His eyes narrowed. For a long moment, he held her gaze, then grudgingly conceded, “I will accept your word on condition that, for any excursions about column or camp, you will take Rovogatti with you. And that at no time will you stray beyond the line of outriders or pickets.”
Eloise considered, then inclined her head. “Tis reasonable.”
Alaun bit back an acid rejoinder. He watched as, with a gracious nod, she wheeled away, summoning Rovogatti with an imperious gesture. Grunting to himself, he returned to his musings.
His disaffected mood was not improved when, on retiring to his pavilion after settling the dispositions, he discovered his prize absent. Not only absent, but very definitely not in residence. There was no sign of her chest, nor her cloak—not even her maid. He paused to check his memory, then, assured of the solid foundation of his complaint, he stalked out and across to Roland’s pavilion. The robin was chatting to Rovogatti close by the lowered flap. She started up at Alaun’s approach; he waved her away. Without pausing to announce himself, he marched in.
Warned by the sudden turbulence that a body rather larger than Jenni’s had entered, Eloise glanced around, then quickly edged around the open chest over which she’d been bending. “Lord?” The lion looked ready to roar.
Stopping before the chest, he trapped her gaze. “You seem to have lost your way, lady.”
Straightening to her full height, she returned his gaze steadily. “Nay, lord. This is the tent you yourself assigned me.”
The golden eyes narrowed. “Do you or do you not recall me telling you, quite clearly I believe, that henceforth my couch will be yours?”
She did, quite clearly; she was not, however, about to admit to willful disobedience. “Naturally, I assumed you made that statement in the…er, heat of the moment. You cannot expect me to share your pavilion on a permanent basis.”
One tawny brow slowly rose. “Can I not?”
She blushed, but refused to lower her eyes. Her normal assurance was tied in knots, as it had been all day. She was not at all sure what she wanted. She did, however, know what should be. “Tis not suitable, lord.”
“Suitable?”
“Aye.” With feigned calmness, she folded the cote she’d been packing. “I’m a widow—a virtuous widow”—her quick glance dared him to contradict her—“presently traveling in your train. Tis not suitable for me to share your pavilion.”
Bending over the chest, she laid the cote within. She straightened—and found him beside her.
“Do you tell me twas not you who left half-moons scored in my arms? That twas not you who lay arching beneath me last night?” His eyes flared. “My suitability did not seem in question then, lady.”
He stepped closer; instinctively, she backed, then abruptly halted, forcing him to stop, a bare inch away. Head up, hands rising to her hips, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Nay—you will not catch me with that.” With one finger, she prodded his chest. “You know well twas not your suitability I referred to.”
Scowling, Alaun rapidly redeployed. “Tis just as well, for there is no question of suitability here. Tis more a matter of your willfulness. Henceforth, you will occupy my pavilion. I will not consider it suitable for you to be elsewhere.”
She opened her eyes wide. “You plan to move out?”
He narrowed his. “Allow me to make the matter plain. You will share my pavilion—with me.”
“Nay. I will not be your mistress—I told you before.”
“And as I told you before, tis not a position for which I would consider you!” He glowered. “I do not wish to argue this matter further, lady.” If he did, there was every possibility that he would lose. He had no real right to insist she share his tent, yet after the revelations of the night, followed by those of the morn, he had no intention of letting her slip from his grasp. At the moment, desire was the only real hold he had over her—and he wasn’t even sure of that. “You will repair to my tent forthwith—the only choice you need make is your mode of travel.”
She lifted an unrepentant brow. “What choices do I have?”
“You may walk by my side—or I’ll carry you.”
She actually considered calling his bluff; he saw it in her eyes. “Do not tempt me, lady.” He pointed a finger at her nose. “I wish you in my tent—tis an end to the matter.”
Abruptly, Eloise shrugged. “As you wish, lord.” At the moment, her dignity was more important than whether the tent about her was blue or red. She dropped the lid on her chest as she rounded it. “But allow me to comment that your invitation lacks charm.”
