Claire Delacroix (36 page)

’Twas unfair that she should torment him, yet be immune to his own allure!

Though hers was undoubtedly meant to be a teasing comment, Bayard had to force his answering smile. “Save by your absence.”

She regarded him quizzically, her gaze slipping over his sweat-soaked chemise. No doubt he looked a poor sight for a man who courted her favor!

Her gaze brightened though, and Bayard knew he did not imagine the flush that stained her cheeks. He recalled all too well how she flushed abed and yearned with sudden vigor to hear her whisper his name as she found her pleasure again.

And again and again and again. The very thought tightened his chausses and made him yet more restless to be gone. He could not think clearly when she addled his wits with desire.

“Nay, there is another reason,” Esmeraude insisted. “You are angry or otherwise impassioned.”

Clearly his charm was sadly lacking this morn if he could not even have a compliment accepted. “I have been angry this morn, but the cause is not of import. If you will excuse me?” Bayard gathered the reins and gave her a curt nod.

Esmeraude laid a hand upon the bridle and Argent - wretched, faithless beast! - stilled. “If any matter has angered you, it must be of import. I of all souls should know that you are difficult to vex.”

“I would not have you concern yourself.”

She propped a hand upon her hip but did not loose her hold upon the destrier’s harness. “Do you think me too simple of wit to understand matters of men?”

Ah, now he had insulted his lady fair! This morn grew better and better! Bayard hastily tried to make amends. “Nay, I think you most clever and indeed you are uncommonly talented with riddles.” Her manner eased slightly, but Bayard knew he would have to tell her more.

Bayard supposed Esmeraude’s curiosity was a good portent for his suit and was relieved enough by that to smile slightly for her.

Esmeraude smiled back and he was vastly encouraged.

“If you must know,” he confessed quietly, “I am simply vexed to learn that my father has not changed his ways since my departure from his abode.”

Esmeraude leaned upon his leg, her curiosity clear. Her fingertip slid along his thigh absently, as if she knew not what she did or how she made him burn for more of her touch. “Was that why you left Villonne, because of him?”

Bayard pursed his lips, then decided he had naught to lose in telling her the truth of it. “We argued, for he refused me the opportunity to ride to war or to tourney.”

“Surely any father would do as much.”

“Nay, Esmeraude. I had earned my spurs and the station of a knight. He was wrong to deny me the chance to hone my skills on the field.”

“But you could have been killed!”

’Twas cheering how the prospect seemed to trouble her. Bayard took her hand in his and let his thumb slide across her knuckles. The lady inhaled quickly and lifted her gaze to his in a way that made his own heart begin to pound. “But without such training, I could have lost much more.”

“How so?”

“I was his heir. Imagine if he died and I took his place, yet knew naught of defending what was now my own.” Bayard found himself confessing more than he intended. Indeed, the lady was cursedly easy to talk to, for she was keen of wit and seemed to understand his concerns. “Many might have died if the keep was attacked, and lost to another.”

“Is that a threat?” Esmeraude watched him carefully. “What happens abroad in these days? Is there peace?”

“I fear that war brews in France, betwixt the King of France and the King of England. They hold many adjacent territories and each is desirous of the rich holdings of the other.”

“Like Villonne?”

“’Tis unaccountably prosperous and near contested lands in Normandy.”

“And your father did not train your brother, after you left.”

Bayard shook his head. He felt his lips tighten and looked away that she might not read the fullness of his frustration in his eyes.

But Esmeraude seized his hand with her own. “You fret for him.”

“How could I not?”

She smiled at him sunnily, a most inappropriate response to his thinking. “Aye, how could you not when you love him so?”

Bayard bristled at the very suggestion. “He is my brother, Esmeraude, there is naught improper between us.”

“He is your blood and you fear for him because you love him.” Esmeraude shook a playful fingertip at him. “I think there is naught improper about the impulse. ’Tis most honorable for a man to be protective of those he loves.”

