Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  Alaun knew the flames were there; the fire she’d ignited burned fiercely within him. He bit her fingertip, hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to damage, and her eyes flared. He captured her hand and soothed the hurt finger with a kiss, drawing the sensitive tip into his mouth and sucking lightly before releasing it. Along with an aggravated sigh.

  “As you wish, lady.” His voice was deep, darkly turbulent. Jaw clenched with the effort of tamping down the lust she’d raised, he forced his mind to her conquest. “But we have yet to set the terms of tomorrow’s wager.”

  Shaken by the sensations his odd caress had evoked, Eloise drew back. “My terms stand. What do you ask against them?”

  He hesitated, looking over her head, then his golden gaze dropped to her face. “One of your garters.”

  “A garter?” Again, he’d surprised her. Try as she might, she could see no danger in agreeing. As she stepped from his arms, which fell reluctantly from her, she shrugged. “If that is what you wish, so be it.”

  “It is not what I wish, but, tomorrow, I’ll settle for that.”

  Disconcerted by his tone and the very clear statement he’d left unsaid, she sent a startled glance his way.

  Frustration riding him, Alaun felt his expression harden. Standing back, he gestured up the stairs. “I suggest you get to your bed, lady.” He met her gaze. “Unless you wish to warm mine.”

  The widening of her dark eyes assured him that she was not yet ready to surrender that far. With a parting nod, which she still managed to make regal, she stepped onto the stair.

  He watched her climb toward her door, beyond the curve of the wall. The last sight he had was of her curvaceous rear, cloaked in silk and velvet, swaying gently as she climbed the steep steps.

  Suppressing a growl, he turned away, and forced his feet in the opposite direction.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alaun entered the lists in a foul mood the next morn.

  What sleep he’d had had been filled with dreams of a sleek, elusive siren with long dark hair and deep, mysterious eyes. After waking for the third time only to find himself stiffer than ever, he’d cursed and flung a pillow across the chamber. Bilder had sleepily inquired whether he’d wanted one of the castle whores. He’d considered the offer long and hard before grumpily rejecting it.

  The reason why had made him grumpier still. Not only was the lust gripping him unexpectedly intense, it was completely focused on one particular woman. Never before had desire been so thoroughly female-specific.

  On waking heavy-eyed and heavy-blooded, he’d been ready to swear off ladies for life. Then Eloise had passed him on the stair, her smile assured, her gaze wary. He’d smiled easily back. Appalled, he’d left for the pavilions before she could further bewitch him.

  He vented his bad temper on his opponents, dismissing them with such ruthless ferocity that his third opponent resigned the bout before it had begun on the grounds of a faulty shield strap. His offer of a replacement shield was waved aside with a startled look. Denied the opportunity to ease the tension still coiled within him, he accepted the judges’ award with a churlish grunt.

  Before turning away, he glanced up at the stands. Eloise was there, as she had been all day. She seemed to have forgotten he could see through his visor. Each time he’d vanquished an opposing knight, he’d looked up to see her smiling beatifically. Yet on every occasion, by the time he’d raised a fist and lifted his visor, she was sitting stone-faced, as prim as a nun. Her antics, for some reason, sweetened his sour mood.

  In mid-afternoon, he lined up with most of the competing knights for the armored race.

  “I won’t ask if you’re looking forward to this.” Roland stood beside him. “Not even in your present state could you possibly be that senseless.”

  Alaun grunted. “It’s to be a massed race—heaps of flailing armor everywhere.”

  Roland looked disgusted. “What am I doing here?”

  “Keeping me company.”

  “Of course!” Roland’s face cleared. “I knew there had to be a reason.”

  They were inspected by the judges to ensure they were wearing the armor they customarily competed in. Alaun waited, his habitual patience for once mislaid. Again, he felt nerves knot about his stomach, and liked it not.

  “The only way for either of us to win,” Roland mused, “is to grab the lead from the start and keep it. If we go down in the scrum, twill be hard to win free, nor regain sufficient momentum.”

