The Bride Tournament (17 page)

A sorrowful chorus begged him to stay.

“’Tis early. Stay just a few moments more, my lord,” Isabel said. She bumped into Mary in her eagerness to get close to him.

“I beg pardon, but duty calls, my beauties. Duty calls.”

His duty to his wife.

As he strode to the door, he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder at Eleanor. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open slightly, as if she were stunned. The costly glass goblet dropped from her fingers and shattered into myriad pieces.

Certain that all could read her face and see jealousy mixed with embarrassment, Eleanor didn’t wait for a servant but bent low to pick up the shards amidst concerned murmurs of those nearby. A sliver sliced her finger, her blood crimson bright against the pale glass.

Before she could blink, Richard knelt beside her, a pristine cloth in one hand. With the other, he took her hand and examined the cut. His fingers felt hot as brands against her skin. She couldn’t help but be pleased that despite the attentions of five willing women he remained attuned to her. That he’d come to her.

“No glass remaining that I can see,” he said. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” She shook her head.

Gently he held the cloth over her wound, then wrapped it around her hand. He helped her to her feet, but she wavered, leaning against him.

“It’s nothing, truly,” she said. “But thank you. Thank you for caring.”

He lifted a hand as if to touch her cheek. She leaned closer, then pulled back. Her body followed her thoughts, toward him and then away.

He dropped his hand.

“Why did Richard run to her aid? He has us to care for now,” Isabel whined loudly.

“She told us she was giving him up, but maybe she wants to keep him,” Blanche said with evident scorn.

Richard put a finger under her chin and raised her head until she met his penetrating gaze. “Do you? Do you want to keep me as your husband?”

Despite his low tone, it seemed everyone present heard. The silence in the room was absolute, every ear awaiting her answer.

A moment ripe for change, suspended in time.

She could call off the bridal tournament. All she had to do was agree with Blanche. She could laugh and say, “Ah, yes, you promising brides have shown me the error of my ways.” She could apologize sincerely for her indecisiveness and say at last she’d chosen the husband she wanted. Or she could flee, avoiding any answer.

Those options would make her look the fool. Should she care what others thought if she ended up with what she wanted? What, who, was that?

Her interest in Richard was too new, too raw, to abandon her elaborate, and now very public, plan. If she gave in to jealousy, she might regret it later. Then, with the tournament cancelled, if her plea for an annulment failed, she’d be trapped in an unwanted marriage.

If only Arthur were here. If she could see him, talk to him, she’d know if he remained the choice of her heart. She closed her eyes, willing him to appear in her mind’s eye. There he sat on her favorite bench in her garden at Middleworth, with his familiar straight blond hair, blue eyes, and welcoming smile….

But wait, who was that sitting next to him?

Richard. Holding out his hand.

“Eleanor, are you well?”

Her disturbing vision burst like a bubble. Her thoughts crowded her tighter than the avid courtiers surrounding her. The sensation of Richard’s arm sliding protectively across her back unsettled her. His hand closed around her waist, holding her securely in place.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t think I am.”

Another night without sleep. Richard threw back the covers, appreciating the cool breeze on his skin. The strain of his new marriage combined with the urgency of his obligations to the king and his new estates sent thoughts racing through his mind swifter than his fastest steed. Eleanor’s steady breathing should soothe him, but served as a reminder of the distance between them.

Moonlight streamed through the windows and set her aglow. Her fair hair gleamed. The sheet clung to her, outlining soft curves he yearned to touch.

Eleanor was truly beautiful in any light. If only she wanted him as he did her, wanted him as her husband in truth. He’d had no choice but to wed this woman who yearned for another and for whom he was now cursed with ever-present desire.

She stirred, dislodging the sheet. The moon revealed the contours of her breasts and their gentle movements as she breathed. He grew hard remembering the feel of them beneath his fingers.

Shadows concealed her beauty, taunting him. Closer he slid, then closer still, wanting to be near her. Her scent of sweet lemons floated up. Once again the moon illuminated his delectable wife.

Whose eyes were now open.

Her gaze locked with his, jolting him. Her eyes widened slightly and her mouth dropped open. Richard’s body responded anew. His skin prickled as if he could feel her stare moving over his thighs up to his chest, then down again. Her eyes widened as she focused on the evidence of his desire. When she met his gaze, hers was replete with invitation.

Unable to resist, he bent his head and kissed her. A faint sigh escaped her as his mouth moved over hers. He felt her sleepy warmth beneath the fine linen gown.

Eleanor clutched his arms, then ran her fingers through his hair. His tongue explored her mouth. With each heartbeat, he needed her more.

Then she put her hands flat on his chest. To stop him?

He broke their kiss to look at her and saw confusion mixed with passion.

“Why am I so drawn to you?” Her voice was a mere whisper.

He smoothed her hair. “Desire knows no reason. Nor can it be forced. Thus when found, should be cultivated like the rare flower it is.”

“Is that another quote?” she asked with a smile.

He loved her smile. “’Tis mine own, but I’d be honored should you wish to repeat it.” He bent to kiss her again.

“But why you?” she persisted before his lips met hers.

She meant, he presumed with annoyance, instead of Arthur.

At least she found him attractive, though she fought it with all her might. He had to transform her attraction into ardor strong enough to bind her to him. If only he had more time alone with her without the flurry of court life combined with her preparations for the foolhardy tournament.

He’d make the most of the moments they had, while she was where she belonged. Next to him, in their bed.

“This can’t be right.” Eleanor shook her head. Yet as if of their own accord, her hands slid up to clasp his neck. Her fingers threaded into his hair. Holding him close. He liked that. “We shouldn’t.”

“We’re married,” he countered. “This couldn’t be more right. It couldn’t feel more right.”

