Eloise sat back, determined to show no especial interest. Then she noticed Montisfryn’s badge. Like most knights, he did not carry his heraldic coat of arms, his ‘arms of war’, into jousts, which, by law, were fought with blunted weapons and with sport and honor as their aim. Instead, both surcote and shield carried a different device, his ‘arms of peace’.
Blanche leaned forward. “The badge is a sleeping lion—that’s plain enough. But what’s the motto?”
Inscribed around the edge of the shield and again about the hem of his surcote, Montisfryn’s motto took a little deciphering. Eloise finally made out the Latin words, then mentally translated them.
Fearsome when aroused.
Abruptly, she sat back.
“Can you make it out?” Blanche, shortsighted, was still peering.
“No,” Eloise lied, irritated by the warmth in her cheeks. Clearly, Montisfryn possessed an untrustworthy sense of humor.
Her father finished his instructions. Both knights saluted again, then stepped back and squared off. They lowered their visors, saluted each other, then started swinging their broadswords.
Eloise had watched many such a bout, but never before had she felt any real interest. Now, she sat on the edge of her seat, hands clasped in her lap, her eyes never leaving the armored men laboring in the dust before her.
Swords clanged on plate, thudded and sheered off shields, and shook the links of their mail. The broadswords, heavy, single-edged affairs, were swung in broad arcs at the end of the arm or thrust with the force of the shoulder.
Montisfryn made short work of his opponent. When, beaten to his knees, the de Versallet vassal yielded, Eloise let out a tense breath and unlocked her fingers. Only then did she realize that she had, albeit inwardly, been cheering on Montisfryn rather than her father’s knight, who, in the circumstances, stood as her champion.
“Well!” Blanche sat back, no trace of ennui in her face. “What did you think of that?”
“Tis no more than one would expect from a knight of Montisfryn’s experience.” Eloise rapidly reassembled her usual haughty demeanor as Montisfryn drew off his helm. The glance he cast her could only be described as victorious—she met it with an expression carved from stone.
A slow grin transformed his features; she could have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye.
Frostier than ever, she joined the other ladies in repairing to the castle where the noon meal awaited them. The knights, meanwhile, retired to their pavilions. When the ladies returned, the bouts resumed.
By the time Eloise had watched Montisfryn beat his third opponent, this time a knight-banneret, into the dust, she was prepared to acknowledge that he was, indeed, a knight of considerable prowess.
“What do you say now?” Blanche asked, determined to gain more than a shrug.
She shrugged. “Twas clear from the first that he’s very strong.” Calmly composed, she rose and flicked out her skirts. “But tis the archery next.”
Blanche frowned. “So? He doesn’t need to win that to win the prize.”
Eloise smiled.
*
The archery contests were held late that afternoon, once the knights had refreshed themselves after their exertions on the field. The butts were set up on the village green, close by the castle walls.
“We’ll have the crossbow first,” Henry declared. “If the breeze strengthens, twill make the longbow more difficult.”
All the knights nodded, a more difficult contest being infinitely preferable.
Standing with the other ladies, Eloise couldn’t stop smiling; it was rare, indeed, to find herself in accord with such knightly subtleties.
The marks were set and the crossbow contest commenced. The first round winnowed the novices from the experienced. The second round saw six contestants stand out from the crowd, all notching perfect scores, Montisfryn among them. The judges conferred, then moved the targets back another ten paces.
“Damn!” Alaun muttered. The range was now pressing the limits of accuracy. “It’ll be a matter of luck who wins.”
“Well, luck or no, you’ve the best chance with that bow.” Roland nodded at Rovogatti’s weapon. “None of the others have anything half as accurate.”
Alaun grunted.
As matters fell out, he was the last to shoot. When he stepped up to the mark, there was only one man to beat, a knight from Salisbury who had hit the eye twice, with his third shot but slightly wide. Sighting the arbalest, Alaun felt his nerves quiver for the first time in years. His palms were slightly damp. He did not appreciate the sensation. Gritting his teeth, he got on with it, sending first one, then two, then three bolts into the heart of the target.
