It was empty.
“I wonder,” Blanche whispered tartly as they headed for their places, “what color the devil will favor tonight?”
It was a point on which Blanche and all the other ladies were destined to remain ignorant. Montisfryn, together with the fifteen other knights as yet undefeated, did not attend the meal. Their absence was commented on with approval as doing honor to their host by taking their roles in the morrow’s entertainment so seriously.
For once, Eloise considered that chivalry and commonsense had met. After the punishment of the race, had she been in a position to do so, she would have ordered Montisfryn to bed. The fact that he had had the sense to rest without having a lady order him to do so improved her opinion of his intelligence. Clearly the man was not all brawn.
It was after the last course, when a party of jongleurs appeared to entertain the company, that the memory of her wager, and the certainty that Montisfryn would expect her to pay her dues immediately, intruded on her mind. Once it had, she could think of nothing else.
Slipping away from the table, she headed for her tower. Hurrying up the stairs, she was nearly level with the door to his chamber before she realized it was open.
She paused, considering the sight.
“Come in, lady. I’ve been waiting for you.”
She considered some more. The chamber was unlit, the only illumination coming from a flickering brazier. There was no doubt who bade her enter; she would recognize his deep voice anywhere. Gathering her confidence, she approached the doorway.
Goblet in hand, Alaun lounged on the canopied bed. He’d bathed and suffered the torture of Bilder’s massage, then dined in blissful peace. His humor, in abeyance for most of the day, was completely restored.
He watched as Eloise appeared, his gaze taking in her black velvet gown. His lips lifted. She halted on the threshold, her hands clasped before her.
Her gaze found him. He waited.
So did she.
Taking in her stance, he inwardly frowned. “I wondered when you would remember our wager.” Perhaps she couldn’t see well in the dark?
Eloise could see him perfectly well, clad for the evening yet clearly waiting, as he had admitted, for her.
The sight did nothing to dispel her sudden conviction: His chamber looked awfully like a lion’s den—with a lion in it. “I was on my way to fetch a garter. If you will wait, I will bring it down to you, my lord.”
She stepped back.
“Wait.”
She watched as he rose. Setting down his goblet, he approached. Taking her hand, he backed her onto the stairs, then shut the door. He looked down at her. “Where can we talk privately?”
They had to discuss their wagers for tomorrow; she sorted through the likely spots. “There’s the herb garden. I doubt anyone will be there at this hour.”
His gaze on her face, he inclined his head. “Lead on, lady.”
He walked with his left shoulder directly behind her head. Whenever they came upon others clogging the narrow corridors, he swung his right shoulder forward, and she had room to pass safely.
It was the first time any man had shielded her so; she found the protection unexpectedly reassuring. By the time they reached the herb garden, wedged between the curtain wall and the keep and screened by laurel hedges, her apprehension had eased. Montisfryn’s honor would ensure her safety—even with him.
With considerable reluctance, Alaun had come to the same conclusion. The alluring vision he’d entertained of spending much of the night buried inside her had dispersed like a phantom. She would yield him her garter as promised; he would get no more from her just yet. She remained elusive, just beyond his reach, still easily resisting the temptation he was endeavoring to lay before her. As Henry had warned him, her walls were unusually strong. There was, however, more than one way to take a castle.
Eloise halted beside the carp pond. Giving thanks that the moon was sufficiently full to afford them decent light, she swung to face him. “As I was saying, my lord, I will send a maid with a garter, as promised.”
He looked down at her, his expression shadowed. “Nay, lady. I will have my garter from you, as promised.”
She frowned. “I don’t have one with me. If you recall, I was on my way to fetch one when you stopped me.”
He continued to look down at her; she felt her nerves flicker.
“What, then, is presently holding up your stockings?”
She blinked. Then, drawing herself up, she met his gaze frostily. “I refuse to walk through the corridors with one stocking hanging down.”
His slow smile surfaced. “Nay, I won’t ask that much of you.” Reaching through the fitchets of his houppelande, he drew forth a lacing. “I’ve brought a replacement.”
