Breathless, Eloise let her head fall back. Eyes closed, she savored the feel of his palm against her breast, felt her body swell and burgeon, ripening beneath his touch. Then his fingers found her nipple. She gasped; sharp sensation speared her. Desire surged; an unfamiliar urgency gripped her. Every caress, some gentle, others less so, wound her tauter, tighter. She quivered like a spring wound to its limit. Waiting for the final turn.
She heard him murmur, his voice deep and gravelly. Then she realized he was urging her arms up to draw the shirt from her. She hesitated, eyes shut, sure she should resist. Yet she didn’t, the now familiar feel of his hair-dusted skin too achingly tempting to forgo. Then the barrier was gone, and he moved against her.
Hard muscle, hot and solid, surrounded her. His hands stroked, feeding flames into her already fevered flesh. Dazed, she wondered how much tighter, how much hotter she could get. He urged her onto her back; she obliged, conscious of the growing ache deep inside, the sense of emptiness he conjured so easily. As his lips returned to hers, confidently possessive, increasingly demanding, she hoped he would soon fill her.
She speared her fingers through his hair, then dropped her hands to his shoulders, urging him against her. He held back, his shoulders above her, one hand on her breast. His tongue thrust boldly against hers. His hand moved down to splay possessively over her belly, then moved lower, fingers trailing through her curls to lay a tracery of fire up and down her inner thighs. Mindlessly, she parted them. Ripples of sensation streaked upward to where she was again hot and wet, even though he had yet to touch her there.
When he did, one long finger sliding effortlessly into her, she came off the pallet, arching in his arms. Held fast, she shivered, shafts of delight lancing through her.
She was alive to her fingertips, every nerve-ending quiveringly sensitive. The tension within expanded, swelled, more urgent with every breath she dragged in—short, almost-gasps that filled the darkness. His finger moved within her. She arched again, fire spreading, flames licking hungrily along every vein. Her heart pulsed strongly, the urgent cadence echoing through her. Close to her heated core, his finger languidly stroked, heavy, foreign, immeasurably welcome.
She wanted to see his eyes. His head was lowered, his face turned to watch as he caressed her. She raised one hand to his cheek; he was reluctant. Only when she brought both hands to his face did he yield, allowing her her way. His lids were heavy, veiling his eyes. Then, as if understanding her need, he raised his lids, and met her gaze.
His eyes were blazing, heat layered on heat, flame on flame.
Alaun stifled a groan and dropped his head to her shoulder. He was in pain—deep, wracking agony. It was barely an hour since he’d had her, yet he was rigid with need again. Throbbing with an overwhelming urge to bury himself in the soft, sweet flesh his fingers were stroking. She was so hot—her honey-slick flesh scorched him. The heady, musky scent of her rose to tease, to tantalize.
“Lord?”
He couldn’t ask it of her—not so soon. The saints knew twas not what he’d intended. He shouldn’t—he’d said— “By the Holy Virgin, lady, I want you.” The words were a hoarse plea. “Take me inside you, Eloise.”
Eloise couldn’t think. Luckily, she didn’t need to. She knew he wanted her mightily, the evidence there in his fiery eyes, in his locked muscles, in the heavy throbbing reality pressed against her thigh. And she knew that, whatever was to come, she would enjoy it far more if he was with her, inside her again.
“Aye, lord,” she murmured. Then memory intruded. “Will it hurt?”
“Nay.” Teeth gritted, he swung over her, spreading her thighs and sinking between. He didn’t need to adjust himself to her; the head of his staff found her portal as if guided by some higher authority.
She felt the broad tip part her swollen flesh, pressing inexorably inwards. Breathless, she arched, nails sinking into his arms. “Lord!” He stopped. She found his eyes. “Can we not take it…slower?”
Poised above her, muscles straining, Alaun stared down at her. She wanted it slow? By St George and all the saints, she’d have her wish—even if it killed him.
It nearly did. He sank into her so gradually, he felt every little ripple in her heated sheath as it stretched fully to accommodate him.
