The Devil's Temptress Read online

  He glanced up into Alienore’s surprised countenance. “This fellow and I’ve made friends, when he’s not with you.”

  “That is odd.” She frowned at the wolf. “He is accustomed to match his likes and dislikes to mine.”

  Wryly, he smiled. “My lady’s not subtle.”

  Color bloomed beneath her skin as she busied herself with her parchments. “I know well that I have not the clever quips and subtleties of a proper courtier. I had not the benefit of being raised at court.”

  “Who calls that a benefit?” He recalled his own unsettled youth.

  He must put her at ease, but charm was no longer an art he claimed. Fourteen years of hell in the Holy Land had scraped away all his court polish. Besides, he suspected Alienore of Lyonstone would scorn any conventional wooing.

  Skirting the wolf, he prowled toward her. She stood her ground, pale yet composed.

  “May I inquire why you are here, monsieur? If you have not seen me, ’tis because I have no time to waste in idle pursuits. The queen receives correspondence from petitioners throughout the realm and from foreign courts. Many of these find their way to me.”

  Across the writing table, he stared at her. Neither his physical presence nor his ominous repute seemed to daunt her, and he had to admire her for it. Whatever her shortcomings might be, she did not lack courage.

  And she inspired surpassing loyalty in her creatures. Take that squire from the tourney. The lad hadn’t betrayed her, even when offered good silver to reveal her identity. Of course, Beaumont had loaned her the warhorse—the young pup who was sick with love for her, Lancelot to her Guinevere. The thought annoyed him for reasons he didn’t care to explore.

  The Raven did not smile, knowing his scarred features were ill suited for it. But he allowed his mouth a rueful twist.

  “We began badly three nights ago. I come to make amends.”

  “Marry, I do not see how you may.” She dipped her quill in the inkpot. “You have dishonored my cousin and my mother’s name. You humiliated my . . . champion . . . on the tourney field. By your own words, you value honor and virtue not at all, and those principles are the beating heart of me.”

  He gritted his teeth at this recital of his alleged sins. He could refute every one of them, damn it, but she wouldn’t believe him and then they’d be fighting again.

  “I’d have your regard, Lady Alienore.”

  His tongue lingered over her name. Ah-lee-anor, like the clarion call of a silver trumpet unfurling on the wind.

  The lady busied herself and did not meet his gaze. “I fail to grasp why my regard should matter, unless you have some hidden purpose.”

  “What purpose could that be?” By the Prophet, what did she suspect?

  Color rose beneath her ivory skin. “You are said to be highly fond of the company of women. I am called the queen’s most virtuous lady. If the challenge of capturing my affections is appealing, you would not be the first to think so.”

  Allah be praised, she suspects nothing. But Richard would seduce her for no better reason, besmirch all her shining fairness with his sordid touch only to win a wager.

  “Dishonor is not my purpose,” he rasped.

  “Then what is your purpose?” She lowered her quill to fix him with her gaze.

  “The queen goes to hunt, under escort. She invites you to join the sport.”

  She eyed him narrowly, as though she suspected a trap. “So this is the queen’s game rather than yours . . . this ‘invitation.’”

  The Raven held his breath. He was no fool. It could be no coincidence that from the dozens milling in the courtyard, the queen had singled him out to bear this message. Clearly Eleanor of Aquitaine had her own purpose for throwing the two of them together. Did the queen suspect him? Did she know who he was?

  Alienore puffed out an impatient breath. “Nesta!”

  The door to her inner chamber swung open, revealing a plump wren of a serving girl wearing red cheeks and a brown woolen kirtle. The girl’s eyes rounded to see the Devil of Damascus with his Saracen sword towering over her mistress. Yet she bobbed a curtsy.

  “Aye, milady?”

  “Take Remus into my chamber.” Alienore gathered the parchments into her strongbox and locked it. “It seems the court goes a-hunting, and they are not accustomed to a wolf in their midst.”

  “If ye say so, milady.” The serving girl cocked a wary glance at the wolf. “H-here then, ye great beastie.”