“Allow me to comment that your tongue has a sharp edge.” He followed her around the chest.
“Nay, lord.” She tossed her head. “Tis merely that you have little experience in dealing with ladies.”
Catching her arm, Alaun swung her to face him. “You are in error, lady. I have considerable experience in dealing with ladies—just none as hoity as you.”
Her eyes darted fire; she opened her lips—he lost the last of his patience.
He silenced her with a kiss—a hard, possessive, thoroughly stirring kiss, a kiss he’d been waiting for all day.
His hands rose to trap her face, then gentled, framing her smooth cheeks as his tongue systematically plundered. Her hands came up, but, as had happened before, only softened about his. He kissed her deeply, demanding her surrender, commanding her senses until she gave way. Only when she sighed and softened against him did he raise his head.
Slowly, her lids rose to reveal lustrous eyes, dark and wide, brimming with disgruntled confusion. The sight pleased him greatly. “Get you to my tent, lady.” His voice was a low growl. “Rovogatti will bring your baggage.”
Her lips throbbing, her hands still on his as he released her face, Eloise blinked. Her senses were reeling; her wits were in similar case.
“Come.” His hand closed about hers; he lifted the flap and handed her through.
Outside, one of his sergeants hung back, clearly wanting a word. She looked up. Montisfryn’s gaze was on her, a clear question in the gold. Haughtily, she inclined her head, then glided across the clearing.
She swept into the scarlet-and-gold pavilion, the light of battle in her eyes. Her first victim was his squire; the man met her narrow-eyed stare with a bland, somewhat vacuous expression.
With a humph, she swung about, her gaze raking the furnishings. Despite having spent the previous night within the scarlet-and-gold walls, she had precious little memory of much beyond the huge, well-stuffed pallet. Supported by a plain wooden frame, it took up most of one side of the tent. On the opposite side of the central pole stood a long oak board atop a pair of trestles. A tall-backed chair sat behind it; a stool was pushed beneath the board’s edge. Nearer the wall stood a campaign chest and a flat-topped armor chest, a pewter basin and ewer gracing the lid. A collection of weapons, sheathed swords and lances, lay beside the chests.
With a disdainful sniff, she turned as Rovogatti lumbered up, her chest in his arms, Jenni close behind. “Place it there.” She pointed to the side, a little way from the bed. “Leave my herb-box beside it.” Tapping her toe, she watched, then said to Jenni, “I will have my psalter.”
Directing the squire to retrieve the stool, she had him place it by the entrance. Settling herself, she took her psalter on her lap—and devoted herself to her psalms.
Alaun found her thus, the very image of a virtuous widow. He cast her
a darkling glance, then, suppressing a growl, passed on into the tent. He unbuckled his short sword and dropped it on his armor chest. The clatter elicited no response from his guest. He pulled his chair from the board—then changed his mind and prowled across to stand, hands on his hips, behind her. The tome in her hands was a handsome volume, beautifully lettered on fine vellum with rich illuminations surrounding the text.
He watched as she calmly turned a page.
With a disgusted snort, he swung inside, forcing his feet to carry him away—battling the temptation to pick her up, drop
the tent flap, and have her instead of supper.
The arrival of Bilder and the robin with their meal proved fortuitous.
Once he and his guest were settled at the oak board, the dishes before them and wine in their goblets, Bilder twitched the robin’s sleeve; the pair withdrew.
Eloise devoted her attention to the savory stew and crisp brown bread. She’d come across Montisfryn’s commissariat, under the care of one of his vassals, a Sir Eward Steele, in her brief foray down the column. The logistics of feeding eight hundred mouths while traveling had fascinated her; it was certainly more complex than castle management.
As the silence stretched, she shot a glance at Montisfryn. His expression grim, his eyes on his plate, he was applying himself to his food with methodical thoroughness. She looked down at her plate—and kept her lips firmly shut.
To his considerable chagrin, having achieved his immediate objective, Alaun had no idea how to capitalize on the situation. How—where—should he start his explanations? Was it even wise to begin?
