Authors: The Temptress
“You are so modest, ’tis fetching in a maiden,” he said and Esmeraude was startled by his sudden charm. “Perhaps you would do a small favor for me, then.”
“I have done your favor.”
“Nay! You must see my palfrey,” he insisted. “She is the finest chestnut in all of France, my master says as much, and she is gentle and she is fleet of foot and -” he heaved a sigh “- and she has need of a name. I would be honored if you would bestow upon her a fitting name.”
Esmeraude gritted her teeth, sorely tempted by the prospect of seeing a horse - for she was overly fond of horses - but well aware that time slipped away. Célie folded her arms across her chest, complacent and smug.
“Name her Lightning if she is so fleet,” Esmeraude said. She tried to return to her boat, but Michael had managed to step between her and her goal.
“That is no way to name a steed!” Andrew cried. “You must see her first to pick a fitting name, then see whether she likes it. Please! You must come and see her, I beg of you.”
’Twas true enough that Esmeraude was curious. Her sister Jacqueline had told her how beauteous the steeds of France could be. Indeed, Jacqueline’s spouse, Angus, had a fine destrier as well as a mare from Persia that was graceful beyond belief.
Esmeraude did wonder what manner of horses her knight had.
Surely it could not take long.
“Only for a moment,” she said, impulsively claiming the boy’s hand. She walked so quickly into the shadow of the woods that he had to trot behind her.
Andrew’s palfrey was indeed a lovely beast, far finer than any in her parents’ stables. The mare was of deepest brown, its mane and tail nigh black. There was a streak upon its brow, a mark that further justified Esmeraude’s suggested name, and it had one white sock. It nuzzled Esmeraude’s neck, taking great interest in her hair and Esmeraude was so enchanted that she forgot her need for haste.
The knight’s destrier, too, was a marvel to Esmeraude, being a remarkably large beast of dappled silver and white. Angus’ mount was blacker than midnight and she much preferred the hue of this one. The destrier stomped when the three palfreys fetched more of the attention than it evidently thought they should. It stretched its nose out to Esmeraude so inquisitively that she had to scratch its ears, as well.
“His name is Argent,” Andrew contributed.
“It seems a most fitting name.”
“Michael brushes him. I am only allowed to polish weaponry.” Andrew heaved a sigh. “My knight has far too many blades and pieces of armor for my taste. His hauberk is most vexing to coax to a shine, but he says that I do it well.”
Esmeraude smiled as the destrier pushed its soft nose into her hand demandingly. “Aye, you do a fine job,” she murmured, remembering how the knight’s armor had glinted in the moonlight.
All four of the knight’s horses were fine creatures, so affectionate and curious that Esmeraude had to greet each in turn. They were well tended and well fed, another good sign of the knight’s character.
“Why are there four steeds? Does one carry provisions?” Esmeraude was impressed by the knight’s apparent wealth, for such steeds were costly both to acquire and to maintain.
“They all carry provisions of some amount,” the boy informed her, obviously pleased that he knew more of such matters than she.
“But does your knight not ride Argent?”
Andrew clicked his tongue. “A destrier is ridden only in battle, at least by any knight who can afford to live properly. ’Tis called a destrier, for the knight leads the warhorse by his right hand, whilst riding another steed.”
“Oh.” Esmeraude had not known as much.
“Such steeds are wrought so heavily for battle that they tire on long journeys. Argent is better prepared to do his duty when he has traveled with only his saddle upon his back.”
’Twas interesting, to learn such a detail, and Esmeraude had no trouble pretending to be an ignorant peasant maid. The horses were marvelous. She was nuzzled and nibbled, and she had her hair bitten, but she loved every moment of it. She was there far longer than she had anticipated.
A sudden splash made her remember her plan to be quickly away.
“Oh, nay, I must depart!” Esmeraude fairly fled back toward Célie and their boat.
“But wait!” Andrew cried, racing behind her. “You have not named my steed!”
“I must hasten! I will be late. You choose her name.” Esmeraude plunged through the last veil of the trees and stopped short.
She already was too late.
A knight, her knight, had pulled her boat fully onto the shore and tipped it so that it might dry in the sun. The oars were stowed high out of reach and Célie stood back, watching with undisguised satisfaction as Esmeraude took in the scene before her.
Then the knight turned slowly, his smile brightening as he spied her and his eyes turning a deeper hue of blue.
“My lady,” he whispered, then blew her a kiss from his fingertips. “Well met.”
* * *
Esmeraude’s heart began to thunder and she could not take another step. She heard the splash of oars as the second boat was rowed back toward Mull, but had eyes only for the knight before her.
Perhaps Bayard’s mortality was not such a fault, after all. He seemed vibrantly alive this morn, as vital as a dancing flame. He was taller and broader than she had recalled, no less striking in sunlight than in moonlight.
“I did it!” Andrew cried behind her. “I knew you would come, my lord.”
A smile touched Bayard’s firm lips, though his gaze did not waver from Esmeraude. His words were softly uttered and filled with pleasure, his voice deep. “Aye, Andrew, you did very well.”
In the darkest corner of her heart, Esmeraude could not claim to be disappointed to see this knight again. Bayard, crusader and companion of kings, had pursued her.
Bayard. She whispered his name, savoring the taste of it upon her tongue. Bayard had lent chase to her like a hero in an old tale.
His hair was wet and his face was ruddy, and Esmeraude knew that he had rowed hard to come quickly ashore. She could smell the clean tang of his perspiration. ’Twas thrilling to realize that ’twas important to him to pursue her and to do so with such haste. The growth of dark stubble upon his chin made him look wild and unpredictable, a rogue come to claim what he already knew to be his own.
