Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  Haughtily, she raised a brow. “Can you prove you were not in Gloucester that day?”

  The clerk’s color rose; he controlled himself with an obvious effort.

  “When I rode into their camp this afternoon, Master Driscoll and Sir Cedric were hand-in-glove, discussing means to gain entry to the convent to raid the stores. They hauled me before the walls and used threats against me to try to force Mother Maude to open the gates.” She paused to smile sweetly upon the hapless clerk. “Which is why Master Driscoll is so anxious to quit the scene, for Mother Maude can testify that he acted in amity with Sir Cedric, not as one forced.”

  “Tis not so, Your Grace.” Master Driscoll was sweating freely, but was clever enough to keep his head. “I behaved as I did only under the gravest threats. Besides”—he drew breath, visibly calming—“the guardsmen who found me can testify—I was bound in the tent. See here.” He drew one hand from his robe. “Here is the rope with which I was bound. I was not a willing conspirator.”

  Edward raised a brow, then turned to Eloise. “How say you, lady? Is it possible you’re mistaken? Tis difficult for a man to tie himself.”

  She smiled. “Perhaps, sire, if you would summon those who found him, we will have the matter clear.”

  Driscoll blanched.

  Eloise glanced up; Montisfryn stood, reassuringly large, at her shoulder. He met her gaze, then looked forward, wordlessly instructing the guardsmen about the clerk to draw closer.

  The three guardsmen who had searched the tent came quickly, saluting as they halted before Edward.

  “You found this man in the tent yonder?”

  The eldest of the three replied, “Aye, sire. He’d been tied to the tent pole.”

  “If I may, sire?” When Edward nodded his permission, Eloise asked, “When you entered, were the clerk’s hands still tied?”

  The guardsman blinked. “Nay, lady—he’d fallen from the stool having freed himself.”

  “How?”

  “Your pardon, lady?”

  She gestured to the rope Driscoll still held in his hand. “Master Driscoll has said that this is the rope with which he was tied—take it.” The guardsman did. “Now tell me how he came to free himself. Look at the ends of the rope.”

  In the fading light, the guardsman examined the rope. “Tis sawed through, lady. With a dagger, most like.”

  “Aye, tis so. Where, then, is this dagger?”

  The guardsman looked at her, then at Driscoll, then, lastly, at Edward. “Sire, there was no weapon of any kind in the tent when we entered. We searched.”

  Edward turned to Master Driscoll. “Well, Master Clerk—where is this dagger with which you freed yourself?”

  The clerk’s eyes were shifting, darting about. “I…” With jerky movements, he went through the pretense of searching his robes. His face was ashen. “You can see how I cut myself with it.” He held out his fingers. “It must have fallen somewhere, sire.”

  “Nay—the dagger that sawed that rope was seen by many.” Eloise kept her voice calm and unemotional. “Tis Master Driscoll’s, sure enough. Twas the dagger with which he intended to silence me, that Sir Cedric struck from his hand, and then held at my throat in full view of you all. Tis presently on Sir Cedric’s corpse, most like. But before he pulled me from the tent, Sir Cedric used the dagger to cut that rope from about my wrists.”

  With a dramatic gesture, she stretched out her arms; the long sleeves of her cote drew back to reveal the rope burns scoring her slim wrists.

  Even in the deepening twilight, the marks showed clear.

  With a contemptuous smile, Eloise held the clerk’s eyes. “Come, now, Master Clerk. Your skin is almost as white and delicate as mine. You say you were tied by Sir Cedric. Do not be shy—show us the proof.”

  For an instant, Driscoll looked at her as if she was a witch. Then he turned wildly—straight into the embrace of the burly guardsmen.

  “Take him away—make sure he remains alive.” Edward smiled—a gesture full of teeth. “You’re just what I need, Driscoll, to convince Parliament that I have their interests at heart.”

  “Sire!” The man sent in search of Sir Percy returned hotfoot. “Sir Percy’s unconscious, sire, but others confirm tis as the lady says—twas Driscoll recruited them.”

  “Good—that will relieve Lady de…Cannar from having to go to London. Briggs?” Edward turned to his secretary. “You heard it all, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, sire.”