  Alaun nodded grimly. “And it all hinges on which leg comes first.” The fact that he had so much at stake, all riding on the whim of old Henry, prompted him, not for the first time that day, to question his sanity.

  Their inspection completed, the judges faced the line of competitors. Henry smiled benevolently. His gaze flicked Alaun’s way, then he cleared his throat. “You will start mounted.”

  Alaun released the breath he’d been holding. Mounted on Conqueror, his black destrier, he could outride any knight born. He listened as Henry appointed the church as the turning point for the first leg.

  “On returning to the river bank here, you will leave your chargers with your squires and ford between the white flags.”

  All turned to see two stakes flying white rags planted in the river bed, a gap of twenty paces between. Alaun grimaced and muttered to Roland, “Getting across will be one thing, getting back will be something else entirely.”

  Roland looked even more disgusted than before.

  “On gaining the opposite bank,” Henry continued, his stentorian bellow loud and clear, “you must run along the forest’s edge and around the marked oak before returning through the ford. You must then mount your charger by vault, take your lance at the gallop, and cleanly strike one of the quintains on the tournament field. Rounding the furthest of the ladies’ pavilions, the winner will be the first knight to stand dismounted before us.”

  Henry beamed upon his hapless victims. “Mount up, sirs.”

  Swinging up to Conqueror’s back, Alaun glimpsed the green of Eloise’s skirts among those of the ladies lining the back of the stands to watch the first leg thunder by. Again, the paralyzing sense of desperately needing to win laid hold. Setting his teeth, he glanced at Roland. On a horse only marginally less strong than Conqueror, his cousin might well be the man he had to beat.

  “Ready?”

  All eyes fixed on the red scarf in Henry’s fist. He opened his hand; the scarf drifted slowly down. The instant it touched earth, they were off.

  Alaun went immediately into the lead, Conqueror pulling steadily ahead. With his visor down, he couldn’t afford the time to turn and gauge the field. Blinkered, he rounded the church at full gallop and headed back to the river.

  He was out of the saddle and into the water in one stride, leaving Conqueror to Bilder’s care. He fully expected Bilder to turn the huge black side-on to impede the riders behind him—thus were knightly contests won. The fording place was hip-deep for him; it would be waist-deep for many others. The footing was treacherous; he was too experienced not to test each footfall before trusting his full weight to it. He gained the far bank without mishap, water streaming from his mailed chausses.

  Pausing, he looked back. Roland was but feet from the bank with five others not far behind. The rest were a jumbled melee, half-in and half-out of the water.

  Alaun turned and ran.

  Loping along beside the forest, he kept a wary eye out for rabbit holes. Setting a toe in one could put him out of contention. His stride was long, easy, and effortless. He’d been taught the knack of moving his large body by a German knight. Hans had been even bigger and heavier than he. It had taken some explaining and years of practice to master the art—gliding movements not jerky ones, always using momentum not fighting it, never hurrying in anything if moving slower would do as well.

  Constant repetition, not only on the training field but in every aspect of his life, had finally borne fruit. Now, he never feared draining his strength—the supply was wel
l-nigh inexhaustible, conserved so that when he needed it, either for endurance, as now, or in an explosive release of ferocious magnitude, it was there. Hans, more than any other, was responsible for his knightly prowess.

  He wondered whether a certain de Versallet witch would appreciate Hans’s teachings when he finally had her beneath him.

  His foot caught in a tree root.

  He tripped, broke his stride, but managed to keep his balance. Cursing, he banished the distracting images that had slunk into his mind and concentrated on the race. He could hear Roland panting behind him. As he rounded the appointed tree, he saw the field strung out behind him. After Roland came a de Versallet knight, then many others in a long row.

  Alaun made straight for the nearest white flag. Reaching the bank, he plunged in, knowing Roland would follow in his tracks.

