more enthralling than just jousting.”

  Eloise scanned the pavilions. “No jousts today or tomorrow, you’ll be pleased to hear. Single combats only on the first two days. For light relief, there’ll be archery contests, both longbow and crossbow, this afternoon, and a race tomorrow.”

  “A race?

  “Aye. Fully armored through obstacles they use in training—fording, vaulting to the saddle, the quintain.”

  “Fully armored?”

  Eloise smiled. “My father called it an endurance race—you know he favors understatement.”

  Blanche looked impressed. “And on the third day?”

  “They’ve arranged the bouts so only sixteen knights will remain unbeaten on the final morn. All sixteen will joust in the usual fashion, the winner of each contest progressing to the next round until the victor emerges.”

  Blanche frowned, counting on her fingers. “That means the two knights in the final joust will have already faced three opponents that day.”

  Eloise let her smile deepen. “Aye. Twill be a grueling trial just to get that far.”

  “Indeed!” Blanche blinked, then glanced at her. “Montisfryn will be in the final joust.”

  Raising a brow, Eloise fixed her gaze on the first two combatants, walking forward to salute the judges. “We’ll see.”

  *

  Behind the knights’ pavilions, screened from the arena, Alaun had his eye fixed on a circle inscribed on a tree trunk some two hundred paces distant. In his hands rested a heavy wooden crossbow; carefully, he sighted along the stock. His finger tightened on the trigger; the bolt thudded into the trunk just wide of the mark.

  Lowering the weapon, he grimaced. His youngest squire hared off to retrieve the bolt as Roland strolled up in company with the Genoese crossbowman, Rovogatti.

  “I don’t believe it.” Halting, Roland blinked in exaggerated surprise. “The last time I saw you with one of those in your hands you were trying to hit the side of Gloucester Castle.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Alaun growled. Both he and Roland had been squires under Gilbert of Gloucester. Frowning, he reprimed the bow. His aim was good, but at least every third bolt went too wide of the mark for comfort.

  “Why’s it so important—the crossbow? You don’t have to win that to win the tournament.”

  Alaun sighted, then released another bolt. It thudded into the center of the circle. Lowering the bow, he reprimed it again. He had an hour before meeting his first opponent. “Let’s just say I’ve a vested interest in winning.”

  Roland’s eyes opened wide. “A wager?”

  Alaun nodded, sighting again.

  “With the lady Eloise?”

  The bolt flew wide, missing the tree altogether.

  “Roland…!”

  Responding to the menace in Alaun’s growl, both Roland and Rovogatti perched on a nearby wagon—in silence. He shot them a warning scowl, then continued with his practice.

  On learning the details of the day’s contests two hours ago, he’d been gripped by an entirely unexpected reaction—one perilously close to panic, compounded by chagrin, self-disgust, and not a little surprise. When he’d wagered with Eloise, he’d assumed the contests would encompass nothing more than the usual single combats and jousts. While he was confident of his skill with the long bow, the crossbow had never been his weapon; there was every chance another knight would better his score.

  Which meant he might lose. Not only his wager with Eloise, but any chance of winning her to wife.

  Swallowing a snarl, he loosed another bolt. The damned witch had tricked him. Unfortunately for her, defeat was not in his lexicon. Frowning, he reprimed the bow.

  He had followed her into the corridor last night with the objective of building on his earlier success. After their visual duel, let alone the little matter of his prize, she should have been quivering with reaction, uncertain, vulnerable to a subtle, more gentle assault. He’d expected to find a woman primed for seduction.

  What he’d found was a woman only one step removed from the virago of the woods. Instead of melting into his arms, she’d tried to summarily dismiss him.

  He wasn’t used to being dismissed, summarily or otherwise.

  The next bolt lodged off-center; he growled, then, lips compressed, brows knit, fell to repriming the bow again. Eloise de Versallet was costing him more time and effort than any woman before; he would make sure she repaid him—for every minute of his time, for every tithe of his effort.

  His next bolt flew wide. Smothering an oath, he grimly applied himself.

  After a few more minutes of enforced silence, Rovogatti rose and disappeared around the tents. Roland remained, his grin wide.

  Alaun concentrated, yet his skill seemed unwilling to improve. He was scowling blackly when Rovogatti returned.

  “Try this.”

&n
bsp; Turning, Alaun’s gaze fell on the arbalest Rovogatti was offering. It was the Genoese’s own crossbow, an engraved steel bow easily drawn by a detachable winch. The work of a craftsman, it was easy to fire and perfectly balanced.

  Rovogatti took his acceptance for granted and reached for the other bow.

  With a grateful grunt, Alaun released it and hefted the arbalest, gauging its weight, then loaded it.

  The next six bolts pierced the target’s center.

  Lowering the arbalest, he smiled at Rovogatti. “Friend, you’ve just earned your life.”

  *

  Up in the stands, Eloise shifted impatiently.

  Blanche smothered a yawn. “I vow, tis almost as bad as jousting.”

  “Did your father mention the order of the bouts?”

  “He ran through them this morn, but I paid no heed.”

  Eloise glared at her.

  Blanche shrugged. “We’re fixtures here anyway—what matter who falls in the dust first?”

  Just then, one of the pair presently slogging away at each other did. The winner was declared, the upended knight carted away.

  Eloise glanced to the edge of the field—and straightened. Montisfryn stood by the ropes, surrounded by his squires, accoutered and ready for battle. He had yet to don his helm; his eyes were turned her way.

  A most peculiar thrill shot through her. Excitement stirred within her, certainly the first she’d ever felt at a tournament. As it gripped her more firmly, she allowed her serenely distant mask to slip long enough to smile.

  Alaun stifled a groan. His body had reacted instantly to the sight of her, and even more to that smile. Reaching for his helm, he settled it in place, visor up, and grimly marched forward. It was, he was certain, the first time he’d entered the contest arena aroused. As he approached the stands, Eloise’s lips lifted lightly again. Gritting his teeth, he fastened his gaze on the judges, and, with his opponent, a local knight, saluted them.

  Henry leaned forward to recite the usual cautions. Behind him, the interest of the assembled ladies was marked, a sibilant twitter ruffling their calm.