  “Excellent. Write up the depositions. Then convey this felon to the Tower. In irons. Lay the whole story before the parliamentary secretaries. I’m sure they’ll have a nice charge drawn up and heard, all ready for me to pass judgment upon when I return to Westminster. See to it.”

  They had to carry Master Driscoll away.

  Edward turned to Eloise. “We are indebted to you, lady, and thank you for your courage. Twas not a little thing to speak so.”

  She held his gaze calmly. “Nay, sire. Twas my duty, and I have much experience of legal matters.”

  Edward’s lips twitched. “Indeed?”

  “And speaking of duty, sire, I would ask a boon.”

  Suspicion bloomed in Edward’s eyes. “What boon, lady?”

  Hands clasped tightly before her, she drew breath. “You spoke just now of an order to wed, sire.”

  Edward laughed. “Nay—ask it not. Your lord is before you. I cannot grant your boon without rescinding one I have already made him. Besides”—his hazel gaze sharpened—“your manner here this hour has convinced me tis as I said—you should wed. Tis to cheat my realm to have you otherwise—your proper station is at your lord’s side, keeping his castles and bearing his sons.” His glance slid to Montisfryn. “I admit tis a tall order.” Straight-faced, Edward glanced back at her. “But I expect there’ll be compensations.”

  Eloise glared at him.

  Edward pretended not to notice. With a regal wave, he dismissed them, adding as he turned away, “De Versallet and I will discuss the settlements; my clerks can draw up the necessary documents. I will expect you at supper. You will wed thereafter.”

  Incensed, she opened her mouth; Alaun clamped a hand over her lips.

  “Nay, lady. Have done.” Stony-faced, he drew her around, then forced himself to release her, retaining only a firm clasp about her elbow. His muscles were flickering, restless beneath his control; waves of emotion rippled through him, steadily eroding his will. He’d endured all he could. He started toward his pavilion, set up before the wood amidst those of the other commanders. The king’s great tent stood beside his.

  Eloise had to hurry to keep up with his stride. His grip on her elbow was too tight, but she didn’t think to complain. Now that he was touching her, she could sense the passions surging through him—and knew she would get but little chance to divert them. Little chance to avoid verifying Edward’s clear assumption—which would destroy any chance of dismissing the king’s injunction. Leaving her with no chance of convincing Montisfryn that she loved him!

  His tent loomed before her. Abruptly, she dug in her heels.

  Too late.

  Montisfryn flung aside the tent flap and swung her through the opening. He let the flap fall as he released her, leaving them enclosed in candlelit gloom.

  Quickly, she crossed to the space before the central pole. She swung about—and saw him strip off his surcote, then shrug out of his mail tunic, flinging the garments at Bilder. The squire scurried out. With a fluid movement, Montisfryn pulled off his padded gambeson; his shirt went with it.

  Then he lifted his head and his gaze transfixed her. She didn’t need better light to know what was in his eyes. Slowly, he stalked toward her.

  She swallowed. The candlelight shifted over the contours of his chest, glinting on the fine curling hairs. Instinctively, she backed. She avoided the pole, only to feel his armor chest behind her thighs.

  Eyes wide, she put out a hand. “Alaun—”

  He didn’t stop.

 
He reached for her, one hand framing her jaw, the other wrapping about her waist. He hauled her against him and his lips came down on hers.

  Fire.

  It raged through him and poured through her.

  It seared the breath from her throat, then raced hungrily through her veins. Molten passion erupted, flowing swiftly.

  Her thoughts crisped to ashes. Her lips parted under his; he stole her breath, then gave it back, hot and searing. Ruthlessly, he claimed her mouth, branding her with flame. His hand was on her breast, fingers hard about the firm mound. Protected by gown and chemise, her nipples crinkled tight; the unrelieved ache drove her wild.

  Bringing her hands up, she framed his face, and kissed him back hungrily, greedily, suddenly as desperate as he to sate their volcanic need.

