Conquering Passion (6 page)

It was private and inviting, surrounded on three sides by sheer, moss-covered rocks. The clear water didn’t appear to be deep. She was hot. Unable to see the castle, she felt secure no one could see her. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d bathed in a lake or stream.

Glancing around nervously, she removed the belt and dress, setting them down on a small rock. The distant chirping and warbling of birds, newly hatched hungry nestlings, brought a smile to her face. She could hear no other sounds. The air here was still. The chemise quickly followed the dress, and she waded gingerly into the refreshing water, gasping as the chill assailed her body.

Not a strong swimmer, she waded, moving her arms to and fro, her breasts bobbing on the surface, nipples hardened from the initial shock of the cold water. A tingle snaked through her as she modestly cupped her breasts.

Before this day is out, I’ll be married. Rambaud will expect his rights as a husband. Will he be gentle? Will he want me to call him Ram? Will he like me? Everyone says he looks like his handsome brother, Antoine, who has been kind to me since I came here.

The long night and early rising caught up with her, and she yawned.

I must make my way back. It will take a while for the sun to dry my skin
.

She lay down in the grass, unpinning her hair to let it flow over her shoulders, easing her feeling of exposure. She spread the chemise over her body and gathered up a bunch of bluebells to clutch at her breast. The water had calmed her. With a smile on her face, she drifted off, dreaming of what it might be like to be kissed.

***

After riding at a steady pace for several hours, Ram was confident he would arrive home in plenty of time for the wedding, punctuality being one of the things he prided himself on. His muscles ached. He’d been riding with his body tense, preoccupied with the frustration of this unwanted marriage. The duty chafed. He had his immediate future planned, and this would interfere. He decided he’d take time to stop at his favourite lake to swim, not wanting his betrothed’s first impression of him to be the unpleasant odour of horse and rider after a two day ride.

As the castle came in sight, he signalled his men to go ahead and veered off to take the familiar path into the forest, slowing his horse, then stopping and dismounting a little way away from the lake. He tied his stallion to a nearby birch tree and propped his helmet on the pommel of the saddle. “Fortis, old friend, you’ll soon be back in your own stable, where you can have a rub down, some delicious hay and a well-deserved rest.”

He walked briskly towards the inviting water, unsheathing his sword, eagerly stripping off his boots, padded chausses, surcoat, hose, undershirt and braies. He tossed them into a pile, placed his sword carefully on top, then slipped soundlessly into the water. It was bracing, but felt good against his skin. He swam lazily for several minutes, then floated on his back looking up at the clear blue sky, listening to the sounds of chirping birds, inhaling the fragrant apple blossom.

I love this place. Maman used to bring us there when we were boys.

The mysteries and frustrations of Alensonne melted away, and he looked forward to his marriage. He’d never bedded a virgin. Considering the life she’d led, was Mabelle untouched?

Reluctantly deciding he’d better make his way home, he strode from the water and perched on a flat rock, rubbing his hands through his hair, waiting for the sun to dry his body. After a few minutes, he wandered over to his clothing and pulled on his linen braies. Catching sight of a mound of blue in the grass nearby, he wondered idly what it might be. He sauntered over, fiddling with the ties of his braies. He discovered a basket of freshly picked bluebells.

He smiled and crouched down to touch them, but then his brow creased as his warrior instinct warned of a possible threat, angry he’d let his guard down.

Merde! My sword is with my clothing.

He stood, listening, but then the smile returned to his face as the notion struck him only girls picked flowers. His spine tingled at the recollection of floating on his back, naked. Had a woman watched him?

Surely I would have sensed?

He crept forward and his mouth fell open when he caught sight of a scantily clad maiden, asleep, half-hidden by the long grass. She’d covered her body with a chemise, but her arms and legs had escaped its folds. He licked his lips at the sight of her glorious golden hair and white shoulders. One long arm lay outstretched at her side. The other was bent, hand tucked into the side of her face. The steady rise and fall of the bluebells covering her chest drew his eye. Her bare feet were slender. He could see only part of her thigh, but her legs were long. They’d fallen open, the chemise bunched between them. Were the curls of the triangle at the top the same golden colour? Rosy cheeks and open lips, curved into the trace of a smile, gave her the face of an angel at rest. His body responded fiercely and he inhaled sharply.

Was she a vision? He squeezed his eyes shut, then looked again. He took in a ragged breath. Her long, brown eyelashes fluttered at the slight sound. She rubbed her nose and stretched, arching her back and bending her knees. The chemise came tantalizingly close to slipping off her breasts.

Icy heat rushed through Ram’s body. He, the fearless
Rambaud le Noir
, felt something tighten in his chest. He’d never seen a more desirable woman. Crouched like a cat, he had an urge to spring up and pounce on her. Swallowing hard, he clenched his fists, struggling for the cool control that had made him a decorated cavalry commander. In the blink of an eye, a maelstrom of thoughts flew through his head.

He was to be married this afternoon. The clothing he now caught sight of indicated the woman was a servant. Having his way with her before going to the altar to meet his betrothed wouldn’t be suitable behaviour for a Montbryce. He intended to try to be faithful to his new wife, and though his lust for the vision argued fidelity could come after the vows were spoken, he knew he wouldn’t take advantage of this woman.

He wasn’t married yet, didn’t want to marry. This wasn’t the right time to be marrying. However, he wasn’t a ravisher of women. This stunning wench had aroused him, but he didn’t intend to take her against her will. His legs were starting to cramp. He should move away before she—

Her eyelashes fluttered again. At first she didn’t see him. Then she sat up, clutched the chemise to her body and exclaimed with a gasp, “Antoine! What are you doing here?”

