Roland enunciated clearly, “For God’s sake, look behind you.”
Alaun blinked. As Roland released him, he turned.
Eloise stood behind him, two steps back, her arms folded, one toe tapping. Her eyes, dark pools of accusation, told him she’d heard every word.
He scowled. “Where the devil have you been, lady?”
He heard Roland choke down his laughter and order the men-at-arms away.
Her gaze growing frostier by the minute, Eloise raised one brow. “Talking to the priests in the vestry.” Unfolding her arms, she picked up her skirts and descended the steps. “You knew I was familiar with the house.”
He followed her down the steps, his expression even blacker than before. “You had no business disappearing.”
Reaching Jacquenta’s side, she swung about. “You”—she emphasized her point with a sharp jab at his chest—“had no business doubting me.” Nose in the air, she met his gaze. “Trust, so I have heard, cuts both ways.”
He clenched his jaw so hard it nearly cracked. For a long moment, he held her gaze. Then, swallowing a growl, he reached for her and tossed her up to her saddle.
He did growl as he swung up to his.
They exchanged barely a word throughout the rest of the day. By the time he repaired to his pavilion, it was late. Eloise was waiting at the linen-draped board; Bilder hovered nearby. With a distant nod, Alaun passed Eloise and went to wash his hands. Their meal was placed before them immediately he took his seat.
Treading on eggshells, Bilder and the robin withdrew, leaving Alaun and Eloise in silence. A silence that stretched, apparently without end. After one swift glance at Eloise’s serene, totally uninformative expression, Alaun kept his eyes on his plate.
But when the plates were cleared and Bilder withdrew, closing the flap behind him, Alaun had had enough. He turned—only to discover that Eloise had slipped from her stool. Glancing quickly about, he found her in the shadows, bending over her chest. As he watched, she straightened and dropped the lid, clutching something in her arms. As she returned to the table, he saw it was her psalter.
Dumbfounded, he watched as she laid it on the table and carefully positioned the candle before opening the book. She turned through the pages, then settled to read.
He lasted five minutes.
When she turned the third page, he reached for her hand. Lifting it clear of the tome, he shut the book. Then, still holding her hand, he rose and drew her to her feet. “Lady, I apologize.”
Her eyes met his; coolly, she raised her brows.
He set his teeth, then had to force his words through them. “For thinking you foolish enough to run from my care.”
Her serene expression dissolved into a frown. “Nay—that is not right. You did not think me foolish—you thought I had deliberately left you.” She folded her arms and lifted her chin. “You did not trust me, lord.”
He could feel his brows lowering, his eyes darkening. “Nay, lady—I trust you well enough.”
“By which you mean barely at all?”
“Nay!” He closed his eyes as he heard his own tone. For an instant, he relived those minutes before the cathedral—the cold terror that had claimed him, a chill emptiness he could find no words to describe. Abruptly, he opened his eyes and locked them on hers. “Lady—I trust you. Twas the surprise of the moment—if I had stopped to think, I would have known you were within.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Nay—you cannot expect me to swallow that. Tis my experience you think all too quickly—you are ever three steps ahead of me.”
His hands rose to his hips without conscious direction. “Lady, I trust you well enough to want you for my wife. Let us leave it at that.”
“Nay, tis a moot point.” Eloise stood her ground. “You would have me learn to trust you, yet I find it difficult to believe that you trust me.”
“Lady—”
“Perhaps, if tis as you say and your trust is real, you should let me put it to the test?” She tilted her head, raised her brows.
The wariness that spread through him, from his eyes to his tensing muscles, strained her control.
“What test?”
“Nothing too convoluted.” Airily, she gestured. “A simple test—something…unequivocal.” She considered him. “For instance, if you truly trusted me, twould be no great thing for you to agree to do as I wish, exactly as I wish, just for an hour.”
Suspicion supplanted his wariness. “An hour?”
“Aye—tis not too much to ask, I think.”
“And if I do as you ask for the next hour, you will accept that I trust you?”