Eyes shut, Eloise savored every rigid inch of him as he filled her, his penetration so achingly slow, so deep, that for one breathless instant, she thought it would never end. Prayed it would never end. Instinctively, she tilted her hips, greedily wanting more.
Her movement nearly finished Alaun. Grimly, he hung on. “Aye, lady-witch. Take me all.”
With one last surge, he filled her completely, the head of his staff abutting her womb. He held still, muscles bunched and quivering, giving her time to adjust to his invasion.
She looked up from under her lashes; he saw the dark gleam of her glance.
“Am I hurting you?”
She shifted slightly, experimentally; he gritted his teeth.
“Nay.” More confident, she wriggled. “But it feels…somewhat strange to have you inside me. Tis different from before.”
Testing her stretched muscles, she inadvertently pulsed around him; he jerked. Biting back a groan, he fought to keep still. A peculiar little smile swept her face. She undulated beneath him, her slender body lifting, twisting, instinctively seeking fulfillment.
“Will you ride me now, lord?”
He caught his breath. “Aye, but tis a ride for two.”
She blinked up at him. “I know not the way of this riding, lord.”
Saints in heaven!—he had to end this conversation. “Nay—your body knows the way of it well enough.” Slowly, determined not to permit a repetition of his earlier unbridled performance, he slackened his reins. He drew back, then surged inward, gently rocking her. The passion in her dark eyes smoldered, but was not yet ablaze. “Come, lady-witch—ride with me.”
Lady-witch. He kept calling her that. But Eloise let the odd name pass as more urgent matters claimed her. Heat welled as he moved within her. To her surprise, she discovered he was right; without conscious direction, her body met his, mirroring his movements. And this time was different, her body more in tune, their desires more evenly matched.
Then all thought was submerged beneath waves of pleasure, surging through her with every slow thrust. The pace he set was a rolling canter, a steady deliberate rhythm that pushed her ever upward, through foothills of pleasure into mountains of ecstasy. As they rode together, their bodies in effortless concert, her tension returned, then heightened dramatically, gripping her tighter and tighter.
She couldn’t breathe.
Gasping, she strained against him, gripping his arms, rising toward something, faster and faster. He thrust deeply; she met him. Flames coalesced, engulfing them, searing them. Abruptly, she focused on where their bodies joined, hand in glove, his staff gliding effortlessly within her slick channel.
Stretching her, filling her, possessing her.
She gasped, and tightened about him.
Release took her by surprise. Like a sun bursting through the thick haze of pleasure, it caught her up. Fire and flame exploded, and ecstasy seized her, crashing through her in wave after wave of rippling delight.
The sensation peaked, then, slowly, receded. Heat remained, cocooning her; relaxing, she pulsed with the glow.
Distantly, she heard a muffled shout and a deeper warmth flooded her. Montisfryn collapsed upon her, pressing her into the pallet, his breathing labored. Barely aware, she held him, running her hands down the great muscles of his back. His heart thudded heavily, the beat echoing inside her.
Much later, she felt him lift from her. She frowned and clung, mumbling a sleepy protest.
He chuckled. “Nay, lady-witch.” His lips touched her forehead. “Sleep. There will be plenty of time, now, for us.”
Later still, on the threshold of sleep, her lips lifted. His tournament motto was wrong. He was not “fearsome when aroused.” Making
a mental note to mention the matter when next the point arose, she surrendered to her dreams.
CHAPTER TEN
The point arose much earlier than she’d expected, a little before the dawn. From a deep and dreamless sleep, Eloise jerked into wide-eyed, heart-pounding panic. With a strangled shriek, she leapt from the bed, grabbing up the shirt she found beside it. She was halfway to the flap before the unexpected touch of grass beneath her feet opened her eyes to reality.
She slowed, then halted, blinking at the scarlet and gold tenting. Dragging in a shuddering breath, she turned.
Montisfryn had surged to his knees in the bed, his sword, unsheathed, in his hand. “What is it? Outlaws?”
