Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  “What about supper?” she murmured, conscious of a conflict in her roles.

  “Nay, lady-mine.” His golden eyes met hers. “I would forgo it in favor of having my fill of you.”

  Moving with his customary slowness, he lay beside her, placing one finger across her lips when she would have spoken further. “Nay, lady-witch. No more words. I would love you without distraction.”

  He did, hands, lips, and body moving in orchestrated worship as he surrounded her with his love. Each caress was slow, deliberate, an act of devotion, every touch designed to heighten their mutual pleasure. Their progress down the longest road they’d yet taken to fulfillment was smooth, formal, ceremonial, each phase stretching and blending into the next, the transitions undetectable, the mileposts marked only with sighs or muted gasps.

  Never had he loved her so deeply, so completely, without any vestige of restraint. And he demanded the same depth, the same intensity from her. She gave it without reservation.

  When they finally joined, she could neither see nor hear, speak nor think, and she knew he was the same. Their hearts beat as one as they moved in concert, in perfect harmony, alive to the symphony of their senses, trapped within them.

  The sunburst that claimed them was greater than any before. Cataclysmic, formed of their fire, nothing could withstand its heat. Willingly they gave themselves up to its flames; it melted them, fused them, then forged from their souls an entity greater than either, born of their love, tempered by their passion.

  The furnace slowly cooled; they drifted back to earth, subtly altered, never to be the same, more completely one than even their conscious minds could know.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sated, replete, Alaun slept dreamlessly. Asprawl beside the woman who was his wife in all but legal fact, his contentment lay heavy upon him. So sunk was he in oblivion that, when the presentiment of dawn beckoned him to wakefulness, for once his mind refused it heed.

  Dawn broke; the castle rose. Still he slept on.

  Eventually, the strident sounds percolating through the shutters penetrated his slumber, prodding him toward consciousness. His mind responded, but reluctantly, sluggishly.

  His body was another matter.

  The soft curves pressed to his side were instantly recognizable. Dulled and distant, his wits were still wrapped in the fogs of sleep when he shifted, setting his chest to the warmth of her back, pressing his loins, already aching, to the smooth globes of her bottom.

  She murmured sleepily and stretched her long legs. He trapped them with his, moving instinctively, conscious thought yet beyond him. She was lying on her side; he pressed his knee between hers, anchoring her lower leg.

  Coming up on his elbow, he muzzled the soft skin beneath her ear as his hand pushed over the sweet curve of her waist, then rose to capture her breast. The ripe flesh filled his palm, swelling at his touch. His fingers sought and found the peak, caressing it to marble hardness. That done, his hand drifted downward; he trailed kisses over the sensitive hollow between shoulder and throat, then, with his teeth, he grazed the taut line of her neck as his knee nudged her upper leg higher, opening her to his touch.

  The clouds about his mind thinned as his fingers delved, seeking her response. When her honey flowed freely, slick on his fingers, he held her pouting lips wide and, almost shuddering with relief, sheathed his throbbing staff in her softness.

  And woke up.

  His eyes flew wide as he realized what he’d done.

  He froze, fighting the almost overpowering urge to ride her. “By the saints, lady, I am sorry.” His anguished accents made it clear he was. Appalled, he tried to draw back—only to feel her long fingers wrap about his thigh, holding him to her.

  “Nay, lord—why so? You have not hurt me.” Eloise had been awake from the instant he’d touched her—she was keen to continue. “We have never tried it this way before.”

  “But…” He sounded dazed. “You do not like it when I am behind you, Eloise.”

  “Nay, tis not so.” She smiled. “I do not fear you, and I know well who it is who beds me.”

  A half-smothered groan fell on her ears.

  “As for this position”—she wriggled her hips experimentally, feeling him rigid within her—“I have yet to form an opinion on the matter. Tis pleasurable enough thus far. Perchance, if you were to demonstrate its benefits, I would like it very well.”

  More of her words—she would kill him if she continued. Nevertheless, Alaun felt forced to say, “Lady, you do not have to do this.”

  She tried to glance back at him, but couldn’t. “Tis my pleasure to please you, lord. Know you not I would do anything you wish?”