Richard tilted his hips against her so she’d know his need. He caressed her shoulders, then ran his hands down her back, slowly, soothingly. She didn’t resist.

He had to taste her again. Their mouths blended in a deep kiss, hard and demanding. Their tongues met, hers tentative at first, then growing bolder, exploring. He held her close, then his fingers sought her breasts through her gown, stroking the undersides. He squeezed gently, appreciating how her breasts filled his hands. She was so soft, so tantalizing.

A gasp escaped her as he toyed with a firm nipple. She arched her back, yielding to his touch. Her eyes were open, wide with sensual surprise.

“You like that.”

“I, well, yes,” she admitted.

Her arousal heightened his. Richard appreciated the irony of his success. He’d tried to woo her, to court her as gentleman should court a lady, and had only fallen deeper under her spell. To awaken her interest, all he’d had to do was take off his clothing. Kiss her. Touch her.

Hunger surged through him. But he didn’t want to pounce like an overeager youth. Patience, he cautioned.

Before she could protest, he tugged her gown up and over her head, eager to see all of her. Her eyes had darkened to deepest violet, her smooth, white skin and gentle curves completely exposed to him for the first time. She lay still as he gazed upon her, from her ankles to the golden hairs between her legs, up from her perfect breasts to her reddened lips.

“You are so beautiful,” he said.

The urge to kiss her breasts was overwhelming. He bent his head to each soft mound with reverence. His tongue meandered. When he reached the peak, his mouth closed over her.

Eleanor jumped, dislodging him. She sat up, hair aswirl. She scrabbled for her sleeping gown, then tossed it over her head. Staring at the linen folds as though they contained answers to her every question, she gripped the fabric close.

“We can’t do this,” Eleanor said hesitantly, as if she searched for a valid reason. In an instant, the glow disappeared from her eyes. “’Twould not be fair to the other brides.”

“I don’t care about the other brides.” Richard bit back a variety of curses. “I’m married to you.” He’d been so close to success. “You mean to continue with your tournament, even now?”

“Yes?” Her answer sounded like a question.

“I know you enjoy talking with me. I know you enjoy my kisses,” he persisted. “Why do you fight me?”

“You know why. Don’t make me say it.” Her fingers tightened on the robe.

“Say it. Go ahead, Eleanor. Make me believe every word that comes out of your mouth.”

“Because I still plan to wed Arthur.”

“Exactly as I thought.” Her statement should’ve stung, but didn’t. “I don’t believe you. You say that by rote. There’s no emotion or conviction. Stubbornness makes you refuse to see the truth.” Richard flopped onto his back, unable to conceal a grimace of unsatisfied desire.

“I shall do what I set out to do,” Eleanor said. “Why is that so difficult for you to accept? You look ill of a sudden. Shall I fetch you a compress?”

Despite his aching flesh, he smiled with satisfaction. She did care for him, even if she couldn’t admit it yet. And her obvious ignorance proved she’d never lain with another man, never before experienced the intimacies they’d shared. Not even with her beloved Arthur. As it should be, but among long-betrothed couples, often was not.

Eleanor clearly tried to resist the wondrous sensations he evoked in her. Refused to accept their marriage. He could be just as stubborn as she. Richard determined to renew his gentle assault on her until he satisfied needs she didn’t even know she had. Then she would be his wife in truth.

Then she’d cry off her tournament.

Tomorrow night couldn’t arrive soon enough.

Eleanor returned to bed, but rolled away from Richard. She couldn’t face her husband, partly from embarrassment at her response to his caresses. Her entire body hummed the way her harp resonated after the strings were plucked. That she wanted more made her cheeks burn.

Surely she wasn’t so shallow as to fall for his attractive form alone. Yet when she’d opened her eyes and feasted on his bare chest, the way it tapered to his waist, his flat stomach, his—she felt herself blush—his maleness standing proud, strange yearning flooded her. She’d wanted to press herself against him and feel his skin against hers. To know what it would be like to have him inside her. Even now, all she wanted was to curl up close and have him hold her as they slept. To feel safe and secure in his arms.

Thank the Lord she’d found the strength to stop before they’d gone any further. Was this a test to see if she could remain loyal to Arthur even as Richard tempted her? Everything had changed…too much, too quickly.

Earlier in the day on her way through the bailey, she’d watched a group of boys playing with marbles. She understood the poor toy’s plight: being slammed by another marble, knocked about against your will, landing somewhere you never intended to go but couldn’t stop yourself, having to adjust to your new situation before being smacked again when you least expected it.

How could she keep Richard and her increasing desire for him at bay until she knew for sure what she wanted?

Chapter 12

Encouraged by Eleanor’s response to his kisses, Richard spent the day half-hard anticipating the night to come. Never before had he been so enthralled by a woman. Because he couldn’t have her? Owen would laugh for hours if Richard confessed how much he yearned for his wife. Perhaps any man would want a woman who so frequently tempted but had yet to fulfill her sexual promise. How much was Eleanor the woman, and how much was needing to consummate in truth? The need to be in control?

He couldn’t be sure.

By the time they were alone in their chamber, he was more than ready. Had she spent her day in the same state, or had her thoughts been of the tournament? Of Arthur? He prayed not as he stood, waiting, clad only in tight hose.

His wife looked at everything but him, as she had on their wedding night. She peered into her clothes chest, then arranged the contents. Yet the silence wasn’t awkward, but tinged with anticipation. Next she focused on the ewer of water and brass basin for washing as she prepared for bed. If she didn’t stop, she might rub her skin raw on the linen towel.

Richard crossed to stand behind her. She started, but didn’t turn, rigid as a soldier on watch. He sighed. Clearly they wouldn’t pick up where they’d left off. He’d have to melt her resistance afresh.