He smiled as if he read her very thoughts, then closed the distance between them with easy strides. His gaze swept over her, leaving heat in its wake, and when he lifted one hand toward her, Esmeraude could not take a breath. Aye, she remembered the sure touch of that hand upon her flesh and tingled in anticipation of another gentle caress.
His fingertip slid along the gathered neck of her chemise, the linen visible above the neckline of her kirtle, his caress leaving no disappointment. Esmeraude inhaled sharply at the heat of his touch and his eyes twinkled as he evidently noted her response.
His hand slipped up her throat, leaving fire in the wake of his touch, and she stood spellbound. His fingertips lingered upon the wild pulse of her heart, then slid into the hair at her nape. He cupped her chin in his hand, a gesture of startling possessiveness yet one that felt perfectly right all the same.
His eyes were blue beyond blue, his smile made her heart race as quickly in sunlight as it had in the deepest night. His dark lashes were so thick and long that many a maid would have been envious of them, yet the crookedness of his smile and the satisfaction in his gaze was all male.
His other hand slipped over her hair in a caress, gently tucked one curl behind her ear, then he cupped her head in his hands. Esmeraude shivered at the familiarity of his touch, and was surprised to find herself with naught to say.
“Why did you leave so abruptly?”
“I thought ’twas better I be gone when you awakened.” Esmeraude’s words were husky and she felt her face heat.
Bayard shook his head and smiled. “Cover your hair, lady mine,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming, “for you are a maid unclaimed no longer.”
Esmeraude knew what he would do but a moment before he did it, and she could think of no better way for them to meet.
Bayard ducked his head and kissed her possessively, blocking both sunlight and reason with his persuasive touch. Célie had named the solution rightly, but for the wrong reason. Aye, Esmeraude and Bayard were destined to be together, like lovers doomed to meet and love for all time. Esmeraude, knowing that her quest had borne the fruit she desired beyond all else, surrendered fully to his embrace.
Just as she had foretold, her heart had known him from the first.
Bayard was hers and hers alone.
* * *
Esmeraude’s kiss banished Bayard’s every doubt. He had seen her uncertainty upon meeting him again, but he was not the manner of man who abandoned women once he had seduced them. To his relief, Esmeraude was hale and she was not angered with him. Indeed, her kiss shook him to his soul, the taste of the salt upon her lips and her very willingness making him inclined to please her once again.
But they would have years for such delights, and time was of the essence this day. He broke their kiss reluctantly, smiled for her, then beckoned to the boys. He gave commands to saddle the horses and pack their bags, even as his lady leaned sweetly against him.
“But where do we go?” she asked.
“To Ceinn-beithe, of course.” Bayard spoke crisply, as was his wont. “The nuptials must be arranged with all haste - I should prefer this very afternoon if your mother is amenable - and then we shall have to ride hard to the south.” He sighed and frowned, disliking the demands upon his time when he had need of haste to meet the king. “I suppose tomorrow would be the soonest that we might depart...”
Esmeraude pulled back in alarm. “But how do you know my mother?”
Bayard smiled and touched her cheek with a reassuring fingertip. “I was introduced to her, of course.” Her eyes widened and he hastened to reassure her, assuming that she misunderstood his meaning. He patted her shoulder. “You need not fret about any impropriety. ’Twas all most acceptably done.”
The lady, however, was not reassured. She stepped away from his side. “But this means that you know who I am!”
“Of course I know who you are.” Bayard chuckled at her astonishment. “You are Esmeraude of Ceinn-beithe, the bride whose hand I was invited to compete to win. And I have won you for you have chosen me and thus we shall be wed. ’Tis as simple as that.”
He turned away, determined to make haste. Aye, he would shave and change before they rode to Ceinn-beithe, so that their nuptial vows could be exchanged immediately. Presumably, his lady could change quickly on their arrival at her family home.
But Esmeraude was not prepared to end their conversation so soon. She tugged at his sleeve. “You knew who I was last evening,” she said, her words more of an accusation than a question.
Bayard stared at her, unable to determine the reason for her evident dismay. “Aye, of course I did,” he agreed carefully.
“But how? How could you have known? I did not name myself, I did not declare myself, I am dressed in garb that is tattered and dirty beyond all!”
Bayard touched her chin with an affectionate fingertip, not minding that she was so innocent as this. “But you walk like a queen, my fair one, and you expect men to notice you. No peasant girl would do as much, and truly there could not have been two noble maidens with a maid in attendance upon that isle last night.”
His reasoning explained most clearly in his view, Bayard laid aside his belt. He thought to ask her to turn aside, so that she would not see his bare flesh while he dressed, but then wondered if he made much of naught.
His hesitation only gave the lady the time to poke him hard in the chest. “You knew! You knew my name and you took me to your bed apurpose!”
Bayard considered her flashing eyes and could not imagine what irked her so. “Aye.” He arched a brow. “You came to my bed willingly, if I recall aright.”
“But I thought you were my destined lover.”
Bayard chuckled. “And I am. Now, grant me a moment to shave and then we shall share the happy news with your parents.”
But Esmeraude stepped into his path and propped her hands upon his hips. “Why?” she demanded.
“Why?” Bayard echoed, not comprehending. He was beginning to understand that this woman would not be a quiet bride, who tended to her needle until she was called.
He supposed he should have been more troubled than he was at the prospect. Truth be told, this Esmeraude was far more interesting than most beauties he had met.
He liked her passion and unpredictability, much to his own surprise. Those traits lent a certain fire to their exchanges, and ’twas not unwelcome
“Why did you bed me? Why would you wed a stranger so willingly? Do you desire an estate so much as this?”
The prospect seemed to irk her so much that Bayard was nigh tempted to lie. But ’twas not his choice to have lies between himself and his bride even before they were wed.
“Aye,” he said gently. “The holding is of particular import to me.” He had not expected her to be pleased, but her eyes flashed in fury.