  Anything? He discovered he wasn’t breathing and hastily rectified the omission; he was lightheaded enough as it was. Chest swelling, he hesitated, then pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Do you mean that, lady-witch?”

  “Aye.” She shifted tentatively against him. “But you will have to teach me the way of it, lord, for I know not how to be mare to your stallion.”

  He couldn’t hold back his groan. St. George forgive him—he couldn’t even think while buried inside her. “Aye.” Closing his eyes, he drew back, then surged deep. “I will teach you.” Leaning over her, he gently nipped her neck. “Twill be a most pleasurable lesson for us both.”

  He made sure it was. At first, he rode her while she lay half prone, rocking her in the curve of his loins, letting her grow accustomed to the sensation of his rigid staff passing into her from behind. He watched her carefully, sensing the rise of her passion, the slow coiling of the tension inside her. Time and again, just before the critical point, he drew back, penetrating her no more than an inch, enough to tease, but not enough to push her over the edge.

  Once she had drawn back from the precipice, he sank into her again, her softness closing about him like a glove.

  When he hung back the fourth time, denying her release, Eloise had had enough. Sinking her nails into his thigh for emphasis, she protested. “Nay, lord—I want you deep. Now.”

  His lips nuzzled her nape.

  “If you truly want me deep, lady-witch, you will have to lift your pretty arse.”

  “How?” The word was a demand, not a question.

  Without withdrawing from her, Alaun drew her to her knees. After a moment’s discussion, she elected to rest her elbows on the sheets, declaring the angle more comfortable. He didn’t argue, knowing she would thus be better braced against him. Curling his hands about her hips, he anchored her before him. His knees inside hers, he drew back.

  His first deeply probing thrust elicited a satisfying moan. Soon, she was sobbing in helpless delight, her breath expelled in sharp little gasps as, again and again, he withdrew and thrust deeply, nudging her womb. The head of his staff pressed against her inner portal; he closed his eyes, lost in the wonder of her.

  Passion held them so tightly, neither heard the door latch lift.

  Beyond the bed curtains, weak sunshine streamed in, lighting the room. The heavy anteroom door edged noiselessly inward, revealing a slight figure.

  Eyes gleaming, Elspeth took in the fully curtained bed, rocking slightly, then she quickly entered and closed the door. On silent feet, she approached the foot of the bed. With nimble fingers, she sought the gap between the curtains, then applied her wide, pale eye to the slit.

  Lips parted, excitement mounting, Elspeth looked upon the scene within. Licking her lips, she devoured the naked back before her, all rippling muscles and straining sinews, tight with lust and passion. His buttocks flexed as he thrust deeply into the woman kneeling before him.

  Elspeth shivered. It was even better than she’d imagined.

  Time and again, she had tried to catch them at it, but Mistress Martin shared her room and was a very light sleeper. Then, too, there was his grisly old squire who slept in the anteroom, and, finally, the obstacle of his stiff and horridly squeaking door. She had been stymied by that door for years, prevented from even watching him s
leep. Until now, she had only been able to examine the room when no one else was about.

  But today, the fates had smiled. The pair had slept in; his squire was in the bailey, and Mistress Martin had gone to speak with Elspeth’s father. And the lady herself had had the door fixed, removing the last hurdle.

  A shuddering moan fell on Elspeth’s ears and she sucked in a breath. Her slack lips worked; her eyes glowed feverishly. Very well did she remember the looks on her father’s maids’ faces as that one particular groom had used them. As Montisfryn was apparently using his chatelaine. Twould give Elspeth great satisfaction to see the same expression on the proud lady’s face. Another deep thrust eliciting an even more shattering moan decided her.

  Releasing the curtain, Elspeth moved silently around the bed. Carefully, she picked out the gap in the side curtains and, after a moment’s consideration, knelt down, then peeked in.

  The face she saw was blissful, eyes closed, pleasure in every line. Not the slightest hint of pain marred the lady’s flushed countenance. Shocked, Elspeth looked back—and smothered a gasp. Outrage welled as she watched how they joined. Twas wrong! Twas—

  In the instant in which she would have spoken, it all came clear in her mind. Of course, Montisfryn wouldn’t spill his seed inside his chatelaine.

