Claire Delacroix (8 page)

“Why should he? He will never know my name.”

“But...”

“We have need of a boat, Célie,” Esmeraude said firmly, knowing that only a practical solution would appease and silence the older woman. “The one this knight has brought will suit us very well.” She bestowed a confident glance upon her maid, though it cost her dearly to look away from the knight’s figure, so lovingly touched by the silvery moonlight. “And if he tells the king of us, ’twill be too late, for we shall have sailed away.”

“God in heaven!” Célie passed a hand over her brow in frustration. “You mean to steal the possessions of a knight after you pretend to be a whore? Oh, your mother will be most irked with me! It seems that I do not save you from misfortune despite my good intent.”

“Not a whore, Célie, I could not feign such experience.” Esmeraude ran her hands over her now tattered and dirty garb. “I shall be a villein, a mere country maid overwhelmed by my first vision of a knight.” She smiled and her voice turned soft. “Like an old, old tale in which naught is as it appears to be.”

Indeed, ’twould not be that difficult to pretend thus - Esmeraude’s mouth was dry at the mere thought of drawing closer to him. How would he kiss her? How would he touch her? How would mating feel? She was terrified at what she might discover, yet at the same time, she tingled in anticipation.

She could not have walked away to save her soul. This was adventure!

Célie moaned behind her as Esmeraude strode toward the knight with purpose. She held her chin high and her heart thumped with painful vigor. And when he heard her footsteps and glanced up, she saw that his eyes were as blue as a sunlit sky.

Then he smiled a smile as dazzling as the sun at midday. And Esmeraude knew, she simply knew, that this would come more than aright.

* * *

Bayard had had better days.

The current in the narrow stretch of water that lay betwixt Ceinn-beithe and the Isle of Mull had exceeded every warning he had been granted. It was ferocious as the tide rose, and he and Andrew had to strain mightily against it to even keep some semblance of their course. He had feared for a time that they would be swept away and deposited on some nameless shore, on one of the many bays and inlets that he could glimpse from the boat.

That had given him redoubled strength. ’Twas beyond his experience to wage a battle against the elements alone, though he had tasted his mortality before and that oft enough. ’Twas usually a man who stood as his foe, though, and he realized only now how much he relied upon understanding the one who might destroy him.

The sea was capricious in a way that men seldom echoed. She was not a force he understood, though he respected her might. ’Twas doubly galling to know that if they perished, she would draw no satisfaction from what she had wrought. Theirs would be an incidental casualty.

Bayard refused to die incidentally. The prospect gave new strength to his strokes.

The worst was knowing that survival, which seemed a most distant objective, would not be enough. Nay, they were doomed to repeat the journey if he ever meant to see his steeds and his older squire again.

He cried encouragement to Andrew and they raged as one against the strength of the water. Bayard’s muscles strained and Andrew was pale with exertion, but they struggled onward, determined to succeed. The land disappeared all around them, naught but the rise and fall of the ink-dark waves on every side.

“Row! Row!” Bayard cried. “We have naught to lose but our all!”

He plunged his oars into the water and found a hidden strength within himself. He felt alive and whole and omnipotent, touched by some power of the divine.

And he knew with terrifying certainty that he would win this battle. Fed by that conviction, he rowed long after Andrew had faltered.

Then, just as suddenly as they had been seized by it, they were past the worst of the current and the rowing became nigh a game in comparison. The isle drew ever closer, if a section of its shore somewhat distant from their destination.

Andrew shouted in triumph when ’twas clear they would survive. They laughed as they rowed together with new jubilation, and ’twas as naught to pull the boat ashore. Bayard picked up the boy and swung him around and Andrew laughed heartily as they romped like children on the shore.

“We have need of a draft of ale for a deed well done!” Bayard cried. The rocks cast his words back at him as if they cavorted too.

Andrew laughed anew. “I packed naught but wine, sir.”

“’Twill do, ’twill do. Indeed, I would toast our health with whatsoever comes to hand on this night of nights.”

“How far do you think us from the king’s hall, sir?” Andrew asked more soberly. “The heat of a fire, some companionship and song would be most welcome after that crossing.”

“Aye, ’twould, though I fear ’tis not so close as we might hope.” Bayard glanced about them, seeking some hint of their locale, and ’twas then that he saw her.

And he forgot all else.

A maiden of dewy perfection crossed the stone-strewn beach toward them. Her garb was dirty and torn, her flesh was tanned to gold, but she walked with the assurance of one born to privilege. Her face was heart-shaped, her hair a tumble of chestnut curls, her eyes thickly lashed. She was slender for all the ripeness of her curves and his blood quickened at both her charms and her seductive expression.

She unbound her braid and shook out her tresses as she walked, her gaze unswerving from his own, her lips curved in an inviting smile. Bayard’s mouth went dry. Andrew whispered something, but he stepped past the boy, captured by the vision of this demoiselle.

To his surprise, a heavy set older woman came into view. She climbed over the rocks with visible effort then trotted after the maiden. She panted with her exertion, her expression stricken.

Bayard knew then with utter certainty who this damsel must be. There could not be two finely bred beauties of roughly an age with him, wandering this isle with an older maid in tow. Bayard’s smile widened, for he had not anticipated finding his prize so readily as this.

Nor, indeed, had he thought his intended would be so lovely.

“Greetings, sir,” she said when she paused before him, her expression flirtatious. “And welcome to the Isle of Mull.”

“I thank you for your greeting.” Bayard stepped closer, wondering what she might intend even as he spared a glance to the sky and moon. “But what manner of place is this that a maiden wanders alone in the depth of the night?” He smiled the smile that had coaxed many to his bed and was delighted when she eased closer.