The revelations of the night, and even more those of the morn, suggested she would flee in panic if he so much as mentioned the word “husband”; how to persuade her otherwise was a point he’d spent hours debating.
All he had to cling to was the promise implicit in her surrender, both on the riverbank and later, the sure knowledge that she found pleasure in his arms. Without that, he would be no closer to gaining her hand than all the others who had wooed her.
Yet she seemed set on denying him even that much victory.
Glancing sideways, and finding her expression still serenely remote, he grimaced and looked at his plate. His reputation in the field was for wringing victory from adversity—he had never imagined he would need the same talents to win his chosen wife.
The meal ended without a word spoken.
Bilder and Jenni returned and cleared the table. At Eloise’s instruction, Jenni carefully replaced the psalter in her chest. Then the little maid hovered; Bilder had already left.
Finding herself the object of a lowering, very pointed golden glance, Eloise lifted her chin. “You may go, Jenni.” She hesitated, then added, “I will not need you again tonight.”
With a studiously blank expression, the robin flitted out.
Alaun humphed and drained his goblet. Saints!—what was the matter with him? He was rarely grumpy, let alone surly. Tonight, he felt thoroughly churlish.
The object of his ire sat calmly staring out of the open tent flap.
His pavilion was tonight sited on a small knoll, the tents of his followers spread around on the plain. They were still heading north; Gloucester lay ahead, Hereford beyond. The light slowly faded; the evening calm descended.
When Eloise remained stoically distant, he set down his goblet with a decisive click. He rose, stalked to the entrance, and let down the flap. Bilder had left a candle burning on the board. Returning to the table, he studied her face, unshakably serene in the flickering light. By St. George and all the saints! Did she want him tonight—or not?
As if in answer, she stood and stretched sinuously, then looked about. Her gaze settled on his lance, lying in the shadows. Then she turned to survey the bed.
For one incredulous instant, he watched her glance back and forth, measuring…he calmed himself with a deep breath. The lance was too heavy for her to lift. And if she thought he would help, she would need to think again. “Lady…”
It was the first word he’d uttered since entering the tent.
She turned, brows politely rising. “Aye, lord?”
Having opened the discussion, he couldn’t think how to proceed; for the first time in years, his imagination failed him. He’d rarely needed to persuade a woman to his bed, and certainly never after she’d occupied it.
He met Eloise’s gaze—a glimmer of triumph glowed in the dark depths. He narrowed his eyes. “Lady, did I not pleasure you well last night?”
The dark eyes blinked wide. A tinge of color crept into her cheeks. “Aye.”
“And was it not at your decision that our intimacy came about?”
She eyed him warily. “Aye.”
“Then what, by all the saints, have I done that you seek to deny me this eve—to discard me as your lover?”
“Nay—tis not that.” She frowned. “Tis that it is not proper for me to be with you thus.”
“Proper? In whose eyes?” He gestured to the sky. “The saints? Tis my belief that after all you suffered at your husband’s hands, and through his memory thereafter, they’ll hardly begrudge you your time with me. I have ever heard they are caring and understanding of mortals, merciful, not harsh and unyielding—do not your psalms tell you so?”
She frowned harder. “There are still your people—”
“Who will hardly think ill of you for sharing my bed.” He paused, then added, his tone more gentle, “And there is no one else to know, to censure you, rightly or otherwise.”
She looked down at the table; he tilted his head to study her face. Even more gently, he said, “If tis the danger of getting with child that worries you, there are ways—”
“Nay.” She cut him off with a quick gesture. “That is not an issue here.” She glanced up and saw his puzzled frown. “Tis the way in my family. William was born three years after my parents wed; there are three or more years between the rest of us. My mother was healthy and strong; she suffered no miscarriages.” She shrugged. “And Emma is the same. Tis doubtless a characteristic as common as the other.”
Alaun blinked—and swallowed the words that had risen to his tongue. He’d grown up with horse-breeders and horse-breeding; he could think of at least one other reason why her mother had not quickened sooner. And Emma’s condition simply made it more likely. But he was, first and last, a strategist; he kept his thoughts to himself.