Cheering erupted; Henry was grinning from ear to ear.
All Alaun felt was a sense of ill-usage.
Thankfully, the longbow competition was a mere formality; there was a saying at Montisfryn that he’d been born with a bow in his hand. It was quickly seen that he was unbeatable and the contest declared in his favor.
Eloise was disgusted—and not a little flustered. A situation not improved by her father, who paused beside her to comment, “Truly remarkable. He always was a wizard with the bow.”
Through the softening dusk, she stared at him. “You knew he was that good?”
Henry frowned. “Of course. It’s the Welsh blood.”
Welsh blood. Eloise swung on her heel and marched back to the castle. She’d made a pact with the devil, thinking him clumsy, only to be defeated by his Welsh blood. Perhaps she could protest the result on the grounds of her ignorance?
With a humph, she marched on.
Supper that evening was a much simpler meal than the banquet of the night before. Nevertheless, everyone dressed just as grandly. Eloise held fast to her black velvet, scorning the competition rampant among the ladies, each vying to most perfectly complement Montisfryn’s attire. As he appeared in a soft houppelande of ochre wool trimmed with sable, few even came close.
The conversation revolved about the contests of the day; by the end of the meal, Eloise had heard Montisfryn’s name too often for her liking. He was the darling of the ladies; many found some reason to stop by Emma’s chair, until, with an unprecedented spurt of decision, Emma moved to sit beside Eloise.
“That poor man,” Emma exclaimed, settling on the end of the bench. “Truly, some of those ladies are no ladies at all. Their forwardness quite made me blush. Why, even your father disapproved.”
That last surprised Eloise. Whatever else her father might be, he was no hypocrite.
“But Montisfryn is so much the true knight,” Emma rambled on, “he made not the slightest push to take advantage of their offers. I hadn’t thought to find him so strict in his ways.”
Eloise stared at her. The idea that Montisfryn—he who was “fearsome when aroused”—did not dally when the mood took him was so ludicrous she was lost for words. Luckily, the players she’d hired were then ushered in, and the company settled, content after their day of endeavor to be entertained with ballads of battles long past.
The guests drifted early from the hall, most knights opting for a sound sleep in preparation for the morrow’s decisive events. Eloise retreated to the solar to confer with Sir John, then headed for her tower. Gliding along the dimly-lit corridors, she was aware of distant footsteps, the creaking of doors opening and closing. Some knights, she fancied, would get less sleep than others. Lips curving in cynical acceptance—she’d lived among warrior males too long to be shocked—she started up the tower stair.
Passing the door to Montisfryn’s chamber, she cast the oak panels a disgusted glance. He’d won his kiss; she had, indeed, expected him to make some effort to speak with her, to set their wagers for the morrow. Perhaps he, too, was occupied. Perhaps he’d even forgotten her forfeit, sufficiently satisfied with the rouged lips of some other lady.
Frowning, she rounded the curve of the stair, lit by torches in brackets on the wall. Her gaze on the treads, the first she saw of him wa
s his feet. Like the rest of him, they were large. She blinked and halted. Slowly, she let her gaze travel upward, up the long length of his legs, past his hips and the broad acres of his chest, until, finally, she reached his face. “Good even, my lord.”
His lips curved, but his gaze remained intent.
“Lady.” Alaun acknowledged her greeting with an inclination of his head. “You hadn’t forgotten our wager, I trust?” Taking her hand, he drew her into the alcove of an archer’s station.
“No.” She faced him. “I was just thinking that we should meet to set our terms for tomorrow.”
“And settle for today.”
Her gaze flew to his face. “I thought we would settle at the end of the tournament.”
Her startled expression assured him more surely than any protestation that she had, indeed, thought just that. The suspicions he’d harbored for the past half hour evaporated; he smiled lazily. “Ah, no, lady. Forfeits fall due when the wager is lost.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t, perhaps, the most intelligent reply, but Eloise could think of no other. She couldn’t refuse him and have him think her without honor. Ignoring her skittering pulse, she called her senses to order, and nodded. “I see.”
