Once a Bride Page 6

  Jarred out of her musings, Eloise glanced down at her father’s note. Since finding it, several plans had presented themselves, each as daring as the next, and probably as doomed to failure. Even if she could find a way to sneak out of Lelleford, she doubted she’d locate her father easily, then be able to sneak back in.

  As she saw it, her duty was here, with Lelleford’s people, and her father wouldn’t appreciate her putting the holding at further risk.

  Roland believed himself in charge of her home. He needed to be watched closely, prevented from abusing his power. Besides, the better time to warn her father might be after Kenworth and his forces left, when the gates were no longer guarded so heavily and her father might be easier to find.

  “Nay, I doubt I could leave the castle without anyone noticing. And if the patrols are not able to find him, I doubt I would have better luck. Best I trust my father to do what he feels right.”

  As she must do what she felt right. Which was why she’d allowed Isolde to see the message, knowing the maid would keep the secret because of her brother’s involvement. On the morn she would tell Simon about her father’s plan and seek his counsel on what course of action to take, if any.

  No one else must be allowed to see or hear of the message. Already she’d been careless with it, almost allowed it to fall into enemy hands.

  Eloise slid out of bed and padded across the room. She picked up the pair of tongs from the circular brass plate on which the brazier’s lion-paw feet stood. With the thick parchment firmly clasped in the tongs, she touched a corner to red-hot coals. The edge browned and curled, smoldered and smoked, but didn’t flare.

  Isolde coughed and waved a hand before her face.

  “ ’Tis a most wicked stench, milady.”

  That it was, and would get worse as the substantial sheet made from animal hide burned.

  “Open the shutters.”

  Thunder yet rumbled in the distance, but the worst of the storm had passed, the heavy rain of earlier diminishing to a light shower. A gentle breeze blew a few raindrops into the chamber, and would carry both smoke and stench back out with it.

  Determined to hurriedly destroy the message, Eloise again touched parchment to coals. Again the edge browned and curled. Then the breeze fanned the edge and a tiny flame sparked.

  Fascinated, Eloise watched the fire creep ever closer to her father’s written words, waving smoke away from her face, hearing Isolde’s cough.

  From the passageway came the bellow of “Fire!” The door crashed open, startling her into spinning around. Roland stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with panic.

  Isolde screeched. “Milady, the rush mat!”

  Eloise jerked her attention back to the burning parchment. A piece had broken off, landing on the mat at her bare feet. Before she could collect her thoughts, Roland sped across the room, grabbing the washbasin on his way.

  She backed up and gasped as water hit her chest and arm. The dregs he tossed at her feet.

  One would think an army pounded up the stairway from the noise in the passageway. Simon rounded the doorway. He carried a bucket, as did several others.

  Eloise felt her embarrassment rise clear from her toes. She’d meant to reduce one piece of parchment to ashes. Roland’s intensely disapproving expression accused her of trying to burn down the entire castle.

  Isolde’s hands covered her face. Simon pursed his lips and shook his head. As Eloise wished she could fly out the window to escape, from down the passageway came a roar.

  “What the devil goes on here?”

  The earl. Ye gods.

  Roland’s chest heaved, then he blew out a long breath and tossed the basin onto the bed. “Simon, waylay Kenworth if you can. The danger is past. Everyone can return to their pallets or duties.”

  With a nod, Simon herded her would-be rescuers from the room. Eloise hoped Roland would simply follow the others, a futile wish. The door closed with too loud a bang.

  He tilted his head, his brows arching—a demand for an explanation.

  Eloise raised her chin. “You should be ashamed of yourself. There was no call to raise an alarm.”

  Roland couldn’t believe her temerity. From the moment he’d smelled smoke his heart thudded hard against his ribs. He’d envisioned horrors. The room in flames. The women trapped, or worse. He’d seen and smelled charred flesh during the war with the Scots, and didn’t care to repeat the experience. He could still smell the stench, made worse by the pungent smoke that would linger into the night, perhaps for days.