  Elspeth calmed, breathing deeply. He was so large, very likely the woman had not yet stretched enough to accommodate him there, so he was using her otherwise to gain his pleasure—that was all there was to it. The lady’s pleasure was incidental; he probably wouldn’t bother to give her release, but merely gain his own.

  Reassured, Elspeth settled on her knees to watch.

  But what she saw did nothing to ease her mind.

  As he felt the end draw near, Alaun moderated the force of his thrusts; releasing Eloise’s hips, he reached forward to fondle her breasts. They filled his hands, sumptuous and swollen, the peaks hard as pebbles as he rolled his palms over them. She gasped his name on a sob of sheer pleasure. His breathing ragged, he bent to place a string of kisses along her supple spine, damp with the dew of their exertions.

  She was heated and flushed, so full of their fire that she pulsed hotly about him, threatening to scald him. Sensing her rising climax, he wrapped one arm about her hips, holding her hard against him as he picked up the pace, arching over her as he drove deep, and then more deeply still. The muscles of his thighs locked, anchoring their position. Taking his weight on one braced arm, with his other hand he sought the tight bud of her desire, hidden beneath its hood. He found it, caressed it, then trapped it between thumb and finger. Gently, he squeezed in time with his thrusts.

  She screamed his name and melted about him. Two driving thrusts brought him to where she hung, suspended, caught in the passionate web they’d spun.

  Then release swept her; her body pulsed strongly about him. Gritting his teeth, he held still, savoring each rippling caress before surrendering to the inexorable tug; in an orgy of short, pumping thrusts, he filled her with his seed.

  With a long, guttural groan, he collapsed, sweeping her knees from beneath her so that they fell together, his body sprawling protectively over hers. He kissed her nape; her fingers stroked his thigh. Closing his eyes, he let oblivion take him.

  The bed curtains fell shut.

  Elspeth rose.

  Her pale eyes opaque, she drifted from the room.

  *

  When Eloise awoke, she was alone. A slow smile lit her face; she rolled onto her back and stretched her arms high. She felt glorious! After dallying to savor her memories for one, last minute, she pushed back the covers, and the curtains, and rose.

  To find the sun already high and the morning well-advanced.

  Quickly donning chemise, cote, and hose, she went through to the garderobe. Returning to the bedchamber some minutes later, she discovered a plate bearing a cup of ale and two pieces of fresh bread placed prominently on the chest by the door. She grinned. Clearly, Alaun had remembered her when he’d broken his own fast, and had sent a maid with the plate to spare her sensibilities.

  Sipping the ale, she found it slightly sweet—not too much so, but she made a mental note to mention it to the alewife. Nibbling on the bread, she crossed to the corner where her surcotes hung. Selecting one of grass green wool, she laid it on the chest, absentmindedly supping ale and munching bread while she finished lacing her cote.

  Finally, she dragged the surcote over her head and smoothed it down, then adjusted her braids and set her fillet in place. Satisfied her appearance was all that it should be, she opened the door and headed for the hall.

  She had yet to tell Montisfryn of her decision.

  As she stepped onto the dais, the usual bustle greeted her. Maids bobbed curtsies; the two pages seated at the high table with their slates doffed their caps. The chaplain smiled at her, then turned back to his charges.

  Looking around, Eloise blinked. The hall receded, then returned. Her throat felt thick, as if from breathing smoke. Her head felt odd, too.

  Puzzled, she glanced at the maids gathered about the fire; none showed any signs of discomfort. Wondering if, perhaps, she’d been more affected by Montisfryn’s attentions than she’d realized, she cautiously headed for the entrance hall. A few minutes of fresh air would doubtless clear her head.

  The area above the steep steps was momentarily empty. Emerging into the weak sunshine, she blinked; raising a hand to shade her eyes, she struggled to lift her lids against the glare. The buttery, directly opposite, seemed a long way away. Frowning, she squinted, trying to bring it into focus.