When he made no move to claim his prize, but simply stood smiling sleepily down at her, she mentally gritted her teeth and, inching closer, placed one hand lightly on his shoulder. Stretching up on tip-toe, she touched her lips briefly to his.
She retreated.
His eyes opened wide. “That’s it?”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
The smile that curved his lips made her long to take a step back, but the alcove was only so wide.
“Lady, if that’s a sample of what you bestow on your lovers, you’re in danger of being arraigned for shortchanging.”
She blushed, embarrassed, irritated, but wary. She’d never actually kissed a man. Raoul had ravaged her mouth; she’d submitted, but had taken no active part. And none of the men who had wooed her since had ever got so close.
The idea of admitting ignorance occurred only to be dismissed, yet if she didn’t do or say something soon, Montisfryn would. That he’d trapped her in such a revealing situation pricked her temper.
Then she saw the way out.
She threw him a haughty, openly challenging glance. “If you’re so particular, my lord, perhaps you should instruct me in your requirements?”
It was a bold throw, a sultry, brazen invitation.
He caught her gaze, held it. “Aye.” His voice was gravelly, low. “A commendable notion.”
Shifting so he blocked the entrance of the alcove, he gathered her easily into his arms.
She fought to dampen her instinctive stiffening. Her palms met the solid wall of his chest, covered by the fine wool of his houppelande. His arm tightened about her waist, drawing her closer; his long fingers glided over her nape. Her lungs locked. When his thumb slid under her jaw, tilting her face upward, a sudden tremor shook her; by dint of sheer will, she subdued it, forced herself to let go and acquiesce, to let her body follow his directions without resistance. His head lowered; she let her lids fall.
And braced herself for an assault, for the brutal ravishment which was all she’d ever known.
His lips touched lightly, experimentally, then settled more firmly, warm and assured over hers.
The sensation was pleasant.
His lips moved, the pressure definite, yet pleasing. Gradually, she relaxed, tension flowing away. His solidity, and the warmth of his large body, were comforting. Tentatively, she moved her lips under his. He approved—his lips firmed; she met the increasing pressure. His arm tightened; his fingers curled about her nape.
Willingly, she closed the distance between them, letting her body meet his. The contact sent a wave of prickling sensation spreading over her skin; the surging warmth that followed soothed like the caress of a flame. Pushing her hands upward, she encountered the sable edging his neckline. Spearing her fingers through the luxurious fur, she followed the trail up over his shoulders. Something softer, silkier, fell over her fingers. His hair. It was incredibly soft, a cross between silk and sable in texture. Her fingers played, her senses delighting in the tumble of the heavy locks.
Engrossed in a slow, thorough exploration of her lips, Alaun felt her fingers thread through his hair, a gentle, very feminine caress. Her lips were warm and pliant under his; she rested, soft and supple, in his arms. But he wanted more; he needed to taste her. “Open for me, Eloise.” He breathed the request against her lips, his voice low, urgent.
The words jolted Eloise—they were words Raoul had often used. Yet she didn’t break away; this wasn’t Raoul. Montisfryn’s kiss held nothing but warmth and pleasure—it had never been so with Raoul. Would what she was experiencing change if she granted what Montisfryn asked?
Alaun sensed her hesitation. He increased the pressure slightly, then was about to draw back and repeat his request when her lips opened under his. Not parted slightly as women were wont to do, in shyness or thinking it more alluring, but fully open, a gifting so complete it stole his breath.
He took instant advantage, yet exercised restraint, too experienced not to know such a gifting was an honor, given in trust.
Decision made, Eloise yielded in the only way she knew; Raoul had never encouraged shyness nor coyness. Yet she fully expected to feel revolted; she was only engaging in the exchange in the interests of her own understanding.
Instead, the slow surge of Montisfryn’s invasion was pure magic; her senses reeled—she’d never imagined such pleasure. His tongue found hers and stroked, heavy yet gentle. Then he set about a typically thorough, predictably slow, devastatingly sensuous exploration that left no part of her softness untouched, uncaressed.
Unclaimed.