  He flung a hand toward the door. “Had you been standing guard without and smelled biting smoke, would you not have raised the alarm?”

  She frowned. “You guard my door?”

  “My cursed luck to lose the toss of the dice.”

  “To whom did you lose?”

  “Simon, whose sleep we just interrupted. He takes on the duty later.”

  “Oh. Well, then, perhaps you should have taken a moment to fully assess the danger first so as not to disturb Simon.”

  “One does not take chances with fire.” He glanced at the now wet parchment still clamped in the tongs, assumed it the same parchment she’d picked up off the bed earlier.

  He’d dismissed it as unimportant, too busy noticing the coziness of the chamber, envisioning Hugh curled up with Eloise on the bed.

  “What is that you tried to burn?”

  She eased the tongs behind her. “ ’Tis none of your concern.”

  “Everything that happens at Lelleford is now my concern. Give over.”

  Eloise’s stubborn, beautifully carved chin rose higher. “ ’Tis private. ’Tis also unseemly for you to remain in my bedchamber, where you intrude without my leave.”

  “Perhaps you should have bolted your door!”

  “I have never had the need! No one has ever before dared enter without being invited!”

  He had no intention of begging her pardon. He took an intentionally menacing step toward her, casting her a scowl that had been known to set soldiers to quivering. “Either hand the scroll over or I shall take it from you.”

  “Cur!”

  Was a cur better or worse than a despicable toad? He decided not to ask, just held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Now, Eloise.”

  “You have no right!”

  He wasn’t about to wrestle her for it before a witness. To salvage some of his pride and spare Eloise shame, he issued an order. “Isolde, out.”

  “Again?” the maid mumbled.

  The maid must have caught her cursed insolence from her mistress. “ ’Twill not be for long, I assure you.”

  Eloise’s brow scrunched at that. Perhaps she finally realized he was serious. Surely she didn’t believe he’d issue an order, whether to a maid or a knight’s daughter, and not demand obedience.

  Isolde shuffled toward the door. “Ye mark her, milord, and there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  “Any marks she may suffer will be of her own doing.” Blast, why was he assuring a maid of her mistress’s safety? He didn’t have to explain himself to anyone!

  With the door closed, he found himself alone with an obstinate, glorious female whose wetted nightrail merely veiled her finely shaped, beautifully hued attributes. Dark, hardened nipples poked at gauzy linen, an erotic invitation to a man’s hands. His palm fairly itched to answer.

  Could he seduce her to his will? A tempting thought, and one he dismissed immediately. His mission to protect Lelleford included its inhabitants, most especially the lord’s daughter.

  He truly didn’t want to do battle with her, either mentally or physically. Unfortunately, Eloise utterly refused to accept his authority.

  His hand extended, he walked toward her. For each of his steps forward, she took one back until she bumped into the wall.

  “You have no more room to retreat, my lady. Give over.”

  She gracefully slid down the wall, her white nightrail puddling around her like a cloud. She sat on the parchment, crossed her
arms under her pert breasts. “Begone, villain, or I swear, you shall regret this night’s devilry.”

  Roland inwardly sighed, giving in to the inevitable, already regretting what he must do. “You give me no choice, my lady.”

  “You would not dare touch me. A proper, chivalrous knight would—”

  The challenge proved all the provocation he could stand. He grasped her arms and hauled her up, her attempt to protest lost in a grunt and whoosh of breath when she landed stomach down on his shoulder.

  He placed a steadying hand on the sweetly rounded buttocks pressed against his cheek. His nostrils flared at her scent, his body stirred at the feel of firm flesh beneath his fingers.

  Her fist struck the small of his back, ending an exquisite fantasy of turning his head enough to nuzzle her softness.

  “Put me down, beast!”

  He patted her rump, firmly enough to serve as warning but not hard enough to sting. “You would do well to court my favor right now. I could leave a mark here where no one could see.”

  She went very quiet, very still.