She stared. Her heart thudded in her ears, in her throat. She couldn’t speak; she could barely hear.
A succession of shivers shook her.
Her face stopped Alaun in his tracks. She was deathly pale, her eyes huge. Dark pools filled with an unnamable fear, they watched him with no hint of recognition.
He froze.
The silence outside the tent assured him there was no enemy without. Moving slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on hers, he laid his sword down. She stood poised for flight, his shirt clutched to her breasts, her fingers clenched hard on the linen folds. Shivers continued to rack her, spasm after spasm. “Come back to bed, Eloise.”
She blinked.
“Tis freezing, lady-witch.”
It was, their breaths misting in the pre-dawn chill.
He watched her carefully; he kept his tone light. He couldn’t rise and fetch her; he was fully aroused; she might well flee from him. He would catch her within yards of the tent, but he didn’t want to have to subdue her, to carry her, struggling, back to his bed. “Come and let me warm you.”
He saw uncertainty in her eyes; a more intense shiver racked her. “You know I will not harm you. Now come and be warmed, or you’ll catch a chill.”
The patient reasonableness in his tone pulled Eloise over the last threshold, back into the real world. Her vision cleared; blind panic receded.
Slowly, she returned to the bed, frowning, bewildered, perplexed. Montisfryn slid down among the covers; he lifted them for her. As she put one knee on the pallet, he reached for the shirt she still clutched. She tightened her grip.
“Nay, lady—twill not aid in warming you. Tis as cold as you are.”
He was right. She let him take it from her; he threw it to the end of the bed. Shivering, she slipped beneath the covers and lay on her back. “Your pardon, lord. I know not what so frighted me.”
Alaun knew, but all he said was, “Twas doubtless just a night-fear, lady. Tis gone once you awake.” Long shivers still racked her. He turned toward her—
She tensed. Immediately, quite definitely. From beneath her long lashes, she shot him a wary glance.
Hiding his dismay, he disguised his movement as if he was simply settling himself. With a deep sigh, he lay on his back and let his body fall slack. He waited until she shivered again. “You are very cold, lady. Come and warm yourself by me. I would not have you take a chill whilst in my care.”
He felt another of her suspicious looks linger on his face. Then, like a small chilled animal, she crept closer.
It was another trial he had to endure, her slow, inching progress, but, eventually, she settled her head in the hollow of his shoulder, one arm across his chest, her body fitted snugly along the length of his. With slow deliberation, he moved the arm on which she lay and placed his palm in the small of her back. She tensed, then relaxed again. Relieved, with his other hand, he found hers where it lay on his chest, and raised it to his lips; she watched as he placed a gentle kiss in her palm.
Laying her hand back on his chest, he kissed her forehead. “Rest, lady-witch. You’re safe with me.”
A smile tugged at Eloise’s lips. She snuggled down, her cheek pillowed on the broad muscle of his chest. His heat stole into her bones, driving out the lingering chill. With a sigh, she relaxed completely, feeling her body cleave to his. Silly man—after the last twenty-four hours, did he think he had to tell her? She knew she was safe in his arms. Entirely confident of that fact, she fell asleep.
Alaun did not.
He mentally cursed himself for not guessing that she would react badly to being approached from behind; he was shaken by how deep her fear went—her mind seemed to blot out the cause. Her gentle breathing reassured him; he hadn’t lost her. With the soft sound in his ears, he considered their situation. No matter how he viewed it, one conclusion stood firm.
His simple, straightforward campaign to win Eloise de Versallet to wife had encountered a major obstacle.
He brooded on that fact as, about them, the camp came to life.
Eventually, disturbed by the din, Eloise sleepily stretched—then froze.
“Good morning, lady. Tis time we were about.”
Half-sprawled across his chest, Eloise felt every word as well as heard them. They sounded disgruntled. She glanced up; he met her gaze, his expression resigned.
“If you will let me up, I will fetch you your clothes.”
She blinked, then, despite a very real reluctance to leave his warmth, she carefully disentangled her limbs from his.