Bayard regarded her warily. Impulses warred within him, his old instinct for hiding any affection for another warring with the potential of winning favor from his intended.

“Do you intend to speak to your father about the matter?” Esmeraude asked, untroubled by his silence. “Perhaps you could persuade him to reconsider.”

“Clearly I cannot.” Bayard spoke with undisguised annoyance. “For he has ignored all I said to him five years ago.”

“You left to compel your father to do better with Amaury,” she whispered with evident delight. “Bayard, that is a most noble impulse, for surely you were his heir afore that. You put aside a prosperous estate for the sake of your brother, then won one for your own elsewhere.” She shook her head and smiled at him. “How can you suggest that you do not believe in love?”

“’Twas reason alone,” Bayard insisted. “’Twas simple good sense. There is no reason for a man to risk death and the loss of his holding for a lack of preparation. My father corrects his own father’s error with too much enthusiasm and I merely made the truth of that clear to him.”

“Then why are you so angered with him still?”

“’Tis only sensible to be vexed when one’s efforts come to naught.”

“And why did you leave Villonne for Amaury then?”

“He is less competitive than I and less ambitious. I knew I would win another holding, and indeed I have, but Amaury is wrought of more gentle matter.”

Esmeraude smiled. “You love Amaury and I know it.”

“’Tis only good sense!”

“’Tis love.”

Bayard could not leave the matter be. Truly this discussion proceeded in the wrong direction! “Esmeraude, I would not have you misunderstand. I do not share your faith in the merit of love...”

She laughed at him. “Call it what you will, then.” She leaned closer, her eyes twinkling in a most beguiling manner. “But I would bestow a kiss upon a man who loves his brother as much as you do your own.”

Before Bayard could decide whether to clarify the matter or accept the kiss he sorely desired, a cry rang out from the gates.

“A guest! A guest arrives!” shouted the herald, then stepped back to let the party pass under the portcullis.

The only man whose presence might have made Bayard’s day less promising rode beneath the gates of Airdfinnan, his fair hair swept back from his brow and his steed prancing proudly.

“Simon de Leyrossire,” he muttered sourly, without intending to do so, knowing beyond all doubt that his former luck had utterly abandoned him.

“Oh, another knight from France,” Esmeraude murmured. She looked far more excited about the prospect than Bayard would have preferred.

“He is a rogue and a scoundrel,” he told her darkly. “He cheats and will do whatsoever he can to win his desire. He courts you for some foul reason of his own.”

“No doubt because he desires a bride,” the lady retorted, then shook a finger at him. “How unlike you to be so ungracious, Bayard.” She then turned and smiled at the arriving knight.

Bayard seized her elbow. “You will not go to him!”

“Of course I will. I must greet him in my sister’s place.” Esmeraude had a stubborn glint in her eye that told Bayard that not only was she provoked but that he would lose if he forbade her to go to Simon.

So he smiled instead and slipped his arm around her waist. He bent low and drew her to her toes, liking how her eyes widened in anticipation. “Then I will have my kiss first, my Esmeraude,” he murmured, “and truly it shall be one you do not easily forget.”

The lady reached up and pushed a lock of hair back from Bayard’s brow, touching him with a possessive ease that made him catch his breath. “Aye, Bayard,” she whispered with a seductive smile. “Grant me a kiss that will warm my lonely pallet this night.”

Bayard’s heart leapt at this confession that she, too, was chaste here at Airdfinnan and hoped ’twas because she yearned for him and him alone. He resolved to put his all into this kiss, to show his intended what she might anticipate if they were wed.

Indeed, ’twas only chivalrous to do his best to grant the lady her favor.

* * *

Esmeraude did not truly recall meeting Simon. She was still dizzy from Bayard’s demanding kiss when she crossed the bailey and thinking only of how best to win that knight’s sweet confession so she might welcome him to her bed again. Bayard himself rode through Airdfinnan’s gates with only the most cursory acknowledgment of Simon, the destrier’s hoof beats pounding upon the wooden bridge.

