Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  Shrugging, Elspeth turned to gauge the effect of her words. “Then again, I imagine such women are content enough to be used anyhow, for it shows their master still has need of them. Tis undoubtedly so, think you not?”

  “Mistress Elspeth!” Martha Martin had only just succeeded in catching her breath, so her scandalized accents lacked the force of her feelings. Round-eyed, the stout, tallish woman stared at her charge as if Elspeth had just sprouted horns and a tail.

  Elspeth smiled, superciliously condescending. “Nay, mistress, tis the way of the world.” She dismissed her crudity with a wave. “I know well how my life is to be. Fear not—I like the scenario well enough.” Folding her arms beneath her small breasts, she leaned again on the battlements and surveyed the fields. “I will enjoy being mistress of all this.”

  “What nonsense is this, Elspeth?” Martha Martin regarded her charge with mounting horror.

  “Tis not nonsense at all, Martha—I tell you true.” Elspeth crooned her words into the wind. “I’m to be Montisfryn’s wife—we were betrothed long ago, when I was but a babe. Naturally, we couldn’t be married ere now, for I was first too young, and then he was summoned to France. Now he’s returned and we’ll be married soon. He’s ordered a dowager’s chair for the hall, did you know?”

  Martha Martin’s mind reeled. She had told them, warned them, to watch their words in front of the little witch, but Sir Howell and his lady had grown so accustomed to overlooking Elspeth, to acting, indeed, as if she wasn’t really there, that they had waved away her concern. Here was the result.

  Sir Howell and Lady Davarost had been frank in explaining their links with the Montisfryn household when they had hired Martha to watch Elspeth some weeks before. Martha had performed a like service for others, and was aware of the possible dangers; she had suspected Elspeth of eavesdropping at the time. Lady Davarost had mentioned the suggestion that had been made at Elspeth’s birth; it was nothing unusual for a young nobleman to be betrothed to his mother’s goddaughter. But, as Martha had understood it, the matter had never progressed beyond a suggestion—Elspeth’s oddity had become apparent at an early age.

  But trying to convince Elspeth, such as she was, that there was no betrothal would be so much wasted effort. Martha knew that well enough. Saints alive, what now?

  Drawing breath, she focused on her charge, only to discover that Elspeth had turned and was watching her intently.

  “Do you fear I’ll make trouble over Lady de Cannar?” Elspeth didn’t wait for an answer. “How little you know me, Martha. Why, I’m delighted Montisfryn has shown so much understanding of my wishes that he’s thought to provide us with such an excellent chatelaine. She is excellent, is she not?”

  “Aye. But—”

  “And you must admit, he’s been particularly clever in finding one who will also warm his bed. I can only be grateful that he’s realized that I will not be willing to do so.”

  Martha choked.

  Elspeth grimaced. “I suppose I will have to do it sometime, to provide him with his heir.” She waved dismissively. “But that can wait for later. For now, I’m perfectly willing for Lady de Cannar to continue to meet his needs.”

  “Elspeth, Lady de Cannar is not Montisfryn’s mistress. Please do not even make reference to such an idea.”

  Elspeth’s lip curled scornfully. “Think you I know not what goes on in his chamber of nights? Why, the room verily reeks of their lust every morn.”

  Martha briefly closed her eyes.

  Elspeth’s eyes grew smaller, brighter. She chuckled, a cunning expression stealing over her pale face. “They think I don’t know of such things, don’t they? They think I’m a mindless ninny in that regard. But I know all about it—more than you, I warrant.”

  Refocusing on Martha, Elspeth smiled, inviting her to acknowledge her cleverness. “I sneak out at night to the stables, early enough to be before them. Tis remarkable how many of my father’s grooms use the loft for their trysts. Tis easy to watch in the moonlight.” Her gaze sharpened, glowing with a feverish intensity, while her lips fell slack. “I’ve seen it all—from the back, from the front, standing up, lying down. Did you know one of the maids uses her mouth?”