  The melee he’d left on the far bank had progressed by slipping and sliding, and in some cases crawling, to the forest-side of the river. By going close to the flag, he avoided the worst of it. Twice, he had to skirt heaving armor threshing helplessly in the water. His foot slipped once, but, by dint of grim determination, he held his balance. Roland was not so lucky—another knight was swept across his legs; he remained upright, but Alaun heard him swearing as he struggled to disentangle the importunate knight.

  Gaining the bank, Alaun slogged up it, his waterlogged armor dragging on his limbs. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling dramatically. He paused for a moment, taking stock.

  Bilder had reversed Conqueror, holding him steady, black rump to the river. The destrier was superbly trained; the mighty stallion would take the impact of Alaun’s weight without shifting. Breathing deeply, Alaun drew himself in, then, taking three quick strides, he vaulted into the saddle.

  He made it—just. To the hurrahs of the crowd, he spurred forward. Ten paces ahead, his youngest squire stood proudly holding his lance. He grabbed it up at a gallop and hefted it easily. Conqueror thundered toward the tournament ground; Alaun checked him at the edge, lining up the quintain before spurring forward.

  His lance struck cleanly; the board turned and reset. Almost immediately came the telltale thud and creak of a second of the five quintains. Some other knight was close. There was a cheer from the ladies as Alaun flung his lance aside and wheeled Conqueror to round the last of the red-striped tents.

  He had no idea how close the second rider was—all he knew was how much he wanted to win. Conqueror thundered down the dusty road, taking the curve to the river at full speed.

  Alaun looked ahead. By all the saints!—where was de Versallet? He couldn’t see the old man anywhere.

  Panic threatened.

  He was almost on top of the judges before he saw them, his visor restricting his vision so badly it was only d’Albron’s habit of wearing red-and-green checks that saved Alaun from overshooting.

  Conqueror pawed the air as he hauled him to a halt. He came out of the saddle at a run—only to find a gaggle of village children directly in his path. They’d been crowding behind the judges, distracted by the spectacles being enacted in the river; neither children nor judges had expected him back so soon.

  The children scurried, milling and re-crossing in front of him. Exasperated, not knowing how close his nearest rival was, Alaun didn’t stop. He avoided most of the brats, but was forced to scoop two small bundles up out of harm’s way as he strode through the mass. They clung to him like monkeys, shrieking with excitement.

  Halting before Henry, Alaun bent down and set his two burdens free, then straightened and removed his helm.

  “Good work, m’boy!” Henry clapped him on the shoulder. “Excellent! Frankly, I didn’t imagine you would enter this farce, not with what you’ve got to face tomorrow.”

  Chest heaving, his lungs laboring, Alaun accepted the congratulations of the other judges in a daze.

  Pushing through to his side, Bilder took his helm. “Best get the rest of that gear off.”

  Just then, the next competitor, a young knight only recently spurred, came thundering up. He flung himself from his saddle; his legs all but buckled beneath him. Weaving, he staggered to the judges and saluted them, then he crumpled in a clattering heap at their feet.

  Bilder sniffed. “All I can say is I’m surprised you ain’t the same. Silly nonsense, this is.”

  Suddenly lightheaded, Alaun decided he agreed. Turning, he saw William de Versallet, unarmored, having clearly stood out of the race. Alaun groaned.

  “Aye—I’ll be surprised if you’ve not pulled a muscle or two after all that. And you with four jousts on the morrow.” Bilder loosened the straps of Alaun’s breastplate, then lifted the pauldrons from his shoulders. “Dashed if I know why you had to compete in this ‘ere tomfoolery.”

  Alaun didn’t enlighten him. Instead, he scanned the crowd of ladies clustered in the distance. As far as he could tell, Eloise wasn’t among them. Had she seen him win?

  Smiling a touch grimly, he watched Bilder unbuckle the plates from his left arm. It didn’t matter if she’d seen or not. He’d won. And he was going to enjoy collecting his prize.

  *

  Eloise had seen him sweep to victory. She’d also seen the other knights straggling along in his wake. Being of a practical bent, she’d realized hot water would be at a premium that evening. Deciding that those of the sixteen knights who were to joust tomorrow who had also been brave enough to enter the race should, by rights, have their needs met first, she hastened back to the castle to give orders to that effect.