“Aye.”
“I will hear no more of your sharp comments on the matter?”
She smiled. “Nay. If you do as I ask for one hour, I will be satisfied.”
Alaun studied her smile. It hinted at mischief; there was an expectant glow in her eyes. Too many of his muscles had tensed; his nod was distinctly stiff. “Very well. You have one hour. What is it you wish me to do?”
Her smile deepened. She moved around him and pointed to his chair. “Move that—there.” She indicated the clear space by the central pole.
Puzzled, he did as she asked.
“Now sit.” Hands on her hips, Eloise watched as he did, setting his shoulders square against the back, placing his fists, loosely clenched, on his thighs. Like most men, he sat with his thighs widespread. Muting her smile, she lifted her eyes to his. “You are to remain seated. You must not get up unless I give you leave. And you must obey any command I give.”
His eyes narrowed. “Eloise—”
“Nay—I would have you be silent.” She glanced down at her gown, and grimaced. Walking forward, she came between his thighs, then swung about. “Unlace my gown.”
She waited, breath bated, to see if he would obey…then felt him tug at her laces. She smiled, triumphant, anticipation rising. He reached the end of the lacings in the small of her back; she felt his lips nuzzle her spine. His hands curved about her hips.
“Eloise…”
“Nay!” Abruptly, she whirled out of his hold. “You must do as I say.” She frowned—disgruntled, he subsided.
She paused, then, positioning herself a step beyond his reach, she faced him—and slowly peeled the bodice of her gown down, letting it pull tight beneath her breasts as she freed her arms, thus outlining the bounty of her breasts and their peaked crests beneath the fine, taut silk of her chemise. Slowly, she inched the tight-fitting gown down over her hips, then let it fall to the floor; stepping free of the folds, she stooped, picked the gown up, shook it, then set it on the table.
Spying the stool beneath the table’s edge, she drew it forward; placing one foot upon it, very slowly she lifted her chemise to reveal her garter. She unpicked the knot, then rolled her stocking down, lovingly smoothing the fine knit over her knee and calf. She did the same with the other leg, then dropped hose and garters on top of her gown.
Clad in nothing more than her chemise, she turned to face him; stretching both arms over her head; she glanced at him from beneath her lashes. His face was expressionless, his eyes far less so. As for his body, every muscle was locked. Lowering her arms, she smiled.
Her gaze fell on her psalter. Picking it up, she carried it to her chest. Opening the chest, she bent over it, ignoring the cool breeze that caressed the backs of her thighs. Replacing the psalter, she rummaged for a moment, then strolled back to the tent’s center, her pale blue silk scarf in her hands.
Alaun watched her approach. He’d taken the opportunity of her visit to the chest to shift on the chair, to do what he could to ease the fullness in his groin that was shortly going to be an urgent ache. With an effort, he dragged his gaze from the hem of her chemise and focused on the strip of silk she was running back and forth through her hands.
His mouth was dry. “Eloise, what are you about?”
“It occurred to me, lord, that we have played out one of your fantasies.” She smiled. “Tis my turn, now.”
&nbs
p; He closed his eyes—then quickly opened them as she drew near. “You have a fantasy?”
“Aye.” She came to his side and reached around him, draping the scarf about his waist. She circled him, drawing the scarf about him and the chair’s back, then securing it—he thought with a bow.
He frowned. “Eloise—”
“Nay, lord.” Eloise stepped back to admire her handiwork. It would hardly hold him if he chose to move, but it would slow him—long enough for her to call him to order. Besides, the sight of him bound with her scarf—the scarf he had won in winning her—was definitely satisfying.
Lips curving, she circled to stand before him. “Tis my thought, lord, that you would not have previously been thus, in the power of another.”
His frown grew baleful, but his eyes had lost the dull sheen of aggravation; he narrowed them, but couldn’t hide the brightness now gilding them. “Lady, I like not these mind games.”
Narrowing her own eyes, she held his golden gaze. “Nay—what you mean is that you do not like having such games played on you…but you’re adept at playing them on others, are you not?”