Alaun bore the moment stoically, manfully resisting the urge to roll over, trap her beneath him, and remind her of the night’s pleasures. When he was finally free of her soft body, he rose and pulled on his braies, then retrieved her cote and chemise. They were dry, but chilly. She accepted them with a polite word, her lids veiling her eyes.
Bilder appeared with warm water for washing, the robin wide-eyed behind him. Alaun washed and dressed quickly, then left the tent to his prize.
He did not set eyes on her again until she trotted forward on her mare to take her position alongside him as the column got underway. None would have guessed that the siren of the riverbank lay behind her distant mien, much less that she’d lain all night in his arms. He greeted her with a grunt, and returned to his calculations.
The miles slid by unnoticed, the scenery unremarked.
Beside him, Eloise tried to appear unconscious; with each league that passed, her distraction grew. The happenings of the night demanded consideration, yet objectively analyzing them proved impossible, at least while riding beside their perpetrator, one eye constantly on him. Her nervousness communicated itself to Jacquenta; the mare jibbed, then sidled.
Her struggle to settle the mare cut through Montisfryn’s absorption. He glanced at her, hesitated, then said, “Tell me, lady—do you need to send a message to your man-of-business? Your father told me you engage in commerce of sorts.”
She inclined her head. “Aye. Some part of my fortune is vested in cloth manufacture.”
He raised a brow. “I know Edward thinks tis the way of the future, but do you find it profitable?”
To her considerable surprise, Eloise found herself explaining the intricacies of the fledging cloth trade. For his part, Montisfryn knew the wool trade forward and back, his lands contributing the major part of the local clip.
“My broker tells me there have recently been serious disruptions to the supply,” she said. “The master-weavers are not happy.”
Alaun frowned. “Have you heard what has caused these disruptions?”
“Nay. My man was not specific—we do not deal directly with the wool merchants, only the weavers and their guilds.”
They continued to exchange views and predictions; the time to the midday halt flew.
“My broker is in London.” Eloise returned to his original query as they drew rein. “But I have no need to send any message to him presently.”
Alaun’s lips tightened—it was on the tip of his tongue to remind her of her new direction. Instead, he dismounted. “When you have the need, you have only to ask.”
The hour allotted to the midday meal passed quickly. Montisfryn was called back along the train; Eloise found herself strolling a nearby wood, accompanied by Jenni and escorted by Roland, Ro
vogatti, and a full company of men-at-arms.
When Roland, in whose care Montisfryn had left her, had agreed to her suggestion, she hadn’t expected such a crowd. “Surely, sir, tis a trifle excessive?”
“Lady.” Roland placed his hand over his heart. “Much as I might agree, believe me, tis not worth the lion’s roar to dismiss them.”
Inferring that it was Montisfryn’s orders and not Roland’s that had furnished her guard, she accepted her fate with a dismissive shrug, delighting Roland.
Montisfryn was waiting when they got back; he lifted her to her saddle without a word, the dark mood of the morning again upon him.
Unsettled all over again, she took the lion by the mane. “An’ it please you, lord, I would ride back to view the column. I’ve seen but little of the host that travels with you.”
His expression impassive, Alaun watched as she drew her mare, prancing skittishly, about. He met her dark gaze; a touch of haughty challenge had crept in—she was as skittish as her horse. For the first time in hours, he felt like smiling. “Your escort will accompany you.”
Appalled, she glanced at the score of men-at-arms who rode at her back. “Nay, lord. Tis not necessary.”
“How say you that, lady, when you ran so easily from me yesterday?”
Elevating her chin, she met his sharp gaze. “I did not, yesterday, fully comprehend the dangers.”
“But now you do, you will understand that, while I stand your lord, I will continue to protect you adequately, as I see fit.”
Eloise swallowed her snort. How ludicrous!—to ride down a military column with twenty men-at-arms at her back. Her eyes clashed with his, implacable gold. “If I give you my word, lord, that I will not run from you again, will you permit me to ride down your column without such an unnecessary escort?”
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