  Roland glanced at the parchment and tongs on the floor. First he’d rid himself of the termagant, then fetch the partially burned parchment.

  Almost reluctant to give up the blessed peace—and to his chagrin, the warmth of her body pressed close even in this untoward position—he turned toward the bed.

  “I am not your enemy, Eloise. Believe me or nay, I will ensure no harm comes to you or your people or the holding in your father’s absence. Your cooperation is not vital, but would go far to make my task easier.”

  She huffed. “Why would I wish to?”

  “Because our goals are the same. We both wish justice done and the holding to prosper.”

  “Except you believe my father is guilty.”

  “Guilty or not, our situation is the same. If you continue to fight me, Eloise, I shall have to take harsh measures with you, and I should hate to do so. Do not force my hand.”

  His hand, he noticed, had moved. Was still moving. Circling her rump, her thigh. Eloise seemed to gentle to the petting, much like a kitten he’d once owned that nipped and scratched until deciding she could trust him not to hurt her. Except Eloise wasn’t a kitten, but a regal lioness with sharper claws and less reason to trust.

  What would she do if he slipped his hand beneath her nightrail, caressed her properly? Could she be tamed to

  his touch, induced to purr? Another intriguing notion he dared not act upon.

  “Pray, put me down.”

  A request, not a demand.

  “If I do, will you stay put? If I must race you across the room for possession of the parchment, I swear I will not be so gentle with you next time.”

  He felt her sigh. Resignation?

  “I concede this skirmish to you, Sir Roland. All I ask is you grant me a boon once you read the message.”

  Roland went cold. A message? From whom? Sir John? By what right did she ask a boon?

  “What might that be?”

  “I truly dislike this awkward position. My head begins to spin.”

  Would she be off balance enough to prevent her from bolting? Perhaps. Besides, he couldn’t stand here all night with Eloise draped over his shoulder, arse end up and completely subject to his whims.

  Whims, he admitted, he had no right to entertain.

  He glanced over to where he’d tossed the washbasin, then eased Eloise down onto the velvet coverlet. She lay before him in all her feminine glory, her eyes wide and slightly glazed, aware of her vulnerability. Sweet mercy, Eloise might as well be naked for all her wetted nightrail hid.

  She took too deep a breath for his comfort, the rise and fall of her breasts mesmerizing, kicking up his pulse.

  If he leaned forward, he might taste the tips of her ripe breasts, indulge in a sumptuous feast—and likely suffer an ache in his loins for the remainder of the night.

  “What boon?”

  “That you carefully consider the consequences before you act on what you learn.”

  “I am a careful man, Eloise.” “Are you? Your brother Hugh was. Of you I am not sure.”

  Once more the vision of Hugh and Eloise tumbling on the deep blue velvet plagued him. Had Hugh gentled the lioness with his caresses, kisses, lovemaking?

  Roland tore his attention back to where it belonged. Without making further assurances, he crossed the room and snatched up the parchment. From the few words not burned away by her fire or smeared by his water, he caught the meaning of the message, knew who must have sent it.

  If Sir John had given his daughter orders before fleeing, then Eloise had known of her father’s whereabouts all along.

  He crumpled the parchment. “You saw your father before he fled. You knew Sir John was not out hunting.”

  “I knew.”

  Her voice came from too close for her to have stayed on the bed. He turned to find her right behind him.

  “Where does he hide?”

  She shook her head. “He ordered me to allow the earl in the gates, do whatever I must to ensure Kenworth did not feel the need to take Lelleford by force of arms. Then he left.” She waved a hand at the parchment. “Beyond that, I know only that he watches for an opportunity to return. Roland, I beseech thee to keep this knowledge from Kenworth.”

  Eloise asked him to join in her conspiracy. What gall! But then, ’twas to be expected of a willful woman, was it not?

  “In God’s name why should I?”

  Her fingers landed lightly on his arm. “Because if the earl knows my father watches, no one at Lelleford is safe, which you claim is your responsibility. Think on it. What might you do if the earl decides to torch the keep or use me as bait to draw my father out? Could you stop him, keep your oath to the king?”