A slow shiver shook her—she wondered what manner of conquest she’d invited. She felt boneless in his arms, her breasts nestled against his chest, her hips brushing his thighs.
Then he shifted, both arms closing about her, trapping her against his hard frame. She knew she could resist, that if she wished to call a halt she had only to struggle. Instead, she gave herself up to his embrace, eager to understand, to more fully experience the unlooked-for pleasure. Boldly she drew her tongue along his, and felt him shudder. Delighted, she kissed him back, inviting, then returning increasingly intimate caresses. She sensed tension rising within him, tightening his muscles until they locked. Then his lips shifted, his head slanted over hers, and she tasted the dragon’s fire.
The lion and the dragon.
Through the heated mists that fogged her brain, she recognized the imagery. If she’d been able, she would have smiled. Instead, she savored the heat that flowed from him, the inexorable tide that seeped into her blood until it thudded in every corner of her being. Behind the heat lurked a hunger she had not before encountered; it hung back, hardly shy, but not yet ready to fully reveal itself. The brief glimpses teased and tantalized.
Alaun was similarly fascinated. God’s teeth! she was a heady piece, a potent mixture of siren and saint. Her very deliberation—in daring him to take what he wanted, in opening so completely to him, and now in participating so boldly in an exchange that was setting them both aflame—was challenge and surrender combined. Nothing could have more completely convinced him that behind her chilly façade, she was as experienced, and as hungry, as he. The knowledge fueled the flames that licked through him, greedily seeking release.
So caught up were they in their enjoyment of each other that neither heard the soft slap of leather-soled feet mounting the tower stairs.
Henry had finally decided that he needed to know his daughter’s mind. Her incomprehensible behavior was too much for him to accept. She could not approve his actions, so why, then, was she smiling so much? He knew she wasn’t devious, so her inexplicable attitude worried him all the more.
Looking ahead as he rounded the bend in the tower stair, Henry saw Montisfryn’s back filling the recess—fro
m the angle of Montisfryn’s bent head, it was easy to guess his occupation.
For an instant, Henry saw red.
Damn the boy! Ladies had been throwing him lures all evening—Henry had thought they had been rejected. Now, just when he’d thought he’d found a man for his difficult daughter, he discovered that man was the sort to risk an advantageous connection for a quick kiss and a poke! Chest swelling with righteous indignation, he looked down at the skirts showing between Montisfryn’s braced legs.
Black skirts.
Henry blinked, then glanced up. Even as the stunning realization burst upon him, green fire flared amongst Montisfryn’s tawny locks. Eloise’s emerald. As he watched his daughter’s fingers twine in Alaun de Montisfryth’s hair, Henry’s jaw dropped. Eloise, quite obviously, was a very willing participant.
With the reflection that he’d badly misjudged Montisfryn—the man was a wizard, forsooth!—Henry carefully retreated down the stairs.
Alaun couldn’t get enough of the woman in his arms. The soft cavern of her mouth was sweetly mysterious, her body, pressed wantonly to his, beckoned and enticed. Yet when he raised his head, ending the kiss, and watched her lids slowly rise to reveal the dark, fathomless depths of her eyes, he immediately sensed her retreat. Bemused, he watched as she composed herself, then gently drew back, although she remained within his arms.
“I hope you found my forfeit satisfactory, my lord.”
Satisfactory? All but giddy with need, he stared down at her, tempted to tell her, baldly, exactly how he’d found her—how she’d tasted, what he now wanted of her. He ached so badly he could barely think. The urge to sweep her up and carry her to his chamber, to lay her on his bed and find his ease in her, was almost overpowering.
With her hips pressed to his thighs, the evidence of his desire a burning brand against her belly, Eloise needed no soothsayer’s crystal to read his mind. She smiled lightly, inwardly amazed at her assurance. Boldly, she trailed a finger along the edge of his jaw, then traced the firm curve of his lower lip. “Nay, lord. I have paid what I owed.”
His eyes blazed. She’d noticed the odd light in his golden eyes, flickering and elusive, ever since he’d raised his head, but with the torchlight behind him, she couldn’t define it.
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