The Duke's hands cupped her breasts but she quickly slapped them away. "You are beautiful, Isabeau, and should be taken to bed by a man who knows how to please a woman."
"You desire me so much that you would jeopardize my soul?" she demanded angrily as she pulled away from him and stood on weak legs. "I am neither your wife nor your mistress...."
"At least, not yet," he said with a smirk.
Her brows furrowed. "What do you mean by those words?"
The Duke stood to his full height, towering over her like a giant. "I will have you in my bed, Isabeau, make no mistake. Tonight was just a taste of what is to come."
The words, meant to threaten and frighten her into submitting, only made her angrier. "I think not, my lord. If it is satisfaction you seek, spend it on a servant. You will get nothing from me."
He stepped forward, backing her against the wall. Both of his scented hands flew to either side of her face, holding her captive. "Aye, I will gain a lot from you, Isabeau, including children. Now, how long do you wish to play this game?"
In order to hide her fright, she allowed her laughter to ring through her voice. "Ha! As if I would have your children."
"You will," he announced as one hand trailed down to her belly. "My son will rest here soon," the Duke promised as a bare knuckle stroked her clenched stomach. "You have my promise."
"You think too highly of yourself, my lord. Now, if you will excuse me...."
His hand slammed on the wall next to her face, forcing her to halt and look at him. "I will not let you go until I have had one more thing."
She was incredulous. "What is that?"
"This."
With a forward motion, the Duke’s lips reclaimed hers in a flurry of passion. His tongue danced with a feather light touch on the outer edges of her mouth and begged for entry. Finding herself hungering for the passion flowing from him, Isabeau parted her lips and allowed him to explore the cavernous regions of her mouth. Dreamily, her arms wrapped slowly around his corded neck, holding on tightly. Slender fingers tangled with the silky black tendrils trailing down the mountain of his shoulders. She felt the pressure of his hands shift from her head down the rest of her body where they burned a heady path. Drowning in the sea of emotion, Isabeau barely noticed their location until she felt the pressure on her buttocks as he held her tighter against the hard line of his body and his hips moved slightly.
Suddenly, her common sense returned and burned through the fog of desire clouding her brain. You must save yourself for marriage, her mind told her.
With as much effort as she could muster, Isabeau pushed away from the rogue. "Forget what has transpired between us," she gasped as her tightly bound chest heaved in unabated passion, "I will not speak to you for the rest of your stay and do not seek me out." She backed away from him but his strong hand clamped onto her wrist and pulled her against the thick muscles of his chest.
His lips drew up in a lazy wolfish grin as the glimmer in his deep blue eyes deepened. "This is one encounter I will never forget, Isabeau, and neither will you. Tell me, how many nights will you lie awake before you beseech me to come to you and quench your growing thirst?"
She trembled slightly but held her chin defiantly high. "For as long as it takes, milord. I intend to save myself for my husband. Now let me go so I might retire to my chamber…."
His tawny hand cupped her chin. "Perhaps we can begin your lessons now, Isabeau. Your future husband would most appreciate what I have to teach you."
Her anger got the best of her. Without warning, Isabeau’s hand shot out, fingers closed, and connected with his cheek. His head rolled slightly before turning back, his dark eyes a mixture of anger and untamed desire.
His fingers dabbed at the corner of his mouth as blood trickled from the wound. She gasped. All she had wanted to do was to make him understand her words, not injure him. "Very good, Isabeau," he remarked in a low tone as his fingers continued to dance on the wound, "I have never had a woman hit me and draw blood before. Perhaps I will go easy on you when it comes time to punish you for this."
Laughter erupted from her throat. "The only one punished here will be you if you so much as even speak to me again before you leave. Now, I am going to retire to my chamber, alone. If you have notion to follow me, I will keep my door locked."
The mirth was his this time. "When I want to come into your chamber, no lock will be able to keep me out," he warned, his eyes deepening as a dark scowl spread across his face, "Make no mistake, Isabeau. I will have you one way or another. There are many lessons I have to teach you, most of which I know you will enjoy."