  Damned if the woman didn’t have a point.

  Irritated, he held up the parchment. “How did you come by this?”

  “I found it on my bed. I know not how it came to be there.”

  Dare he believe her?

  “Obviously someone delivered it.”

  She nodded, but volunteered no information. ’Twasn’t truly necessary. If Sir John hadn’t done so himself, then his squire must have, which meant there was another way in and out of the castle than through either the main or postern gates.

  “Who else knows of this message?”

  “Isolde.”

  “No one else? Simon? One of the other knights?”

  She shook her head, and he wondered again whether or not to believe her. Eloise might look sincere, but she’d tricked him, fooled everyone.

  ’Twas several hours before dawn, time enough to decide what to do with the information. As he’d told Eloise, he tended to be a careful man, and he walked a thin line here between aiding a fugitive from justice and keeping faith with the king’s direct order.

  “I will give you my answer on the morn.”

  Eloise removed her hand from his sleeve. “I will pray you decide rightly.”

  Roland doubted he’d trust his decision to prayer. ’Twould take very careful consideration over what to tell, or not tell, the perverse earl.

  Chapter Five

  ELOISE WARILY eased down the stairway. ’Struth, she’d been tempted to hide out in her bedchamber, but resisted the urge as unacceptable cowardice.

  She needed to learn what had transpired during her restless night spent curious as to how someone had delivered her father’s message, and frightened over what Roland would decide to do with the information. The uncertainty had her stomach in knots.

  All the while she’d also wrestled with her annoying reaction to Roland’s manhandling.

  Mercy, the man was strong. He’d hefted her up off the floor and tossed her over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a sack of grain, in a display of both power and frustration with what she had to admit was her callow behavior.

  Instead of childishly sitting on the half-burned scroll, she should have tried to strike a bargain for his cooperation.


  Worse, after he eased her down onto the bed, she’d sensed his lust. Fully prepared for him to lower down atop her, she’d felt no fear, only strange, tingling sensations thrumming through her entire being.

  ’Twas most bothersome to admit she’d not uttered one word in protest or raised a finger in defense. Inexcusable.

  To Roland’s credit, he’d won his struggle for control by remembering his role as her protector. This morn she was counting on that same strong sense of duty, on his honor as a knight, to render her indiscretion harmless. She never should have told him of her concerns about Kenworth’s intentions toward her father.

  Eloise glanced around the hall, noting the unusual lack of people gathered at the trestle tables to break their fast. Of Lelleford’s knights, only Simon was present. She cringed at the sight of two guards garbed in the earl’s livery standing near the door, but neither Kenworth nor Roland was about.

  Relieved, but confused, she slid onto the bench next to Simon. He looked tired, likely from having his sleep disturbed before taking his turn guarding her door last night, which didn’t make sense to her. Shouldn’t Kenworth’s knights act as her guards? Befuddling.

  “Where is everyone?”

  Simon swallowed a mouthful of pottage. “Kenworth paced the hall until the first ray of dawn. He is so sure of his trackers he wanted to be with the patrol when they find Sir John. Some of our knights are with him, others are out with St. Marten, hunting for Brother Walter.”

  Another mystery. Where the devil could the monk have gone off to, and why did he hide? She silently wished Roland good fortune, hoped he met with success before Kenworth returned. She had a few questions for the monk.

  “I am surprised Kenworth allowed our knights to leave the hall.”

  “Kenworth fears we will conspire if left alone together too long. We are all held hostage to the others’ good behavior.” He raised an eyebrow. “Yours, too. I beg you, milady, to restrain yourself.”

  As she hadn’t last eve, he meant.

  Since Kenworth hadn’t burst into her bedchamber, she assumed Simon had given the earl some explanation of why several people tramped around in the passageway lugging buckets of water. Another point she must concede to Roland—had she stood outside the chamber and smelled smoke, she’d have raised an alarm just as he had done.