  Remus eyed her scornfully. Alienore swept an authoritative hand toward the girl. “Remus, go with Nesta.”

  The wolf whined his disappointment but trotted into the inner chamber. Alienore switched to Norman French, though the Raven had followed her English.

  “So then, Lord Raven, you may inform Her Grace that I come anon. If you wish to earn my charity, pray instruct my groom to saddle my stallion.”

  So easy she dismissed him like any court lackey. The Raven swept back his heavy surcoat and bowed with an irony he knew would not escape her.

  But he had her now, his elusive prey, and he wouldn’t squander his chance. He would stay closer than her own shadow—with Eleanor of Aquitaine’s connivance.

  The party was feasting on candied fruits and sugared almonds when the huntsman brought Eleanor the spoor. A king stag, and noble prey. Sharing an ironic glance with Richard, the queen laughed and commenced the hunt. With good-natured shouts and jostling, the royal party thundered off, hemmed in by the king’s crimson guards. Still, they could pretend they were free.

  The hunt streamed through the snowy wood, a river of bay and chestnut under bright-clad riders. The hunting horn’s taroo unfurled like a banner overhead. The baying of hounds split the air as Alienore clung to her stallion’s dappled withers.

  Split skirts allowed her to ride astride, Galahad’s flaxen mane lashing her face, cold wind burning her cheeks. Fresh air and exertion had dissipated her headache. Now euphoria swelled, making her laugh aloud.

  Only one man could spoil her pleasure in the day. The Raven clung to Galahad’s silver-painted hooves, tenacious as a burr despite the bursts of speed she employed to lose him.

  He wished to win her regard, did he? Well, there could be only two reasons for that. Either he pursued her for diversion. Or he was the king’s spy, dispatched to nose out any whiff of disloyalty. Either way, Alienore meant to unmask the scoundrel. It would serve him well if the queen tossed him out of Poitiers.

  She ducked to avoid a low branch and slanted a glance over her shoulder. Mounted on his fire-eyed black, he filled the path behind her like oncoming night, mantle billowing in his wake.

  Her jaw tightened with determination. Had she not made it plain she did not desire his company? Well, she would make it plainer.

  She rode these woods freely—often alone, with only Remus for company. Ahead the path forked, a little-known lane that meandered through the bracken.

  Jostled on all sides, with the hounds tangling underfoot, she edged Galahad toward the fringes of the dangerous melee. Gamely he swerved at her bidding—no lady’s palfrey, but a Norman destrier standing eighteen hands tall, a prize any knight would treasure.

  The lead riders surged ahead, the queen bareheaded and laughing like a girl, a stray spear of sunlight flashing on her auburn hair. Prince Richard thundered at his mother’s heels, blind and deaf to all save his own pleasure. The press of galloping bodies carried them safely past the fork. Then the dark gap in the foliage opened before Alienore.

  Judging her moment, she reined hard to the left. Satisfaction surged through her when Galahad responded, veering onto the fork. They vaulted a fallen trunk and crashed through the undergrowth into the shadowy stillness of the forest.

  Now the blue-white silence of the wood enclosed her. Behind them the thunder of the hunt faded, blurring with distance. Ahead, the trees parted before a frozen stream.

  With heart-stopping suddenness, Galahad staggered and almost flung her off. Hastily, she reined in and dismounted, rubbing his sweat-strea
ked shoulder. When she looked down, her heart sank to her boots.

  Her faithful steed stood on three legs, favoring a foreleg.

  “Poor Galahad.” Unhappily, she thought about the leagues of forest between them and the castle.

  “I suppose we shall now be walking back.” She fought the uneasy impulse to whisper and kept talking, to hearten them. “We have not my sword, but we’re naught to be trifled with, are we? And we’ve a good hour of daylight left.”

  Still, night fell swift on the forest in winter.

  She leaned against Galahad until he shifted his weight, letting her examine the damaged hoof. She braced his knee under her arm—an undignified placement, but who could see?—and spotted the stone wedged into the soft frog.