  Abruptly, he pulled away, trapping her between his thighs and the chest, his fingers busy with her laces. His chest was rising and falling rapidly; boldly, she spread her fingers across it, caressing the wide muscles, the sleek contours that had always fascinated her. They shifted at her touch. He met her gaze, his own heavy-lidded, the flames roaring in his eyes. His features were hard, passion-driven. He looked down at his fingers, his lips twisting.

  She reached up and drew his lips to hers. They kissed long and deep; the caress only served to fuel their raging hunger. Then, abruptly, they were at the eye of the storm, that brief moment when they could catch their breath before the maelstrom caught them again. Dragging in a shaky breath, she laid her head against his shoulder. His lips pressed to her temple, then he rested his head against hers.

  Alaun closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of her, the rich perfume of her hair, the subtle scent of her arousal. “By the holy Virgin, I thought I’d lost you.”

  The words were little more than an agonized growl. He struggled to master her laces; he was shaking, aching, weak with need.

  “Nay—I am here. You will not lose me thus easily.” Eloise placed her hands over his and felt them quiver. She glanced up, into his flame-etched eyes. “There’s no need for this.”

  Smoothly, she took over, unlacing her gown.

  Alaun let his hands fall; he closed his eyes and dragged in a deep breath, struggling to hold back the tide. “Nay,” he replied. “There is—need and more.” He opened his eyes, and knew they were blazing. “I love you, lady.” He shook as he said the words. “And I cannot bear it when you are not safe within my care.”

  Eloise’s hands stilled. She looked up—and felt like she was falling through some trackless void. His gaze, golden and burning, held her. “What did you say?”

  Her question was weak—lips twisting, he brushed it aside along with her hands. Her bodice was open to her waist; he pushed the halves wide. “Nay—I have no gift for sweet phrases. Let me show you.”

  “Don’t—” She was too late to stop him ripping her chemise. She resigned herself to going to her wedding naked beneath her gown. Then his hands were on her flesh, urgent and demanding. Her lids fell as she leaned back, her hands dropping to rest on the chest behind her as, an ageless smile on her lips, she offered herself to him.

  He gorged himself on her bounty, and they were back in the flames once more. The fire raged and took them; they welcomed it. Their lips met again, urgency building, coursing through them.

  A cough came from beyond the tent flap.

  “Lord?”

  His heart thudding in his ears, in his veins, in his brain, Alaun lifted his head in disbelief. His eyes met Eloise’s—she looked as dazed as he felt. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Aye?”

  Bilder’s voice reached them, hesitant but clear. “The king sent to say as he was waiting on your presence.”

  Beneath his breath, Alaun swore, then called, “Aye—my compliments to His Grace. We’ll join him in a moment.” With a smothered groan, he dropped his forehead to Eloise’s.

  Only to hear her curse the king and her father in terms she must have learned from her brothers—she’d certainly never heard them from him. He lifted his head to look at her.

  Eloise saw his surprise—and groaned herself. “You don’t understand. Tis what drove me from Montisfryn.” She dropped her head against his shoulder and tightened her arms about him.

  “Edward and your father?”

  She nodded. She was heated—so was he; she could feel him, rigid and throbbing, against her stomach.

  “That much I’d gathered.” He pushed back a wisp of her hair. “What I have yet to hear is the reason behind your flight.”

  She sighed. “Nay—tis no great matter now. They’ve spoiled it—and I will never forgive them.” The last was a vow.

  For a long moment, Alaun just held her, trying to ease the empty ache inside him, then he sighed and touched his lips to her temple. “Nay—if it truly bothers you to marry me, I will speak to Edward. With his permission, we can wait yet awhile.”

  She looked up, frowning as her eyes searched his. Then she grimaced. “Nay—that is not it.” She cast him a disgruntled look. “Tis that I wished to tell you myself—without being ‘forced’ to it—that I would gladly call you husband.”

  For an instant, he held her gaze, then he closed his eyes and drew her hard against him. “Tell me anyway,” he commanded.

  Eloise responded—to his deep growl and the feel of him hard against her. She twined her arms about his neck and stretched up to touch her lips to his. “That I love you—husband?” She felt him quiver. “I will say it as many times as you like, but will you believe me?”

  He opened his eyes and frowned at her. “Why would I not?”