She tapped one fingertip upon his forearm. “’Tis an isle of magic and myth,” she said, an impish gleam lighting her eyes. “An isle upon which the first man to ride the full moon’s tide and land successfully ashore is greeted by a willing maid.”

Bayard was intrigued by this strange assertion. “A willing maid?”

She placed her small hand on his chest, her cheeks darkening at her boldness even as she did so. He was intrigued by the warring signals she gave - both of seductiveness and innocence. She swallowed and he knew from her uncertainty that she was not so experienced at seduction as she would have him believe.

What did she desire of him?

“Aye, a maid willing to surrender herself fully to a champion from over the seas,” she whispered.

He lifted one hand, and felt her tremble as he touched her jaw. “A kiss surely is all that even such an emboldened maid would grant,” he murmured.

Her eyes widened but she did not retreat. “Nay,” she said, her gaze locked with his, the pulse in her throat hammering against his hand. “She might begin with a kiss, but she would grant her all.”

“Why?”

She smiled then, a fetching and mischievous sight. “Because she so wills it, of course. Because she has
chosen
.”

Though he desired her, Bayard hesitated to take her at her word, so odd was her claim. He had never heard of such a tradition in any place he traveled and something of her manner told him that she concocted the tale even as she stood before him.

“Chosen?” he echoed and she smiled.

“Aye. Chosen.”

And there was all he needed to know. Bayard lifted his hands to frame her face. He doubted she would be sufficiently bold to indeed grant the prize she offered, not on this night, but he saw naught amiss in sharing a full kiss with his intended.

She had chosen him. They would be wed and Montvieux would be his own, his family would be saved. ’Twas ideal and well worth a celebration.

Bayard bent and claimed her lips with tender gallantry. He swallowed her gasp of delight, and felt his own heart race as her lips softened against his own. He lifted her closer without intending to do so, felt the curve of her breasts against his chest and deepened his kiss.

* * *

Chapter Three

To Bayard’s astonishment, his kiss was not destined to seal their covenant and end.

Though the lady’s touch proved her innocence, her ardor more than compensated any lack of experience. Bayard’s own breath caught, his heart halted, then raced madly. Indeed, she was sweet and willing; the combination of her honesty and her eagerness enflamed him.

Bayard’s fingers were in her hair before he knew his own intent, his hand at her nape, his other arm wrapped around her waist. He caught her closer, cradling her against him, certain she would back away from the flame she had coaxed to life. But she was undeterred, mimicking his every touch so readily that desire began to cloud his good sense.

“God in heaven,” the older maid whispered in horror as the lady kissed Bayard with new vigor.

But ’twas wrong. It took all within Bayard not to roll her to her back right there. He wanted her, as he had not wanted a woman in some time, as if she had cast a cloud of seduction across his shoulders.

He tore his lips from hers with an effort and put a distance betwixt them. They eyed each other, each breathing heavily. Her lips were swollen, her eyes shining. She smiled at him and Bayard thought he might lose every last vestige of honor within himself.

He could not claim her on a rocky beach. He could not rut with her like a savage beast, not before his own squire and her own maid. ’Twas not within him to so dishonor any woman, but most especially not the woman who would be his lady wife.

Bayard steadied his breathing and watched the maiden warily. Her smile broadened and she took a step closer, her hand rising to the tie of her chemise. She flushed at her own audacity, but did not halt.

She had chosen him, and that with so little knowledge of him. The truth of it swelled his heart fit to burst.

Marriage, it seemed suddenly, showed somewhat greater promise than he had hoped.

“The toll I would demand of you is more than a kiss,” she teased, her expression provocative, “however artful that kiss might be.”

“’Twould not be appropriate,” he argued, hearing desire strain his own words.

“’Twould be most appropriate. I choose you and I would celebrate that choice. Here and now.”

Her smile could make a man dizzy with desire.

Bayard knew that many a couple mated before their nuptials, that many a maiden was sampled by a knight determined to wed her and her alone. And there were many, indeed, who lived as man and wife without the ritual of a church blessing betwixt them. ’Twas not so bold what she proposed, though he was incredulous that victory should come so readily to his hand.

Though he had always been fortunate beyond all. It seemed that even in this, the truth was clear. And he was not a man who would treat her with dishonor - nay, they would stand before a priest and she would be endowed with what was his to grant his lady wife.

“You are certain of this?” he demanded hoarsely.

“More certain than I have been in all my days,” she whispered, her eyes shining. “What, indeed, could be more right?” And she slipped her arms shyly around his neck, her expression expectant and pleased.

Bayard had never understood women fully and he certainly did not understand this one. He was, however, a man who understood a strategic advantage and he did not intend to surrender one so willingly offered. He knew enough of women to know that the lady in his arms was more innocent than she pretended, and, indeed, he knew that she was his virginal Esmeraude.

The fact was that if he claimed her maidenhead, then none could contest his claiming of her hand. She would be his bride, and that by her own choice. He could ensure the safety of his family and ease the fears of her own mother.

’Twas too good an opportunity to sacrifice.

Bayard turned to his squire, his decision made. “Andrew, I would have you ensure the boat is high above the tide line and sleep near it lest there be thieves about.” Andrew nodded dutifully and ducked away.

Bayard looked at the older maid and smiled kindly. “
Madame
, I truly doubt that this deed is yours to witness.”

She blanched and appealed to her charge. “I think we might also depart, child...” she began, granting the demoiselle a hard glance.