"I doubt your words, my lord. ‘Tis rumored you become so besotted with drink you cannot couple. Or that," she mocked, letting her gaze fall to his midsection in a mocking fashion with the knowledge he was probably larger then most men, "you are an overly small man who fails to satisfy a woman. Tell me, which bits of gossip are true?"
His scowl grew darker as his hand swept out and gripped her upper arm in a painful embrace. She refused to wince. "You will find out soon enough, Princess. When you do, all you will crave will be my arms. If you prove to be an apt pupil, you will find yourself in them quite often."
Isabeau wrested from his embrace and backed away holding the length of her scarlet gown in her hands to aid her departure. "There may come a time when I will be the teacher and you will be the pupil. When the time does come, do not be surprised when retribution finds you." Turning on her heel, Isabeau stalked away and hurried up the steps. She mentally blocked out his sarcastic, ale-laden laughter that echoed from the shadows. Once I am in the safety of my chamber, he cannot get me.
* * * *
Early morning approached with a vengeance and streamed through her open window. Golden light filled the room, chasing away the shadows and remaining strains of darkness. Grey stones, once ominous, lightened in color and added to the ambiance of the room. Tapestries glowed with a life of their own, their bright threads woven into beautiful scenes depicting life around the royal castle
Isabeau threw her white silk clad arm over her eyes to block out the light. Light seeped through the thin material. Would it never leave her alone?
She pulled up the soft wool coverlet and tucked her hands under her thick, goose feather pillow as she lay there. She watched the dust motes float around on the bright sunlight, letting her thoughts swirl with them. Why did the Duke molest her as if she were some common servant girl ready to bed a man of title? The distant throb of the previous night returned as her mind conjured up the sensations of his fingers sliding in and out of her, waking the woman within. No matter what she tried to do, the memories would simply not disappear. All night long, she had dreamt of him, the way he had moved inside of her and the taste of his kiss....
Isabeau moaned loudly, her hands clenching her ears. Why could she not forget those images and feelings?
The delicious smells of food drifted up from dining hall and wafted through the space between the floor and bottom of the ancient, scarred oak door. Her belly rumbled in response as question filled her mind. Normally, they would just have bread and cheese for the morning meal. None of the fires were stoked until noon so why were the smells of cooking food permeating the air around her? There was only one way to find out.
* * * *
With her nervous hands clasped behind her blue silk back, Isabeau entered the dining hall, her heart pounding. What if the Duke was inside and waited for his chance to remind her of what had passed between them?
Beyond the tall wooden door decorated with bands of ancient iron and nails, she heard nothing. She expected there to be conversation of some sort but all that greeted her was silence. The corners of her lips drew down into a frown. Was the room empty?
She pushed the door open and discovered her father at the end of the large oak table scrubbed to a shine. Yellow-orange flames roared in the ornate pit and grew into a blazing heat, casting reflections in the surface of the wood. The trestle tables, long and laden
with a white cloth, were gone, tucked away for another use. She looked to the floor. Every blanched petal was gone, brushed away by the swift hand of one of the servants. The garlands were gone as well, their once regal appearance now a distant memory. In an effort to purge the sickly odor of the previous night’s revelry, the combination of sweat and belly contents, the room swirled with the scent of fresh picked flowers in different vases. Unfortunately, it did nothing to mask the resident smell.
Isabeau’s gaze flicked back to her father. He was dressed in his best navy tunic with the gilded collar of royalty, studded with gems, around his neck. His light auburn hair flowed down his shoulders in soft waves and framed his rugged face. The thin circlet of his crown tilted forward and pushed a small amount of reddish hair onto his creased forehead. His gaze was cast to the floor while a pensive hand tugged at his beard as though he was engrossed in thought.
"Father," she called softly.
Her father lifted his head, gazing at her with fury-laden eyes. "Sit down, Isabeau. There is something I wish to speak to you about." His voice was low and indicated a dangerous displeasure. What could she have done to upset him so?