Esmeraude would not soon forget the sight of Bayard when she stepped into the bailey. He had looked vexed and virile, his chemise damp with sweat and clinging to his muscles. His dark hair had been tousled, his expression intent, and Esmeraude had felt a wave of desire so strong that she had clutched the edge of the door lest her knees buckle from beneath her. Bayard was such a vision of masculine grace and vigor that ’twas too easy to recall the deftness of his touch, the grace of his seduction, the vigor of his loving.

No less, to lust for more.

His kiss had only made Esmeraude burn hotter in her desire to have Bayard’s strength within her again. She could imagine naught better than seeing the sapphire blaze of his eyes each and every day of her life. She was much cheered by his evident affection for his brother, no less his sacrifice for Amaury and his refusal to call that emotion what it was.

Esmeraude had to win Bayard and she knew she would. She would compel him to love her, as never a man had loved a woman before. She would steal the heart he did not even know he possessed, and she would have her every desire fulfilled for all time.

She stood dutifully, if somewhat dazedly, as Angus interrogated his potential guests - for there were four local men riding with Simon - and thought only of Bayard. Esmeraude lifted a hand to tuck an errant curl back into her braid and smelled the tang of Bayard’s perspiration upon her flesh. Her mouth went dry at the recollection of their legs tangled together and his fingers sliding over her bare skin.

Lust was not love, Esmeraude knew that, but ’twas a place to begin. ’Twas time she encouraged Bayard again, time she showed him all that he would win in surrendering his heart to her. Her own heart thundered at her audacity. But if she meant to make this man love her, she had to be as bold and confident as he.

Simon, she vaguely noted, was ancient beyond belief, even older than Angus. He was charming to her, perhaps too charming, but ’twould not annoy Esmeraude if his presence continued to prompt Bayard to bestow such splendid kisses upon her.

Indeed, it could only be a good sign that her knight seemed jealous of Simon. Perhaps Bayard already cared more than he would admit!

The prospect put a bounce in Esmeraude’s step and one she sorely needed, for the day turned hectic after Bayard’s departure from the hall. Jacqueline was in a state of discomfort which precluded her doing much in the hall, but the suitors who arrived had need of a meal and accommodation. Esmeraude did not see Bayard again, or even hear tell of his return, but she knew he would be back.

A man did not grant such a kiss otherwise. Nor did he make such a lengthy offering to win a lady’s favor as the song of Tristran and Iseut if he did not truly wish to win. Bayard’s tale echoed in her thoughts all that day, the sound of his voice so close that ’twas as if he whispered it anew in her ear.

There might have been something magical in the song or in Bayard’s voice, for each verse made Esmeraude hungry to hear more. She was tormented by not knowing what had become of the two lovers. She found herself humming its tune as she worked, each scene as vivid in her mind’s eye as if she had witnessed it herself. Even knowing that Bayard spun a web around her apurpose did not diminish its power.

Or his allure. Surely ’twas a good omen that he troubled himself to recount such a lengthy tale of love for her favor?

By the evening meal, Esmeraude was more than ready for a merry tale and a stirring kiss from her most ardent suitor.

Esmeraude hastened to the board, but to her chagrin, Bayard was not present. Handsome Calum managed to ensure that he was upon her one side while Simon claimed the other. She smiled at Calum’s jests but found him a trying companion compared to Bayard. Jacqueline invited the new arrivals to share a tale with the company after the meal had been served.

Simon demurred, saying that ’twas not the role of a man of war to provide entertainment like a jester or a fool. Indeed, he was so elegantly attired, his squires so quick to cut his meat and wipe his chin, that Esmeraude could not imagine him lifting a finger to do any deed himself.

After a moment of awkward silence in the hall after this pronouncement, one of the local suitors stepped forward. Robert was as anxious to please as Esmeraude recalled. He told the tale of Angus and Jacqueline of Airdfinnan, that of the couple whose hall they were within.