  That done, her duties claimed her. Giving instructions for supper and supervising the preparations for the following night’s banquet filled the hours. The sun was setting by the time Sir John finally left her alone in the solar.

  Standing before the windows looking out at the pink sky, she frowned.

  Montisfryn disturbed her.

  Her feelings when his scarlet-surcoted figure had been the first to approach the quintains were difficult to justify, as was the totally illogical, utterly irrepressible urge to cheer him on that gripped her every time he took the field. It was ridiculous. He was her opponent. For some mystical reason known only to the saints, her brain refused to assimilate that fact.

  Somehow or other, he’d warped her mind.

  That was the only explanation possible for the ludicrously protective feeling that had assailed her when, from the castle gates, she’d watched him move away from the judges after claiming victory in the race. He’d moved so slowly, even slower than usual, as if the effort of shifting his enormous frame was almost beyond him.

  William’s explanation of why he hadn’t competed had done nothing to ease her conscience. The idea that Montisfryn might have jeopardized his chances of winning the tournament—and the prize her father had promised him—by entering a race just so he could win her garter should have pleased her no end. Instead, she felt peculiarly at fault. The knowledge that such a feeling was irrational did not diminish it in the least.

  She hoped he didn’t think her the sort of scheming woman who would purposely suggest a wager in order to damage his chances in the tournament.

  Frowning, she turned and left the solar, heading for her chamber. Supper would commence in half an hour.

  “Are you sure this enterprise will pay all that well?”

  The lisping tones of Sir Percival Mortyn were instantly recognizable; halfway down the steps from the solar, Eloise halted, glancing around.

  “Indeed,” a second voice replied, its tone gravelly and harsh. “I’ve put a great deal of effort into ensuring our returns will be maximized.”

  The corridor before Eloise, running alongside the hall, was empty, yet the voices rose, disembodied, very clearly to her ears.

  “Still,” Sir Percy replied, “it’s not as if payment is guaranteed, is it?” His inane laugh echoed hollowly.

  Eloise grimaced. Sir Percy and his friend were standing in the alcove beneath the stairs. Their conversation clearly was private—should she go forward and di
sturb them, or retreat to the solar and take a roundabout route to her chamber?

  “Believe me, sir, the returns are as good as guaranteed. And with them in your hands, your father need never know about that little matter at Dover, need he?”

  Eloise shivered. She’d never heard the second voice before, which was clearly her good fortune. The grating purr held a distinctly sinister note. She turned around.

  “I’ll expect to see you and your men in the Savernake next week, then, shall I?”

  “Oh, aye.” Sir Percy tried to counter the incipient menace with a jovial air. “I’ll be there, never fear.”

  Sir Percy was a weakling, but, as she slipped back into the solar, Eloise almost felt sorry for him. Wriggling her shoulders, she crossed the chamber and left by the other door.

  To get to her tower, she had to circle the keep. Finally gaining the stair, she rounded the first bend. Before her lay the door to Montisfryn’s chamber. It was shut, but she could hear quick footsteps inside. Then, quite unheralded, came a long moan.

  Her hand rising to her throat, she stared at the door. By the sainted Virgin, was he injured?

  The urge to open the door and find out was almost overpowering, but how could she explain her interest? She couldn’t explain that to herself. But there were numerous salves and potions in her stillroom to ease aching muscles and soothe chafed skin.

  She stared at the door for a full minute before deciding that, while she might have the courage to fetch and deliver her salves, she would never have the courage to face Montisfryn afterward. He needed no encouragement, a fact she should strive to bear in mind no matter how wounded he might be.

  Holding fast to that undoubtedly sane conclusion, she continued up the stairs. She donned her black velvet, ignoring the pleas of both Blanche and Jenni, garrulous and silent respectively. Entering the hall beside Blanche, resplendent in peacock blue, she couldn’t resist looking to the place beside Emma.