Isabeau tilted her braided head in a nod and took the seat beside him. With dainty fingers, she swept the folds of her luxurious gown aside. "What troubles you so, Father?" She laid a hand over his but he jerked his limb away so swiftly that she thought he was afraid of her for some reason.
His eyes grew more grave. "Where were you last night?"
"I was at the banquet, along with everyone else...."
His dark brows knitted together in fury. "Do no lie to me, Isabeau! You tried to seduce the Duke last night and in retribution for his rejection, you struck him! That is why he and the Prince left this morning instead of staying a fortnight!"
It was her turn to be furious. She leapt to her feet and pounded her hand on the table in anger. The hollow sound ricocheted about the room and split the hostility filled air. "Nay, Father, ‘twas the way ‘round!" she cried, her anger rising to a fevered pitch as stunned disbelief soared through her body. "The Duke accosted me during a pavane and kissed me! Then, as I retired to my chamber, he forced me into the shadows of the stairs where he accosted me again! That is why I struck him!" She turned away as fury thrummed through her body. So her father was going to take a stranger’s word over hers! Let him. She knew the truth, as did the Duke. For whatever evil lurked in his heart, the Duke sought to sully her virtue for his own devilish pleasure. Then to hell with him.
Her father’s strong hand spun her around while the large, well-worn hands cupped her face. "Is this true, Isabeau?"
She nodded. "Aye, Father. He watched me most of the night then just as I mounted the stairs, he accosted me again," she confessed as her hands gripped onto her father’s strong wrists, "then that is when I struck him."
Father’s face softened a little as her words sank into his mind. He knew she was a chaste woman so why did he even bother asking her about this? He should have known what her answer would be. "I am so foolish," he stated as his hands released their grip on her face. He turned then lowered himself into his chair. "I almost believed a stranger’s words over my own child’s."
Isabeau drew her gown up and slid out of her chair before kneeling at his side. She tossed her flaxen braid over her shoulder and placed a hand on his damask covered arm with a reassuring grip. "Father, ‘tis over now. As you have said, the Duke is gone along with the Prince of Wales. We have seen the last of them."
Father lifted his head. There was an inherent fear swimming in the depths of his hazel eyes. She read it as clearly as she did the texts she had received now and then from the great scholars. "I do not think we have," he remarked as his head shook in a slow manner, "I do not think we have."
Chapter 3
The newborn day proved to be gorgeous. Gentle winds pervaded through the rolling, verdant valleys, lifting toward her with utmost care. It carried the heady scent of wildflowers, mingled with the lightest touch of honeysuckle. The hem of her embroidered emerald gown swam on the wave of air, bringing a welcome coolness. Her loose, golden tendrils ruffled in the breeze, lifting high as the perfumed wind caressed her exposed neck. Isabeau closed her eyes, imagining it was the bronzed hand of the Duke sweeping the hair aside as his lips nibbled....
Her flesh still burned where his fingers graced, aching for more of his touch. Why had she given in to his advances? Somehow, he had awakened a beast inside of her, an animal so hungry that it demanded more of what he had to offer. Why could she not put it to rest again?
Drawing a deep breath, Isabeau cast her gaze to the robin’s egg hued sky. Not a cloud drifted across the wide expanse of blue possessing an endless edge. Sinking down, she lay in the cool, dewy emerald grasses, letting the tall blades envelop her. Reeds swayed and touched her with a soft caress, encouraging an overwhelming sense of sleepiness to overtake her. I must not fall asleep out here or Father will be furious.
Isabeau put her hands behind her head and stared at the sky. Would they be able to avoid war with England despite her rejection of the Duke? She shivered as the haunted memory of his touch came back to her in a fury. Her eyes closed and she floated toward that magically wondrous moment. This time, his hands pushed the top of her gown down….
* * * *
"Milady, you must come to the castle! His majesty demands your presence!" The anxious voice bled through the plethora of dreams surrounding her head. Isabeau sat up quickly and noted the odd slant of the sun. How long had she been asleep?