  “By my faith, lad! ’Tis a wicked sharp stone, but never fear. We’ll have it out—”

  Without warning, the stallion flung back his head and neighed. Her heart froze as her hand flew to her long-knife. The three-beat tattoo of hooves thudded on the trail behind.

  All is lost . . .

  Chapter Four

  The black stallion erupted into view, snow spraying beneath his hooves.

  All her senses sharpened as the outcast knight thundered toward her like a nightmare against the gray-white forest. The world paled with dismay at his passage. Even the small woodland sounds—the rustle of branches, the yip of a hunting fox—receded as the stallion halted before her in a scramble of hooves.

  Then a raucous scream split the air as a dark bird raked across the sky. Her heart froze as razor-sharp talons sliced toward the knight’s unprotected face. But he stared straight ahead as the raven arrowed toward him—and landed, delicate as a lady, on his shoulder. Wicked claws flexed gently as the bird settled. Suspended breath escaped her lungs in a rush.

  “Dear God, sir, what are you?” she whispered.

  In her turmoil, she’d spoken English—a tongue rare in Aquitaine—and he did not reply. Unperturbed by the corvine preening on his shoulder, the knight studied her through eyes like flickering flames. Her skin prickled with foreboding, and an ungodly thrill.

  So she had not given him the slip after all. Why must the infernal man always find her at a disadvantage?

  “Have you not the good grace,” she said in Norman French, “to know when a lady wishes to quit your company?”

  His lean face hardened, cruel as any Saracen’s. Topaz eyes glinted as they raked the forest. “Expecting someone?”

  Sweet mercy, does he think I am trysting with rebels? If he is Henry’s man, this will be my undoing.

  She swallowed down her fear, defiance sparking. “I expected no more than a private hour. But it appears I am to be denied even that much.”

  When he swung a leg forward over the pommel to dismount, the raven flew from his shoulder to perch in a tree. Paying the uncanny creature no heed—as though accustomed to the devil’s creatures—the knight sprang from the saddle. Light-footed as a cat, he landed in a swirl of stark wool.

  Her senses stretched to tingling alert as he stalked toward her. Alone they were in the forest, but she did not fear him. Was she a lion or a mouse?

  “Were you thrown?” He looked askance at the wounded Galahad.

  “Hardly,” she said proudly. “My destrier picked up a stone.”

  He gestured her aside. Sparing with words, but at least he could not be accused of idle chatter! A twinge of curiosity plucked her nerves as she wondered again whether that shredded voice troubled him when he used it.

  Aware of the bird’s beady gaze, she circled away, keeping her distance from the wicked crescent of Damascus steel at the knight’s side. He frowned over the injured hoof, and she suffered a stab of guilt. Aye, she should not have been galloping down this ill-kept trail. She was fortunate to fare no worse, though finding herself marooned with the Devil of Damascus—a known ravisher of women—was bad enough.

  The knight slid a curved dagger from his boot. Alarm spurted through her as her hand flew to her long-knife.

  But he only swept that banner of night black hair behind his shoulder. Then he pried at the embedded stone with the dagger’s notched tip. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks as she dropped her hand and brushed needlessly at her mantle.

  While he worked, she studied him. Even preoccupied with the delicate procedure, bitterness lingered around his eyes and mouth. Perhaps he was merely weary, features lined with years of privation and war. The jagged scar raking from ear to jaw contributed to his disreputable air.

  Yet his hands were gentle as he handled her injured horse without aggravating the inflamed hoof.

  When the stone dropped, she peered at the hoof. “’Tis only bruised, thank Heaven.”

  An exotic aroma wafted from his clothing—the spice of incense, heavy with musk and sandalwood. Then he released the hoof and straightened. Like a startled deer, she shied away.

  “That sprint was foolish on this terrain, lady. Could have broken his neck—or yours.”

  He echoed her own thoughts, yet it vexed her to hear him say it.

  “I know what I am about, monsieur. This path is familiar to me.”

  “No doubt.” His eyes narrowed. “But reckless all the same, and you know it.”

  Did he speak of more than her ill-conceived flight? Had he discerned her identity, that day on the tourney field?

  “I am bold, perhaps.” She tucked ribbons of hair beneath her hood. “But rarely reckless. There is a difference.”

