Awakened by a Kiss (34 page)

She is also highly intelligent
. . . She couldn’t have maintained her elevated status with her father otherwise. Too many royal siblings had tried to knock her off her privileged perch. Without success.

She was crafty. Cunning. And he’d just provoked her in the worst way.

His smile died.

Fool
.
Fool
.
Fool!
Elisabeth walked across the Grand Salon, making her way to her rooms. Never in her life had she lost her temper like that. Never had she behaved in such an infantile manner.

She’d completely lost control and made a spectacle of herself in front of Tristan. She was mortified. Why did it have to matter how he perceived her? Why couldn’t she be indifferent to him the way she was to every other man she’d ever known?

Why would her heart and body not relinquish their incessant longing for this impossible man? For this impossible situation.

You know why, Elisabeth
. Besides his masculine beauty, his sexual allure, he was a man with honor. Something rare in her world. Something that touched her deeply. How could she not want him? Despite his personal feelings, he’d stand in front of an assassin’s blade for her or anyone else he’d sworn to protect—just as he’d done for the King. That was something she didn’t believe the new Captain of the Musketeers, Antoine de Balzac, would do—and that was yet another reason to see Tristan reinstated.

He was the right man to hold the esteemed position. He deserved it above all others.

“Madame?” Tristan’s voice arrested her steps.

By the time she turned, he’d reached her and grabbed hold of her arm. Her in tow, with his cane and his purposeful strides, he ate up the distance to the first door on the right.

Tristan opened it, pulled her inside, and slammed the door shut.

She didn’t know what to make of his actions or of him pulling off his baldric and tossing it down on the nearby settee. Stupefied, she let him pull hers off as well, without question or protest, and watched as it landed on top of his. His cane followed.

Before she could form a question, he shoved her back against the wall.

Her eyes widened.

Pressing his palm against the wall near her head, he slipped the fingers of his other hand beneath her chin. Her nerve endings sparked to life.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“You brought me in here.” Tingles rippled from his touch down to the tips of her breasts, tightening her nipples.

“I mean at my château. Why have you come here?”

“I told you, I want fencing lessons—”

“That’s a lie and we both know it.” He cut her off abruptly. “I want the truth. I want you to admit you’re here for your amusement and that you’ve been purposely behaving like a coquette.”

She pushed his fingers away from her chin. It was too difficult to talk when he touched her. “I’m not here for my amusement, and I have not been behaving like a coquette.”

He pressed his other palm to the wall, hemming her in between both hands. “No? What do you call this outrageous outfit of yours?”

“My fencing attire. You don’t expect me to fence in a gown, do you?” she countered.

“I would expect you to dress like a woman once in a while—and for God’s sake, where did you get those boots?”

“What is the matter with my boots? I happen to like them. They’re comfortable. As for dressing like a woman, I do. In fact, I did. At supper. You wouldn’t know that because you weren’t there.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Disappointed, were you?”

Oh, she wasn’t about to respond to that.

He continued. “Were you saddened you missed out on an opportunity to flirt? To stand too close, and bat your pretty eyes at me?”

Again, she held her tongue and simply gazed up at him, refusing to admit to a thing. It was one thing to attempt to seduce him, quite another to confess to it.

“I am not like those men at court you toy with. If you make sexual overtures to me, you’d better be prepared to be taken and fucked—any way I choose.”

Her knees almost gave way. Dear God, how she wished he would fuck her.

He grasped her hand and pressed it to the sizable bulge in his breeches. “This is what you want, what you’re trying to accomplish with your teasing, isn’t it? To stiffen my cock.”

Her sex answered with a warm gush. Through the cloth of his breeches, he felt hard as iron, his proportions more generous in size than any man she’d ever known.

“There aren’t going to be any more ‘lessons,’ any more games. And no more cock-teasing. If you’re still here tomorrow night, Duchesse, I am going to fuck you.”

Her clit gave a fierce throb, then pulsed in rhythm with her wild heart.

He grasped her wrists, raised them above her head, pinning them against the wall with one hand. Her heart lurched. She tested his hold. His grip was strong and firm. Unbreakable.

“Tristan?” she questioned, his name tumbling from her lips between rapid breaths.

The corner of his mouth rose in a half-smile. “For the first time in your life, you won’t be dictating, demanding, or commanding a thing. Tied and bound for my pleasure, you’ll submit and surrender your control to me. That’s how I’m going to take you. That’s how it’s going to be.”

A jolt of fear rocked her. She wanted to be with him so fiercely . . . but tied and bound? She wasn’t afraid he’d harm her in any way, but . . .
surrender her control?
He couldn’t possibly be serious. “You—You jest.” What was even more frightening was how appealing she found his wicked words. The thought of completely acquiescing to him, not being able to hold back in any way, set her ablaze.

He cupped her breast and pinched her hardened nipple through her shirt. She jerked with a sharp gasp. “No jest. There won’t be a part of your body I won’t avail myself of.” His thumb languidly stroked her nipple, sending delicious sensations swirling down her spine. “You’ll be all mine to do with whatever I wish.” He pinched her sensitized nipple again. She barely caught her cry of pleasure in time and swallowed it back down. Oh, God. He was serious.