  She grimaced. “Nay—you will never be certain that I’m not simply making the best of the situation.”

  She felt the beginnings of his laugh before she heard it. Incredulous, she stared at him, then tried to pull back. His arms tightened about her.

  “Nay, lady-witch.” He smiled down at her, delighted, leonine assurance in every line. “I’ve known for an age that you love me.”

  She frowned. “Nay—you are merely saying so, so that I will not be so difficult.”

  Grinning, he shook his head. “I have known at least since Hereford.”

  “Hereford?” She searched her memories. “Nay—I said nothing.”

  “Not in words, but your actions, believe me, were explicit enough.”

  She blushed.

  Alaun laughed and crushed her to him. He found her lips with his, claiming his right, staking his possession. His hand rose to cup her breast; the crest was already tightly ruched even before he drew his fingertips across it.

  They were both breathing raggedly when he lifted his head. “Nay, lady—you have given yourself to me again and again—think you I knew not what you offered—what I gladly took?” He searched her eyes. “Yet I did not know if your love was yet strong enough to allow you to call me husband.”

  She looked long into his eyes, her own glowing darkly. “My love for you is vast, unending—all-powerful.”

  Silence held, then, slowly, he bent and touched his lips to hers. “As mine for you is infinite, unchartered.” Drawing back, he grimaced. “And stronger than I sometimes like.”

  Her smile brimmed with triumph. “Twill be pleasant to spend a lifetime charting our passions.”

  “Aye.” He shifted against her. “And exploring them.”

  Eyes radiant with love met his. For a long moment, he luxuriated in the dark depths, in the glow that warmed him to his bones, then she smiled her witchy, ageless smile and drew him back. He kissed her long and deep; she moved against him, seeking, giving. Offering. He couldn’t resist—he took. And their fire roared again.

  The effort required to lift his head, to break their kiss, left him dizzy.

  Their eyes met. They were both breathing rapidly. Their bodies, pressed intimately together, told their own tale.

  Eloise licked her throbbing lips. “Edward is waiting.”

  “Aye.”

  She focused on his lips, strong and firm—an
d remembered what they felt like upon her. The emptiness inside was a physical ache. She could feel him against her, could feel the urgent compulsion building between them. Again she licked her lips. “There’s no time to get undressed.”

  His lips curved.

  She forced her gaze upward. His eyes burned bright, a constellation of suns.

  Alaun looked down—at her face, at the passion, fully-flowered, in her eyes. “Lady, do you love me?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “Then turn around.”

  Without hesitation, she did.

  *

  In the king’s tent but yards away, Henry de Versallet sat musing at the board. The supper dishes were spread before him, cooling. In a chair to his right, Edward, King of England, sat waiting.

  Carefully hiding his smile, Henry reached for his wine cup.

  Without warning, a low moan shivered through the night.

  Startled, he and Edward exchanged glances.

  A second moan, softer, sobbing, fell on their ears.

  After that, he and Edward exchanged no more glances.

  Ten minutes later, Montisfryn escorted Eloise into the circle of candlelight, his expression that of a lion who had feasted well. As for Eloise, her features were soft, her skin still flushed, her dark eyes aglow. She was smiling—and leaning heavily on Montisfryn’s arm.

  After one raking glance, Edward shifted uncomfortably and waved them to their seats.

  Awash with sated pleasure, Eloise paid scant attention to the talk about her. Supper dishes came and went; she partook of them absentmindedly. She heard Montisfryn and her father discussing the settlements; she murmured an assent when asked. To her surprise, her father suggested their marriage be formalized on the morrow in the chapel at Claerwhen.

  Blinking, Eloise brought Henry into focus where he sat opposite her. She heard Montisfryn support the notion—Edward humphed and agreed. Eloise’s gaze met her father’s; she gifted him with a brilliant smile.

  Henry’s eyes misted over. Hiding behind his goblet, he silently invited his Elaine to witness his achievement, and give them her blessing.

  The supper party was not prolonged. As Montisfryn raised her, Eloise heard Edward make some pointed comment, something about waywardness and its rightful reward. The allusion escaped her. She smiled serenely as she made her obeisance.