She stared at the lacing dangling from his fingers. “But the garters match this gown.”
“My sorrow, lady, yet you were wearing this gown yestereve when we made our wager. I asked for ‘one of your garters’. Tis what I would have.”
She had no ground left on which to make a stand. Grappling with that fact, the realization that Montisfryn was definitely not all brawn sank into her mind. He’d trapped her very neatly; she would have to give him her garter—now.
Exasperated, she glared at him, an action that had no discernible effect. Reaching for the lacing, she flapped her hand at him. “Turn around.”
His smile gave her an instant’s warning, but of what she was at a loss to guess.
“Nay, lady. You had me claim my prize yestereve. I will do so again tonight.”
Before she could blink, his hands closed about her waist. He hoisted her as if she weighed nothing and set her atop the pond wall. Biting back a squeal, she clutched at his shoulders. The coping wasn’t high, but the flat stones were unsteady.
He looked up at her, lazy leonine satisfaction in his face.
She let fury light her eyes. “Lord de Montisfryth, this is—”
“Will you lift your skirts—or shall I?”
The question, uttered in an even tone, stopped her in her tracks. Stunned, she stared down at him.
He was serious.
It was there in his eyes, in the uncompromising set of his jaw, in the way he held himself, broad shoulders square, hands on his hips.
There, too, in the tawny brow that slowly rose.
Abruptly, she realized she would have to answer—and that, soon. Her precarious footing rendered a physical tussle out of the question; creating a ruckus and calling attention to her predicament was an even less attractive proposition.
Her haughtiness gave way to uncertainty. If he lifted her skirts?
Eyes narrowing, her expression glacial, she put her nose in the air. Shifting her weight, she set her left leg in advance of her right. “As you are so churlish as to insist, Lord de Montisfryth, you leave me no choice.”
Alaun answered the acid comment with a smile. As her small hands gathered in the thick velvet and the stiffer silk beneath, her hems slowly rose, revealing a long, shapely limb.
He watched the hems inch upward. She stopped when they reached her garter. The saints were smiling; she wore her garters above, not below, her knee. “Higher—unless you wish to have me fossicking blindly beneath your skirts.”
The hiss of her indrawn breath fell on his ears.
Eloise was speechless—not just with fury. The idea of him fossicking under her skirts—and she was sure it wouldn’t be blindly—had let butterflies loose in her stomach. The muscles in her right leg, the one carrying her weight, quivered. He was candidly examining her left leg, not exactly bare yet her fine hose afforded but little protection. Setting her teeth, she edged her skirts up another two inches, exposing her garter to the moonlight.
When he didn’t move but just stood there, looking, she lifted her head and stared straight ahead, valiantly disregarding her erratic heartbeat and the effort it took just to breathe.
Alaun didn’t move until he was sure his raging lust wouldn’t slip its leash.
Then he stepped forward, the lacing in one hand, and wrapped his fingers about her ankle.
He heard her stifled gasp. He glanced up; she was, apparently, absorbed with the castle behind him. Lips curving, he returned his gaze to her leg. Slowly, he trailed his fingers up the back of her calf, feeling sleek muscles quiver beneath his touch. Lightly, he stroked through the hollow behind her knee, then, cupping the back of her knee, ran his hand up to her garter.
“Lord de Montisfryth!”
Her shocked protest was almost breathless.
She grabbed his shoulder as her right leg quaked.
He grinned triumphantly, but didn’t look up. Quickly tying the lacing below her garter, he deftly unpicked the knot in the velvet band.
Only years of discipline stopped him from investigating further, from slipping his fingers under the filmy edge of her chemise, just visible beneath her raised skirts, to caress the warmth he knew he would find between her silken thighs.
He even managed not to touch her bare skin, which, as it transpired, proved wise.
As soon as she felt her garter fall away, Eloise dropped her skirts; letting go of his shoulder, she smoothed them down.