The last was uttered softly; the surprise that flashed through his eyes made her smile. She arched a brow and moved closer. “Did you think I did not know?” She stopped between his knees. “That I did not realize you’ve been carefully revisiting my memories, overlaying the distasteful with the pleasurable?”
Slowly, she lifted a hand to the tiny buttons that closed her chemise. She held his gaze as she undid them, aware of his muscles rippling as his tension grew. When the chemise was open to her waist, she leaned forward and placed her hands on his thighs, bringing her eyes level with his. “Yet there are some of my memories you have skirted, perhaps fearing to do me harm. But this is my fantasy—tonight, tis you who must submit.” Her lips curved irrepressibly. “And I who will dispense the pleasure.”
He understood then. His eyes widened; the muscles beneath her palms went granite-hard. He drew in a breath—she cut off his protest with a swift, sure kiss. His hands rose, but before he could hold her, she whispered, “Nay! Be still. You must do as I ask,” even as her quick fingers found him.
Her eyes met his; she watched desire claim him as her fingers wrapped about his staff, then she sank to her knees before him.
“Nay—Eloise…”
“Hush!” He was already well-risen; as she took him between her palms, he swelled even more. She had touched him often, yet she had not before had a chance to examine him. She did so now, boldly viewing him, then gently caressing the broad dome as she pushed the soft folds of his braies aside.
“Eloise…you do not have to do this.”
His words were weak, breathless. Helpless.
She smiled. “I know. Tis my wish.”
It was. She had never before imagined that she might enjoy pleasuring a man so; she’d hated, deeply loathed and abhorred, every minute Raoul had forced her to spend thus. But Raoul was long dead, and the idea of lavishing such pleasure on her lion was too deeply tempting to resist.
She glanced up through her lashes; he was watching her from beneath heavy lids, lips parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His fists were clenched hard on his thighs. Deliberately, while he watched, she ran her tongue over her lips, then blew, gently, softly, upon his broad head.
He bit back a groan and closed his eyes. His muscles locked tight. In his face, the angular harshness of grim endurance warred with the slackness of passion. Currently, grim endurance was winning.
She grinned—and tipped the scales. Slowly, savoring the salty taste of him, she ran the tip of her tongue around the rim of his shaft. An involuntary shudder racked him; muscles flexed, then were stilled. She smiled. And, with great deliberation, took him into her mouth.
For an instant, Alaun thought he had died—his eyes flew open but he couldn’t see. He closed them again; his faculties had disintegrated, overwhelmed, overthrown. He could sense nothing, knew nothing beyond the warm wetness that engulfed him. She drew him deep, then deeper still. He heard a groan and knew it was his. Against his will, he felt his body shift, not pulling away but to give her better access.
But there was worse to come. Within minutes, he was cursing de Cannar. The blackguard had obviously been a connoisseur—he’d taught her well. Never, not even from Marie, had he received such exquisite service. With each luscious lick, each soft yet powerful suck, she drew him deeper into her web.
He groaned again. Beyond his control, one hand reached for her; his fingers stroked up her nape, then tangled in her braids. She took him deeply again; he felt his body tighten. His fingers firmed about her head.
His next groan was one of abject surrender.
Eloise chuckled, the sound trapped deep in her throat. Slowly, she pulled back and released him, more to get her breath than anything else.
Alaun’s brain was reeling, worse than if someone had taken a mace to his head. Despite his orders, his body wouldn’t move. He looked down. “Nay, lady.” His voice was hoarse. Her fingers, curled around the base of his staff, were gently stroking. “Tis enough.”
“Nay, lord.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Tis just the beginning.” Her dark, infinitely mysterious eyes, sirenlike, more dangerously feminine than any he’d ever seen, held his steadily. “You have most of an hour yet to go.”
Before he could stop her, she drew her tongue upward in a long, slow lick. He shuddered.
“Your pleasure is mine to bestow, lord.”