Isabeau turned sharply toward the voice, blinking hard several times to banish the unwanted slumber. "What ‘tis the matter?" she inquired dreamily as she yawned, stifling it with the back of her hand. Through the filmy haze, she saw several soldiers standing next to the servant. What was happening?
She rose quickly and brushed the stray blades of grass clinging to the rich velvet fabric of her gown. "Why does my father need to see me?"
The peasant wrung her ancient hands in terror as she shifted from foot to foot. "Please come, Milady! I know not but his Majesty will tell you when he sees you."
Isabeau shrugged. Father has scared another servant with his tirades. Picking up the empty basket intended for wildflowers, Isabeau begrudgingly followed the servant, flanked on all sides by the soldiers.
* * * *
With a lively step, Isabeau followed the peasant to the war room. The basket swung gaily on her arm as her mind played a happy tune from her distant childhood. At the door, she stopped, the hamper falling from her stunned hands. What was happening?
King Philip, dressed in battle armor, sat at the head of the table surrounded by his advisors. Heavy mail, topped by a gold circlet, covered his familiar nest of auburn curls. Why was he dressed so?
Regaining her senses, Isabeau stepped forward. "Father, what is happening? Why are you dressed in battle armor?" Saying nothing, he gestured to the seat next to him with a slight tilt of his head. With a swift dismissive wave of his hand, Philip bade his men to leave.
Once they were alone, Philip leaned forward with unparalleled concern written on his heavily lined features. "I received a letter this morning, declaring war signed by the Prince of Wales. From what I gather, his troops followed him here and kept their distance until all was ready. They are waiting at Cantilles Field, ready for battle. The reason I called you in here," he announced as he rose from his place, the metal plates clanking together, "is because I am leaving you Queen Regent in my absence. I have left strict instructions that if something were to happen to me, you would immediately be crowned Queen of Castile."
Isabeau felt her heart drop to her feet. Was there no one else to lead these men into battle besides Father? She clutched her father’s arm hard. "Father, is there no one who can lead them in your stead?"
For the first time in her life, Isabeau saw true anger erupt on her father’s face. With a vicious yank, he pulled his arm out of her grasp. "I am still a man, Isabeau! I can still fight with the best
of men! Never tell me I am too old for battle!"
Isabeau embraced her father hard, feeling the cold chill of his armor seep through her gown. "Forgive me, Father, for asking so. I meant no ill will by it. 'Tis just that the Prince and Duke are bloodthirsty men who will stop at nothing to invade our land."
Father returned her sentiment, his hold tightening. "All will be fine my child. The Duke and Prince will not succeed, of that I can assure you. If the worst should happen, though, how will you rule Castile?"
She rose from the floor as a firmer resolved filled her soul "I will rule with all fairness and as generously as you have, Father. Fear not, your people will be well cared for."
Philip turned toward her. All the angst on his face disappeared for the moment as a wide loving smile appeared. His gloved hand clasped onto hers, gripping tightly. "You will do well, Isabeau. Remember what I have taught you and rule as I would. I have left several of the advisors behind," he advised solemnly. "Fear not, I will return and all will be like before." With that, her father kissed the top of her head and gave her a swift embrace. Then, with a hand on the hilt of his gilded sword, her father stalked out with the clanking of his armored boot heels rising high in the air.
Isabeau sank deep into the chair, lifting a trembling hand to her chin. Tears threatened to form but she held them at bay. After all, she was Queen Regent. Her brow furrowed. A Queen never cried nor evaded her duties, much less regretted any necessary actions.
She leapt from the chair and stormed over to a window leading to the day she previously thought to be so wonderful. Putting her trembling hands on the sill, she peered out. Beyond the confines of the sill stood her father and his men, surrounded by their horses and troops. Bright armor flickered in the dying sunlight, nearly blinding her as they mounted their horses with lightning speed. With a swift motion of his hand, her father led the rest in a charge with the proud banner of Castile carried before the army. Please God, let Father return unharmed. Thoroughly disillusioned, Isabeau rested her weary chin on her hands as a silent tear tracked its way down her sullen cheek.
Desires Promise Page 4