The shift in her weight was too much for the coping; it started to slip forward, tipping her back.
Toward the pond.
Her eyes met Montisfryn’s. Whether it was the threat of eternal damnation that he must have read in them, or simply a matter of knightly courtesy, he deigned to save her.
Instead of landing amid the carp, she landed against his chest, held tight in one strong arm, her toes a good foot from the ground.
She hadn’t even seen him move.
Her hands had locked on his shoulders. Disoriented, breathless, she blinked at him.
Easing his hold, he let her slide down until her head was just below his, her feet still inches from safe earth. Then his hand rose to frame her face, and his lips came down on hers.
Had she had any choice, she would never have yielded her mouth. But her lips had been parted in surprise, and he took immediate advantage. She tried to hold back, aloof, but he was entirely too persuasive. Soon, she was clinging to him, her lips clinging to his, her tongue dueling with his as it had the night before.
And, once again, heat crept insidiously into her veins, spreading through her body with every beat of her heart, coalescing in a pool of liquid warmth deep inside her. She let her body sink against his, his muscled hardness a potent temptation to her softer flesh.
She felt like purring and arching against him.
He gave her no caresses other than through the shared kiss, but when he finally raised his head, he left her wanting.
Aching. Empty.
Gravely, she studied his face, searching his eyes for some hint, some clue to the conundrum he posed. Arms of warm steel held her trapped; even had she twice her strength she could not have broken free, yet she wasn’t afraid. He was larger and stronger than Raoul had been, but where Raoul’s eyes had held an icy chill, his held only warmth—did that make him any less dangerous?
That he intended to seduce her could not have been clearer, yet he did not push her. His restraint puzzled her.
Trapped in her dark, fathomless gaze, Alaun sensed her interest; she was wary, suspicious, but undeniably intrigued. She was as tentative as a mare just brought into the gentling yard, curious yet poised to bolt. But she was caught—eventually, he would tame her. Triumph washed through him; he was careful not to let it show. “We have yet to discuss our wagers for the morrow.” Gently, he set her on her feet.
“I did not owe you a kiss, my lord.”
Her tone made it clear her protest was perfunctory; she wasn’t complaining. His control at full-stretch, he dryly replied, “Consider it payment in lieu of immediate victory.”
She glanced up; her eyes widened as they met his. “Ah…yes.” Straightening, she clasped her hands before her. “I fear I do not wish to wager a third time, my lord.”
He frowned, eyes narrowing. “We agreed on three wagers, lady.”
She lifted her chin. “Unfortunately, I find I do not appreciate the pastime.”
He snorted. “You’re afraid of losing.” He held her gaze, then smiled patronizingly. He stepped closer, crowding her against the pond wall. “It’s heartening to know you feel such confidence in my victory.”
Eloise clung to hauteur. Her head couldn’t get any higher and with her hair in braids and crespines, tossing it had little effect. “Such is not the case! I’m quite sure William will best you tomorrow—if one of the other knights doesn’t beat him to it.”
“Coward.”
The soft sneer fell from his lips, coming ever nearer. Mesmerized, she watched, then they veered to gently caress her ear. A delicious shiver slithered down her nape; she had to fight to stop it slithering further.
“Tis only jousts tomorrow—you know I’ll win.”
His whisper feathered her cheek; heat unfurled in her belly. Holding fast to her resolve, she attempted a snort. “Only if pigs fly.”
“Don’t forget to warn the swineherd to lock them in the stables.”
A gurgle of laughter shattered her concentration. “Nonsense.” She pulled back to meet his eyes. They glowed golden, intent, mere inches from hers.
Her gaze dropped to his lips—abruptly she remembered the feel of them against hers, recalled the warmth, the seductive heat of him. Her heart thudded in her ears.
She veiled her eyes. Wisdom suggested she shouldn’t risk a third loss; the urge to, just once, dispense with wisdom welled strong…she drew in a breath and raised her head. “Very well, my lord. I will engage in one last wager with you.”