Another witchy smile was followed by another long lick. He could hardly find breath enough to groan. “Eloise…?”
“Nay, lord. Be still.”
There was a hint of reproof in her tone. Dazed, he looked down at her bent head. His fingers, tangled in her braids, firmed involuntarily as she again drew him into the warm cavern of her mouth.
He had thought she was jesting—that there could not be anything she could do that could better what she’d already done. Nor that she could draw out the process for anything more than ten minutes.
On both counts, he’d underestimated her skill.
His head tipped back, his other hand joining the first, his fingers tangling in her hair, he was forced to yield to her will. She took him deep into her hot wetness and he lost touch with reality. He struggled for breath and lost that fight, too. His mind wandered, disengaged, cut free by the pleasure she so skillfully pressed on him.
One remnant of lucidity reminded him that ladies did not behave thus. Lady-witches, apparently, were another matter.
He knew that was true when a deep moan was ripped from him. Any doubt that her heart was not in this had flown; she was enjoying it, enjoying having him at her mercy, totally in her control. Again and again, she exercised her power, driving him mindless.
To the very edge of existence.
He hauled in a desperate breath as she artfully toyed with the sacks beneath his painfully rigid staff. He felt them tighten, his whole body slowly coiling.
Calling on his last remaining shred of will, he abruptly leaned forward; grabbing her about her waist, he hefted her up.
Eloise barely had time to release him before she was suspended above him. His lips found hers in a kiss so intense, her fingers were curling even as she reached for his shoulders.
Alaun brought his thighs between her knees, then spread them wide as he lowered her. For an instant, he held her poised just above him, searching for her entrance before, her heat and welcoming warmth pouring over him, he let her slowly down.
As his throbbing staff sank into her, he let out a long, slow breath.
Wrung out, but, by the saints’ grace, once more in control, he slumped back, eyes closed, jaw clenched. Without conscious direction, his hands pressed aside her chemise and cupped her full breasts.
Stunned—by her change in position, by the feel of his hot strength unexpectedly buried inside her, by the sudden swelling of her breasts as his hands firmed about them—Eloise gasped. “Lord?” Instinctively, her hands
rose to his.
He cracked open his lids; his lips curved as he took in her expression. He rotated his thumbs over her nipples, and winced when she reflexively tightened about him. “You know how to ride.” His voice was hoarse. Briefly, he undulated beneath her. “Pretend I’m your stallion.”
She looked down. His chair was not high; although her legs were spread on either side of his hips, her feet still reached the grass. Laying her palms on his chest, she eased upward—and smiled.
Sinking back, she widened her eyes at the resulting sensations. She rose and sank down again, closing her eyes as delight coursed through her.
She wasn’t, she decided, going to protest. She would start at a trot, then progress to a canter. The gallop would be most interesting.
It was.
When she finally collapsed against his chest and felt him climax deep inside her, she made an exhausted mental note to pleasure him more often. It was delicious beyond anything she’d dreamed.
That was Alaun’s conclusion, too, when, many minutes later, his mind returned, and with it some degree of awareness. It was late; the candle was guttering. And his lady-witch was sunk in deep oblivion on his chest.
Her hour was over.
Holding her to him, he reached back, tugged the silk scarf loose, and stood. She didn’t stir. He brushed a kiss across her temple, then, his smile triumphant, he carried her to his bed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Her father had called Montisfryn Castle a stronghold. When, two days later, Eloise set eyes on the massive sandstone pile, she realized her sire had, as usual, been indulging in understatement.
Built on a rocky outcrop overlooking a briskly racing river, the castle towered over valley and town, shadowing the fields. The morning sun gilded the staggered battlements of curtain walls and keep. As she watched, Montisfryn’s personal banner was hoisted aloft, the wind catching and unfurling it to snap in joyous welcome.
She glanced to her right; he rode beside her, alert and intent, his eyes scanning, assessing.
The castle stood on the opposite side of the river; they half-circled it to cross by a bridge, the clattering of hooves thrown back by the soaring walls.
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