  Down on the cobbles some yards from the steps, Alaun was speaking to two of his sergeants when both men looked up, their gazes going beyond him, their expressions blanking in surprise. He glanced back—and saw Eloise weaving on her feet at the top of the steep stone steps.

  In that instant, she turned and saw him.

  Eloise smiled and raised her hand—at least, she thought she did. Her limbs didn’t seem to be responding as they should; leaden, listless, they dragged her down, making her peculiarly clumsy. Even more puzzling was Montisfryn’s expression; he was looking at her with concern, even fear, in his face. Then, with an oath even she could hear, he started toward her.

  She realized, then, that there must be something behind her. Some danger. She wanted to turn around and see, but she couldn’t get her feet to move. She looked down to see if there was some obstruction to account for it, and felt herself lurch crazily.

  Frightened, she hauled herself upright. Her breath stuck in her throat. Eyes wide, she stared down at Montisfryn. He’d reached the bottom of the steps.

  She blinked; gray clouds obscured her vision. She blinked again, and the clouds turned black. A roaring grew, filling her ears.

  Alaun caught Eloise as she fell, a virulent oath on his lips as he hoisted her up and swung away from the precipitous steps. “Edmund!” With that bellow, he plunged into the hall, striding through, leaving confusion in his wake, spreading it before him.

  He stopped by the fire, intending to ease Eloise onto one of the hurriedly vacated benches. Only then did he realize just how deep was her faint. She lay limp, lifeless in his arms. With a curse, he turned toward the stairs.

  Roland appeared by his elbow. “What?”

  “She fainted.” Alaun paused, mind racing. “Get Meg.”

  “At once.” Clapping him on the shoulder, Roland signaled the two pages, frozen, round-eyed, over their slates.

  Alaun started toward the stairs. Bilder popped up, took one look at his burden, and raced up ahead of him. Jenni, summoned from the workrooms, hurried up behind, fretting already.

  Bilder propped the doors wide; Alaun strode straight to the bed, so recently the setting for their intimacy. He waited while Jenni and Bilder, both pale but composed, drew back the heavy curtains and straightened the sheets. While they did, he looked down at Eloise’s face, examining it closely. It told him nothing. Her lids remained down, sealing her away.

  Dear
God—what had happened?

  When Bilder and Jenni drew back, he stepped to the bed and gently lowered Eloise, laying her straight, her arms at her sides. With hands that shook, he removed her fillet, releasing her braids.

  He stood back.

  It was an effort to draw breath, to expand his chest against the iron band that had clamped about it. Bilder glanced at him, then motioned to the robin; together, they slipped out.

  There was a bustle in the anteroom and Roland appeared, Lanella in his arms. “Meg’s on her way.”

  “What happened?” Lanella demanded as Roland set her down in the chair.

  “She…seemed to faint.” Closing his eyes, Alaun pressed a fist to his forehead. “I caught her just before she fell down the keep steps.”

  “But why did she faint?” Lanella’s eyes were filled with worry.

  He shook his head.

  “Put me down, you great oaf!”

  Alaun turned as Meg made her entrance cradled in a hulking archer’s arms. The man deposited her carefully on her feet, and got a swipe about his ear for his pains.

  “You put me down when I tells you, do you hear? I can still walk—I’m not that old yet.”

  Alaun bit down on his ire. “Meg, my lady has fainted. I would have you see to her.”

  Meg’s eyes blinked wide. “Her? But she’s as healthy as a horse.”

  His face hard, expressionless, Alaun waved Meg to the bed.

  Meg went, slowly, as if she couldn’t quite believe the reality of the slim figure laid out on the sheets. She drew near the side of the bed and reached out a gnarled hand to touch Eloise’s cheek. Meg blinked, her old eyes widening even more. Her hand lingered, as if she was reluctant to believe what her senses were telling her, then she shifted her fingers to the slim column of Eloise’s throat.

  Her habitual rumbustiousness flown, Meg glanced at Lanella. “If you would, lady, I would have your opinion, too.”

  Subdued, Lanella summoned Roland to her aid. He carried her to the bed, and set her beside Eloise’s still form.

  “Just touch her face and hands, lady.”