  When Martha goggled, Elspeth assured her, “Tis true.” She nodded, clearly recalling the event. “Tis a most amazing sight. And then there’s the other way, too. One of the grooms tells all the wenches that tis best that way so they won’t swell with his seed.” She cast a sly glance at her stunned companion.

  Blanking her expression, Martha struggled to get a grip on the situation. She had suspected her charge of some degree of voyeurism, had, indeed, suspected Elspeth was far more active in many ways than anyone supposed, but nothing had prepared her for this.

  Elated by her companion’s astonishment, a natural response to so much cleverness and knowledge revealed all at once, Elspeth glowed. Slipping an arm through Martha’s, she turned the unresisting woman toward the stairs, leaning close to say, “I learned all about couplings in the hayloft, Martha. I’ve been watching for years.” Elspeth smiled, smugly superior. “Perhaps you should come with me next time?”

  Martha closed her eyes and shuddered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Tis bitter, tis true.” Taking another sip of the alewife’s suspect brew, Eloise wrinkled her nose. “Yet tis strong enough. Mark the barrel for use late on a feast day—twill easily pass muster then.”

  “Aye, lady.” Relieved, the alewife grinned. “After the second barrel, they never knows what they be supping, anyhow.”

  Smiling, Eloise nodded, then, senses suddenly quivering, she turned as a large shadow blocked the light.

  Montisfryn stood framed in the doorway, his gaze on the alewife. “Leave us.”

  The woman bobbed and scurried past him; shooting a quick grin at Eloise, she tugged the door closed behind her.

  Halfway across the room, Alaun paused, engulfed in unexpected gloom. Two small windows set high in the buttery’s stone walls threw shafts of weak light across the earthen floor. Eyes adjusting, he strode on to halt before Eloise.

  Looking down at her face, aglow with welcome, his own softened; he grimaced. “A messenger has arrived, lady. Sir Kendrick, who you know, has struck a problem in repossessing his lands which lie on my northern boundaries. He’s asked for my support—I must go to his aid.”

  Her smile didn’t waver, but the glow dimmed. “Will you be gone long?”

  “Twill take two days to settle Sir Kendrick’s business, but having ridden thus far, I should take the opportunity to call on my other vassals in the area before winter sets in.”

  “Aye.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Tis the wisest course.”

  “I will be gone at least three days, likely more.” Raising a hand, he cradled her cheek.

  She turned her head and pressed her lips to his palm. “I will await your return, lord.”

  The invitation in her dark eyes was too tempting. He lowered his head, his lips hungry for hers.

  Only too ready to meet his need, Eloise pressed herself to him, her arms stealing about his neck, eager to farewell him as a loving wife should.

  With a groan, he broke from the increasingly ardent embrace. Feathering kisses along her jaw, he drew back. “Nay, lady. Tis enough.”

  His gruff tone contradicted his words.

  “Nay, lord.” With her own supple strength, she drew him back. “I want you.” She took his lips again, and let her hands wander.

  Alaun felt his body tighten in response. He steeled himself to resist. “Lady, I have a troop mounted and waiting.”

  “They will wait.”

  “Nay, Eloise—twill take too long to go to our chamber.”

  “Then take me here. Now. I want to feel you deep inside me again before you go.”

  It had been some time since he’d last suffered her words, yet she had clearly not lost the knack. He was hard and throbbing, aching for her now. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ease back. “I would not, lady
. Tis not suitable—”

  His voice suspended; his eyes widened before his lids fell. “Saints in heaven!”

  Her fingers had slipped beneath his clothes, finding their way through the layers to his rigid staff. Long digits caressed him, nails scoring lightly, up and down, until he thought he would explode.

  Confident she’d overcome his scruples, Eloise raised a hand to his cheek. “Take me now, lord.” She kissed him again, then eased back a little, smiling knowledgeably. “Twill be quick enough.”

  On a groan, his resistance collapsed. His arms crushed her to him as he bent his head, his lips tracing the curve of her throat down to the throbbing pulse at its base. “I would not hurt you, lady.”