It was she who had suggested the three wagers, and she had nothing to fear. A kiss, a garter—what next? A pair of hose?
He straightened, masculine satisfaction etched in his eyes.
She narrowed hers. “Do you play chess?”
The abrupt demand surprised him. “Aye. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind.” She waved the point aside. “You know what I would ask—what do you ask against it?”
For a long moment, he studied her, his expression unreadable. Then his golden gaze sharpened; she got the distinct impression he chose his words with great care. “I would ask one boon of you. One act, which, once requested, must be undertaken.”
“Nay.” She drew herself up, unshakeable pride in her eyes. “That I will not grant. You must ask something else.”
Alaun hid a surge of satisfaction. His witch would be no man’s easy conquest—not even his. The fact made her all the more desirable; she was the first woman ever to have stood against him—he was looking forward to her eventual surrender. Her implacable refusal lent weight to Henry’s suggestion—and his own growing suspicion—that she was, indeed, that relative rarity, a non-cloistered yet virtuous widow. Despite the hurdles that might place in his path, he was pleased nonetheless. It seemed likely that since her husband had died, she’d lain with no other man.
Possessive lust flared within him; he had to fight to control it, to conceal it.
“Very well,” he growled, his frown partly genuine; holding her gaze, he allowed it to deepen.
Her brows rose slightly; she remained coolly composed.
Hands rising to his hips, he grimaced. “If not that, then…” He looked about, as if searching for inspiration. “A ride.” He brought his gaze back to her face. “I ask that you ride with me.”
Eloise made no effort to hide her suspicions. “A ride?” She could feel the heat stealing into her cheeks, but forced herself to ask, “On a horse?” It was, after all, a most pertinent point.
He scowled. “You may ride your own palfrey.”
Eyes narrowing, her gaze steady on his face, she carefully considered, then nodded. “I will agree to ride with you, my lord, provided that during this ride we are not alone at any time.”
“Done.”
She could have sworn a bell tolled. Disconcerted, she searched his face, but could fin
d nothing untoward in his disgruntled, yet satisfied expression. Pushing aside her uneasy premonition, she regally inclined her head. “As I have now paid what I owed and our terms are set, I will leave you, my lord.”
“Nay, lady.” His frown returned. “I’ll escort you to your chamber. Tis not meet for you to wander the keep alone while so many who are not your father’s vassals are about.”
She arched a brow. “There is one I could name who is not my father’s vassal, who, unless I much mistake the matter, would like to be a very real threat to me.”
His lips curved—for an instant the image of a lion glowed in her mind.
“Nay, lady—I make you no threats.”
Alaun waited until her assured, superior, cynical smile had fully curved her lips before adding, “Only promises.”
The glare she sent him would have ignited wet wood. Impervious, he held out his hand, palm upward, his gaze holding hers until, with one last, fulminating glance, she consented to lay her fingers across his.
Eloise maintained a chilly dignity as Montisfryn escorted her back through the castle. But her aloofness was a sham; she was very conscious of how relaxed she had become in his presence. The fact puzzled her, even as he did.
By the time they reached her door, her icy demeanor had thawed; she left him with a quick smile.
Wishing she’d refrained, Alaun set his teeth against the ache in his loins and turned back down the stairs. Only then did he recall the garter he carried in one fist. The black band was exquisitely embroidered in gold and silver, the design a scaled-down version of that on her black surcote.
He closed his fist about the velvet band. His plan of campaign was clear—slow and constant attrition to weaken her defenses, unexpected pressure to undermine her walls.
Soon, they would fall.
His expression one of endurance, determination, and anticipation combined, he continued down the stairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
Anticipation likewise filled Eloise when she woke with the larks the next morn. Opening her eyes, she was forced to narrow them against the sunshine lancing through the shutters. Beside her, Blanche snuffled and wriggled, then subsided once more. Cocooned in warmth, Eloise stared at the sunshine, at the promise of the new day, while her mind revisited the promises of the night.
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