If she wanted him to take her, it would have to be his way. If she stayed, she’d have to cede to him in the manner he described. He wasn’t going to let her finesse her way around it.

Warnings against giving a man complete power over her—especially this man who wielded so much power over her already—sounded in her head.

Ever so lightly he brushed his mouth against her lips. “You’ll be at my mercy, Duchesse, and you’re going to come harder than you’ve ever come before.”

Tristan rested his head against the back of the chair in the library the next day and swirled the brandy in his goblet.

She’d bolted.

Thirty Musketeers, two carriages, close to forty horses, and two royal daughters—gone.

He’d done it. He’d chased Elisabeth de Roussel away. So why didn’t he feel any joy from his accomplishment? Not only had he rid himself of the King’s most errant daughter, he’d also gotten rid of the men who’d escorted her. He’d never hidden from anyone or anything in his life, yet he found himself avoiding his former men. The last thing he wanted was for them to see him move about in his depleted state. It was more than his pride could bear.

He should be rejoicing at the sudden solitude, but instead he was gripped by the most irritating sense of disappointment.

He wanted Elisabeth. He wanted to do to her everything he’d described. Beneath her masculine clothing was a highly excitable, very feminine form, his every instinct telling him that fucking her would be one of the most intense carnal encounters he’d ever have. He’d seen the arousal in her eyes as well as the fear. She’d been torn between wanting to be possessed and wanting to run.

It had taken all that he had not to taste her and stroke her into an eager willingness, driving everything from her mind except her desire for him. He had to remind himself over and over as his cock throbbed harder than his leg that she wasn’t just the daughter of the King, but the daughter whom His Majesty doted upon.

Held most dear.

And, therefore, that made her untouchable as far as he was concerned.

Besides, after Veronique, the last thing he should want was to bed another of the King’s daughters. The hot rooms hadn’t driven Elisabeth away, nor had the ridiculous “lesson” in fencing he’d given her.

He’d run her off with the promise of a simple sex game, and he wasn’t going to waste another moment feeling regret over it.

“Good riddance, Duchesse.”

Tristan tipped the goblet and let the brandy flow down his throat, hoping that the burning liquid would take the edge off the pain in his leg.

Fast, hard footsteps approached the library.

His uncle entered the room. “Tristan, are you expecting guests?”

“No.”

“Well, there are a number of men here.”

Tristan sat up. “Not more Musketeers?”

“No. More like workers.”

“What are you taking about?”

Gabriel walked in. “He’s talking about the fifty men who are here, clearing the gardens, repairing the façade of the château.”

“Fifty men?” Tristan grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. “Where did they come from?”

Gabriel and Richard exchanged looks.

“You tell him,” Gabriel suggested.

“No, I’d rather you be the bearer of bad news.”

Tristan didn’t like where this was going. “Will someone tell me what is going on?”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Very well. The workers are here at the behest of the Duchesse de Roussel.”

“What?”
He couldn’t have heard correctly.

“There’s more,” Richard advised, then turned to Gabriel. “Go on, tell him.”

“I’m trying to do that. But I keep getting inter—”

“Get on with it!” Tristan’s ire was beginning to mount; he sensed he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

Gabriel gave a nod. “Since you are in such a fine mood, I can’t wait to tell you the rest.” His sarcasm only served to grate on Tristan’s nerves. “We were a tad mistaken when we told you the Duchesse de Roussel had left.”

Tristan’s stomach clenched. “
Merde
. You jest.”

“No. I don’t. It turns out, she took it upon herself to change rooms,” Gabriel continued. “You see when we saw that the Musketeers and the trunks were gone, we assumed the Duchesse and her sister had left—permanently. We were unaware that their trunks were moved to the west wing.”

“The west wing? Where my . . .
our
rooms are?”

Gabriel sauntered over to him and placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “Precisely.”

Tristan tightened his jaw. “Where is the Duchesse now?”

His brother shrugged. “Who knows? She’s out and about with her entourage. In the meantime, we are having some lovely repairs done to our château.” He smiled.

By the looks on his uncle’s and brother’s faces, they were pleased.

Tristan was ready to strangle the King’s favorite child. The woman was beyond intrusive. She knew no boundaries.

The sound of horses’ hooves striking the cobblestones in the courtyard grabbed his attention. He rushed out of the library and down the tapestry-lined hall.

The moment Tristan entered the vestibule, he froze. So did his breathing.

Standing on the opposite side of the grand entrance, talking to her sister and her maid, Elisabeth was in a yellow gown embellished with golden bows. Her tantalizing form was outlined so enticingly, his mouth went dry.

As though she felt his gaze, she turned and smiled when she saw him. Immediately, she approached. Her dark hair adorned with small golden bows was perfectly coiffed, long silky curls he wanted to touch. His hungry gaze devoured her, moving down to her décolletage, enjoying the sweet little bounce of her breasts with each step she took.

Her bedazzling smile was still on her lovely face when she reached him. She looked like an angel.