  “Nay, you will not.” Eyes closed, she arched her neck to give him better access. “You have taken me quick before, if you recall. On the river bank.”

  Alaun recalled—very well; his hands were already tucking up her skirts. His flames flaring high, he raised his head and scanned the chamber. They were surrounded by barrels of every description, wine tuns and the massive casks in which the castle’s ale was brewed. There was no suitable surface on which to lay her; the barrels that were high enough had too great a girth.

  There was no possibility of turning back—she’d set his fires too well. He groaned. “Lady, I would have you remember this was your idea.”

  “Aye, lord—I take full responsibility.” Her teasing smile suggested she did so very gladly.

  He lifted her. For a moment, he held her, her softness poised above his hardness; she gazed down into his eyes as she wrapped her long legs about his hips. He lowered her slowly, impaling her inch by slow inch.

  Lids falling in time with her descent, Eloise felt him surge the last fraction to embed himself inside her. She couldn’t breathe. Her body quivered, straining, muscles paralyzed by a need she could neither suppress nor assuage. On a half-sob, she buried her face in his shoulder and clung. He lifted her, then eased her back, setting a rhythm that accelerated rapidly.

  Reassured by the slickness of her heated sheath, Alaun loosed his reins and let his body have its way. She gave herself completely and he took all she had to give, sinking deep into her luxurious softness, feeling her cling, muscles tightening, then easing as she loved him. Slender and supple in his arms, she gasped and trembled as the tempo rose.

  Engrossed in the swelling symphony, Eloise didn’t realize he had walked to the wall until she felt its hardness at her back. Hands gripping his shoulders, fingers biting deep, she raised her head and braced her heated body against the cool stone. Each powerful thrust rocked her; she gasped his name as she felt the tension rising. Then his lips were on hers, his tongue surging against hers, plunging deeply in time with his body.

  They burst through the wall of flames simultaneously, flying high, propelled by purest passion. They clung together as sensation peaked, senses engulfed, no reality beyond their fusion.

  Then all was silent.

  Breaths mingling as they struggled for air, their gazes locked, gold drowning in the dark.

  The tide slowly ebbed, leaving them sated and whole.

  Sharing gentle, slightly sheepish kisses, they disengaged, fumbling as they readjusted their clothing until they were once more lord and lady.

  Roland was watching when they finally emerged into the light of day. Seated atop his palfrey, he had whiled away the time since the alewife had left in a discussion with Sir Humphrey, Montisfryn’s castellan, also one of the party. Neither he nor Sir Humphrey, nor any of the twenty men-at-arms arrayed at their backs, had the slightest doubt over what had transpired behind the buttery door. Such was the privilege of command.

  With amused tolerance, Roland stretched and stifled a yawn. And wondered, not for the first time, how long it would be before his cousin and the lady were wed. The whole castle—nay, the entire estate—was waiting for the word. Watching as the pair strolled into the sunlight, eyes only for each other, their garments peculiarly precise, he couldn’t believe the celebrations would long be delayed.

  Alaun paused in a patch of sunlight to look down at the woman by his side. “Take care while I am absent, lady.”

  It was an order—she knew it. She smiled at his frown. “Aye, lord. I will.” Then her glance turned mischievous. “But I doubt not that you have left me well-guarded.”

  “Rovogatti does not go with me. If you need to go beyond the inner bailey, he is yours to command.” He hesitated, then added, “Watch for my return, lady.”

  “I will. Every day.” Her eyes met his, saying far more. Then she raised her chin. “Fare you well, lord.”

  His eyes scanned her face, touched her eyes for one last moment, then he turned away.

  Eloise watched as he crossed the courtyard, pulling on his riding gloves before swinging up to Gabriel’s back. Taking up his reins, he spoke a word of command and wheeled; the walls rang with the echo of steel-shod hooves as he and his troop rode out.

  *

  Two days later, Eloise was sitting with Lanella; Maud had taken the opportunity to go for a walk. Both Eloise and her prospective stepmother-in-law were embroidering; Eloise could not comprehend how, with her hands half-paralyzed, Lanella yet managed to turn out such exquisite work.