  His own hair slithered forward, decadent and unconstrained, as he slid a practiced hand along the stallion’s leg. “You’re no empty-headed sparrow, a woman of your station.”

  A dangerous thought, if he is Henry’s man.

  Briskly, she gathered her reins. “Pray do not concern yourself on my account. You need not forgo your hunt. I shall return to the castle on foot so my horse sustains no greater damage.”

  When he did not spring to obey, she added, “I know the way, so you need not linger.”

  Abruptly he straightened, shaking back that profligate hair. The bird startled into flight, a flurry of black wings and beak as it raked away. When the knight claimed her reins, apprehension spiked through her. She stared at his hand: sun bronzed, long fingered, rough with use—a fighting man’s hand beyond question, deadly yet graceful, like the man himself.

  “You bid me come and go like a stripling page,” he said with dangerous softness. “Best not become accustomed to it.”

  Prickling with unease, she pondered her situation. Stranded in the wood with only a lame horse and this rogue for company, and darkness coming on. And his presence was no coincidence, she knew it. An intensity lurked beneath his brusqueness that sharpened all her instincts to tingling alert.

  She edged her tone with the frosty courtesy of an earl’s daughter. “I am no common maid, so witless as to lose myself in the forest a mere league from home. I can return without assistance, I assure you.”

  “I don’t make the mistake of thinking you common.”

  “Well, then—”

  “You can’t make the castle on foot before dark. When you don’t, the alarm will be raised. They’ll call me to find you anyway, aye?”

  Her practical mind acknowledged his logic, but his lack of enthusiasm made her speak tartly.

  “God save me from a chivalrous man.”

  “Don’t delude yourself.” His voice turned harsh. “I’m the devil—or have you forgotten?”

  She could not like his abrasive tone. But verily, she had no desire to wander these woods after dark without her sword or Remus to ward her. Grudgingly, she yielded.

  “If you insist upon it, I suppose you may walk with me.”

  “Show more wit than that,” he muttered. “My horse can carry two.”

  Misgiving bloomed as she eyed the black stallion, who sidled and rolled his eyes as the knight tethered her dappled gray behind. ’Tis that horse who is the devil, if you ask me. As if he heard her thoughts, the beast bared his square teeth at her.

  She
eyed the high saddle—not that she feared the horse, though she held the beast in healthy respect. But the thought of sharing a saddle with his rider!

  Reading her expression, the Raven hoisted mocking eyebrows. “Never say you’re frightened.”

  “There is no horse living that frightens me, even this ugly brute. What is he called?”

  “Lucifer.” The Raven captured her in his arms.

  How had she ever thought him cold? The heat of a stoked fire burned in him beneath his layers of fur and wool. The musky sweetness of incense surrounded her as he swung her effortlessly through the air—and she no slip of a girl like the court beauties—and settled her in the saddle.

  She swung a leg across to ride astride. Slitted skirts parted to reveal her knees, sheathed in woolen hose above her boots, before she tugged her skirts into place. Diligently she avoided looking down at him.

  “Fie, monsieur! I do believe you encourage these dark rumors that swirl around you.”

  “Fear can be useful.” He swung up behind her.

  She strained forward to allow him room, but could not avoid sliding back against him. Sinuous legs, clad in leather chausses, closed around Lucifer’s flanks. His arms wrapped around her to catch the reins.

  Breathless, she found her back pressed against his disconcerting chest—while her derriere snugged against the apex of his thighs. Desperate to terminate that scandalous contact, she gripped the pommel and hauled herself forward.

  “Careful.” His warm breath brushed her temple. “You wouldn’t fancy a spill. The horse would be . . . discomfited to find you under his hooves.”

  “No less than I.” Her voice came out husky, which she hoped he would not notice.

  She could almost hear his mighty heart beating—a steady rhythm, unfaltering as the march of time. He possessed an impressive physique, there was no denying that. Whatever else he was, the man was no weakling. His nearness sparked a frenzy of emotion she’d learned to wall away: panic, desperation, an odd euphoria.