A fleeting vision of Eloise swollen large with his babe sent a surge of unadulterated desire straight to his loins. He stiffened.
Uncertain, Eloise met his gaze—and felt her resistance waver. She frowned at him. “During the day, I did not know if you wanted me more.”
He stared at her. “Did not know…?” Abruptly, he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you.”
Her lips twitched. “In the forest with the pigs?”
“Aye.” His expression warned against flippancy. “If you’d shown willing, I would have taken you then.”
The thought sent a fresh surge of blood to Alaun’s groin. In increasing discomfort, he stalked around her, then returned to stand beside her, fingers lightly trailing the board.
“The concept seems a mite precipitous, lord.” She slanted him a considering glance.
Inwardly, he groaned. “With you, lady, my wanting is frequently precipitous. Such as now.” He grasped the hand furthest from him and drew it to the bulge in his braies.
Panic gripped him. He’d just done what her husband had, forcing her to touch him.
Aghast, he released her, only to feel her slim fingers curl knowingly about his erection. Her face was half-turned toward him; she was smiling. Quietly exhaling, he studied the ageless, thoroughly feminine, witchy little smile that curved the ends of her lips; it softened her whole expression. Her lids were lowered, her gaze mysterious.
She looked as if she was thinking of how he would feel inside her.
The thought sent another powerful surge through his loins; he swelled beneath her hand. His jaw clenched against the impulses battering him, he reached for her, and slowly drew her closer.
His restraint was not lost on Eloise, any more than the fact that the night still hung on her decision. To be thus in control of such a strong and powerful man was a deeply attractive, compulsively seductive, irresistibly potent temptation. She let her hand fall as, still smiling, she raised her eyes to his. “Nay—you cannot expect me to know that. I cannot tell by looking.”
His eyes were brightly golden, his expression that of a man goaded to his limit. “Lady—know this. I wan
t you—often. Frequently. Morning, noon, and night. I can no longer, saints preserve me, imagine a time when I will not want you.”
It took a moment for his words to filter through the haze clouding Alaun’s brain. When they did, he was shocked. Saints preserve him, indeed! Any hope she hadn’t heard, had not fully comprehended, was laid to rest by her widening smile.
He groaned. And swept her into his arms.
For long minutes, he simply kissed her, tasting her with relief, letting his inflamed passions settle once more under his control, soothed by the clear promise of what was to come.
Eloise settled willingly in his arms, content to be there, content to allow him to lead her where he would. He was right—the saints would forgive her; twas justice that she have at least a few nights—however long it took to reach Hereford—in which to enjoy being a woman whole.
Gradually, the kiss deepened; her hands wandered, roaming the vast acres of muscle and heavy bone, searching out ribs and shoulders amid the hard contours.
When he finally disengaged and raised his head, looking sleepily down like a lion surveying his next meal, she yielded to her most wanton desire. She smiled. “Allow me to be your handmaid this night, lord. Let me disrobe you.”
Brows rising, Alaun hung on to his raging lust, and wondered if he’d ever become inured to her prattle. Probably only when he was dead. She could raise a statue with her words. He couldn’t deny her request, even though, tonight, compliance would cost him dear. It was a clear sign she wanted him—that she was embarking on their play with her usual calm deliberation. The thought rattled him. He might have the advantage of experience, but she would have the advantage of surprise. “Aye, lady.” His voice was gravelly and low. “You will serve me well tonight.”
Her lips twitched, but she gave no other sign of having caught his meaning.
Calmly, Eloise set about unlacing his houppelande, exulting in the sense of being in control. His eyes were already glowing, although the flames had yet to appear. She knew she could light them. After loosening all his ties and points, she had to stand on the stool to draw the voluminous garment off. That done, she quickly dispensed with his shirt, marveling at the wide expanse of golden flesh revealed to her sight. She let her fingers trail over the backs of his shoulders, hiding her smile at his indrawn breath.
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