The fruity huskiness of her voice startled him, and the taste and aroma of apple brandy suddenly filled his senses. He stood quickly, goosebumps marching up and down his spine, his mind whirling. She stared at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, obviously nervous, but not afraid.

She struggled to her feet, clasping her arms over her breasts, and glanced down, then back at him. He groaned inwardly when the long golden tresses fell forward across her shivering shoulders. The heat of embarrassment turn her body pink. He imagined her nipples hardening beneath the chemise she clutched against her. It made his already rigid arousal throb.

Striving to cover herself without revealing any more of her body, she looked vulnerable, in need of a champion. He wanted to be that man. No wonder his philandering brother was bedding this delectable woman—the devil. Thank goodness he’d donned his braies, but they weren’t adequate to conceal his arousal, and the wench’s gaze seemed fixated on his groin. His clothes were with his sword. He resisted the urge to move his hands to cover his erection and looking down would make matters worse.

He put his hand on his chest and shook his head. “I’m not Antoine. You’re waiting for my brother?” he rasped.

“Your brother? You’re—”

“I’m Rambaud de Montbryce. Who are you? I thought I knew all the servants. You must be new?”

“Ram?” she gasped.

He was on the point of remonstrating with a servant for using his given name, and the familiar form at that, but then she stammered, “I’m Mabelle.”

A cold chill swept over him. He was speechless for a moment then exclaimed, “Mabelle de Valtesse? My betrothed? What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here, lying naked in the woods? Are you waiting for Antoine?”

Would my brother betray me thus?

The anger blazed in her eyes. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I wasn’t naked. I came to pick flowers. I bathed,” she cried. “I fell asleep, dreaming.”

“Dreaming of Antoine, no doubt,” he spat, not sure why anger had taken hold of him and why he wanted to hold on to such a preposterous idea.

“I dreamt of—”

“Clothe yourself, woman!” He turned his back to her. “You’re supposed to be a future
Comtesse
. I’ve said repeatedly your behavior would be suspect.

She struggled breathlessly to hide her nudity, then her voice broke into his confused thoughts. “And what, pray, are you doing here, almost naked, watching a girl you don’t know? You thought I was a whore. On your way to wed me, you intended to bed a whore.”

He wanted to turn back to her, to explain how her beauty had bewitched him, but his anger and confusion held him in its thrall. His state of undress and obvious arousal left him feeling vulnerable. It wasn’t a feeling
Rambaud le Noir
was used to. He was offended she thought so little of his honour. The word
whore
on her lovely lips sounded like an obscenity. It was a word a
Comtesse
would never utter. What’s more, it was unacceptable for a woman to argue with him. “You must learn to be more obedient, and not answer me back,” he spluttered.

“Obedient?”

She pushed him then with all her might as he crouched to conceal his arousal. Her strength took him off guard. He lost his balance, staggering into the water, falling full length with a great splash, cursing as he resurfaced.

Grabbing the rest of her clothes, she ran and stumbled over his sword. Her belongings fell to the ground as she picked up the long, heavy weapon with both hands, straining to hold it out in front of her as he advanced. He stopped a few yards away and raised his hand to calm her, unsure as to what she might have in mind for his beloved sword. His heart raced at the incredible sight of this desirable woman, the thin chemise clinging to the curves of her body, bluebells tangled in her hair.

He had to admire the way her heaving breasts thrust forward as she braced her feet, turned, and tightened her buttocks, gathering strength to heave the weapon. Through the thin fabric, he saw the outline of her bottom.

“
Non! Arrête!
” he yelled as she threw the blade as far as she could, into the water. She retrieved her clothing and fled. He watched her disappear into the forest, blonde hair flowing like a cloak behind her, wanting to pursue her but knowing he couldn’t leave Honneur where she lay.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” he said to the trees.

Swearing a silent curse, he turned back to the water and began searching the muddy bottom for his weapon, shaking his head.

This isn’t how I envisioned our first meeting.

***

Frantic, angry and breathless, Mabelle paused, listening. How far had she run in her panic? There were no sounds of pursuit. She gasped when she looked down at her chemise. She threw on the dress, hands fumbling with her belt, fervent prayers falling from her lips, mind racing. She wound the wimple round her head and tossed the ends over her shoulders.

She’d known as soon as she’d uttered Antoine’s name she was mistaken. The strapping athlete before her was older and taller than Antoine. Antoine’s eyes were green, not ice blue like the ones burning into her.

Dread and embarrassment had crept up her spine as she’d felt her face redden. She groaned as she remembered how she’d stared open-mouthed at the broad-shouldered, black-haired giant who’d leapt to his feet to stand before her, like a purebred stallion. He wasn’t naked, but he might as well have been.

This was Ram. This ruggedly handsome knight was her future husband. The reality seemed to hold far more promise than she could have hoped for. She’d done nothing wrong. She could have explained, but he hadn’t given her a chance.

His angry voice had rumbled over her like thunder, raising the hair on her nape. She’d never felt the least
frisson
when approached by men before, yet had quivered like a wanton in his presence. The storm of desire had swept over her, and for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to want a man. But then lightning had struck, and she’d known in a blinding moment of clarity that this proud, arrogant male she’d angered and embarrassed was her betrothed. She wanted to weep when she thought how furious he would be about his sword.

What an astounding sight he was, water dripping from his hair, running in rivulets down his broad chest, wet braies moulded to his very male body, his eyes burning with disbelief as she threw the weapon.

No wonder they call him Rambaud le Noir. But he thought I had a tryst with Antoine.

She cursed aloud and made the Sign of the Cross. “It’s a spell I’ve brought on by picking the Fairies’ Thimbles. God save me!”

She made for the wall, half running, half walking, biting her nails.

“
Milady
, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you ill?” asked Madame Bonhomme, eyeing the peasant garb when she saw Mabelle stumble into the bailey.