  “Habit,” Lanella had replied when asked.

  Today, however, Eloise had persuaded Lanella to tell her own story. Lanella had commenced with her girlhood on her father’s manor near Gloucester, and progressed by easy stages to her marriage.

  “Aye, we were happy,” she admitted. “Very happy.” For a moment, she seemed sunk in pleasant memories; after a quick glance, Eloise didn’t intrude. Then Lanella sighed, a soft smile on her lips. “Indeed, it took some time before I realized exactly how happy.”

  Eloise frowned. She snipped off a thread. “What mean you by that?”

  Still smiling, Lanella scooped up her needle. “You must remember I was very young when we married, and I was Edmund’s second wife. I assumed he had married me for my dowry, and to provide a mother for Alaun.” Her smile grew misty. “It took me years to realize that Edmund’s reticence, and his overly smothering care of me, were not, as I’d mistakenly thought, the attitudes of a man toward a young bride he regarded as a daughter.” She chuckled. “I can still remember how bewildered I was at his anger—nay, fury—the day I rode out with only five men as escort.”

  Eloise stilled, her needle frozen in midair. “He was angry?”

  “Oh, not just angry.” Her eyes on her work, Lanella’s smile grew broad. “Quite beside himself. Ranting, raving—it made no sense at all. I had only ridden down to the market.”

  Eloise blinked, then frowned at her stitching. “The incident had a greater significance?”

  “Much greater, although I did not know it at the time.” Lanella reached for the shears. “It took me years to break down his resistance, and it wasn’t as if I was not warming his bed nightly, either.”

  She smiled wryly. “I daresay they are all the same, these poor men of ours. They are trained to regard any soft emotion as a danger, a vulnerability they must hide at all costs. When love comes upon them, they cannot admit it, nor put it into words. Tis to their actions we women must look—tis forever how they give themselves away.”

  Staring blankly at her work, Eloise made no answer.

  Lanella sighed. “Twas ever so, right to the end. If I was not precisely where Edmund expected me to be within his carefully orchestrated protection, twould be the devil and more to pay. But twas love that made him so—once I realized, I could hardly resent it.”

  When Lanella fell silent, Eloise made no move to prompt her. Together they sat, haloed by weak sunshine, fingers busy, both absorbed with thoughts of love.

  *

  On the morning of her fourth lordless day, Eloise strode the battlements of the keep, briskly impatient. Her gaze raked the pale ribbons of the roads to the north, but discovered no sign of horsemen riding in. The day was overcast; the wind tugged at her braids and snapped the pennon on
the flagpole high above.

  With a humph, she stopped at one corner, tucking a wayward wisp of hair beneath her crespine. Her mood was not improved by her tiredness; she had had but little sleep over the past three nights. For some mysterious reason, succumbing to slumber without a certain large male body sprawled beside her was now exceedingly difficult.

  She was perfectly certain he would not have been similarly afflicted.

  Grimacing, she leaned against the battlements and looked out. She hoped he would come today. Aside from anything else, her courses were due—any day, although, as was her habit, she hadn’t kept track; the womanly curse made itself known without her needing to remember it. By her vague calculation, it was more than twenty days since they had left her father’s castle, which meant that, if Montisfryn didn’t arrive soon, she wouldn’t be able to greet him as she—and he—would wish.

  Which would certainly put a pall on their private celebrations.

  She had decided, finally and absolutely, to call him husband. Self-delusion had never been her strong suit—if she had entertained any doubt that she loved him, completely and utterly, the past four days had eradicated it.

  She had missed him—dreadfully. And now, thanks to Lanella, she had the proof she’d needed of the nature of his regard for her. She had already begun to suspect, but Lanella’s words had lifted the veil from the truth. He loved her—even if he never got the words out, she was strong enough to live with that. As Lanella had said, actions spoke louder, and more convincingly, than words.

  Now all that remained was to tell him.

  Just as soon as he got back.

  With a last darkling glance at the empty roads, she gave a muted snort, and headed for the stairs.