Three Nights With the Princess Read online

  Her open scorn for his person and her denial of the valor of his deed and his right to a reward turned his countenance thunderous. It infuriated him that he’d violated his own mercenary principles and rescued her with no guarantee of profit, only to encounter her temper and arrogance yet again! He stepped back, appraising both her garments and what lay within them with a scathing glare. And with both his manly and his mercenary pride ablaze, he vowed to have what he wanted of her.

  “On second thought . . . how do I know your old father would be pleased to see a troublesome, ungrateful chit like you? Like as not, he’d show me the sole of his boot for hauling you back to him.” Stroking the beard around his mouth, he leaned back on one leg, watching her sputter. “Since I have no assurance of future gain, I must take what profit I can now. And you have nothing, my stubborn little cat, except . . .”

  He paused, letting his gaze fasten hotly on the elegant lines of her body, and smiling with a carefully calibrated blend of greed and lust. “There is one other thing that would satisfy your debt to me, demoiselle,” he said slowly, drawing out the words. And demanding it, he realized, might very well convince her to change her mind about promising him a reward in silver.

  “A night with you.” With vengeful satisfaction he noted that the color began to drain from her reddened cheeks. “Spend this night with me, in my blankets, and I will consider your debt paid.”

  “You cannot be serious—”

  “Oh, but I am, demoiselle,” he said calmly. “And I am determined to have a reward.”

  “Sleep with you? In your blankets?” she snapped, feeling panicky at the thought. “I’d sooner sleep in a hog wallow.” She tried to shove past him, but he contracted around her, trapping her back against the rock once more. She shrank from contact with his massive chest and arms, and found herself pressed hard against the rock.

  “Unfortunately for you, the nearest pigsty is miles away, demoiselle. I am the next best thing. I’ll have your clothes,” he declared irritably, “or your presence in my blankets this very night.”

  This night. The full sense of his demand suddenly smacked her square between the eyes. One night! She felt Lillith’s shocked gaze on her but dared not meet it. Thera was achingly aware that “Countess” was more than Lillith’s title . . . it was also a description of her foremost duty as royal companion.

  Throughout the sprawling reach of the Church of Rome, there were still disputes about what constituted a binding marriage . . . both in law and in the Church’s eyes. But in Mercia, the question had been settled long ago. If a man and a woman spent seven nights in each other’s arms, it was considered proof of both desire and commitment, and the couple were declared legally wedded. Seven nights made a marriage; no more, no less.

  But since the royal heir’s night-partner would also become king or queen of the realm, verification was required. The heir’s nights in a lover’s arms had to be confirmed by an appointed court officer . . . the official “counter” or “countess” of the realm. Thus, of all the things the huge barbarian could demand of her, nights were the most costly . . . for Countess Lillith would be there to count them.

  Thera raked a desperate look around the barren, rock-strewn hillside, realizing she had no idea where they were or how she and Lillith would get back to their mountain home, even if they could escape. The insufferable barbarian was as big as a barn, as quick as a ferret, and as strong as an ox; she hadn’t a prayer of getting away from him. Worse still, he was ruthless and greedy, and something about the way his golden catlike eyes roamed her made her feel naked and vulnerable. And there was nothing she hated more than feeling out of control . . . at another’s mercy.

  She seemed to have no choice. A night. She would have to agree to his cold-blooded ransom and try to find some way to get out of it before the sun went down.

  “Very well, you shall have your night,” she said through clenched teeth. Lillith’s gasp echoed in every chamber of her heart. “But on one condition.”

  “And what is that, demoiselle?” he said, surprised by her capitulation.

  “That you find the road to Brittany and set us upon it, come morning,” she brazenly demanded.

  “Consider it done,” he said, his gaze assessing her rising resolve. Brittany, he thought. At least now he knew her destination. But he still had no idea whether she was running to or from her home.

  “Now”—she held out her hands to him, once more in control of herself—“cut these cursed ropes and help me back onto my horse.”

  He was caught speechless for a moment. She’d just been forced to surrender in a fierce clash of wills, and with her next breath she was issuing orders as if she’d been born the Queen of Constantinople! He reached for her hands and one of his daggers. When he had sawed through the ropes, he held her wrist a moment longer to make her look at him.

  “Your name, demoiselle. I would know what to call you when I meet you in my blankets tonight.” The flush of her cheeks was the only hint of emotion as she jerked her hand from his.

  “Thera,” she said shortly, annoyed that she was unable to control her blushing. “Thera of Aric.” She turned on her heel and stalked on unsteady legs to her horse. She waited by the stirrup for a hand up, then turned to see what was keeping him. He was standing with his fists propped at his waist, studying her.

  “And do you not wish to know the name of the man who will hold you in his arms this night?”

  “Nay,” she declared flatly, tossing her head and praying the duplicity in her heart didn’t show in her face.

  But he caught a glimmer of distress in her eyes and sensed that she resisted his name to annoy him . . . and perhaps as a charm against thoughts of what would pass between them that night. With that insight he refused to rise to her baiting, and he picked up her cloak and strolled closer, holding it out to her.

  “This is Gasquar LeBruit.” He swept a hand to his barrel-chested companion, who grinned and jerked a nod. “And I am Saxxe Rouen.” His voice lowered as he leaned a hairbreadth closer. “Mark the name well, demoiselle. By morning you will be sighing it with pleasure.” When she snatched her cloak from his hands, he laughed and turned to Gasquar.

  “You’d better give your demoiselle back the use of her hands, my friend. We have a long way to ride this day. And I wish to make camp early tonight.”

  * * *

  “Lost her again?” the Duc de Verville roared, flinging a full cup of wine against the silk-draped wall of his tent, outside the city of Nantes. He thrust to his feet and glowered at the captain of his personal guard, who gripped his scabbard and braced.

  “My men found her fleeing the city and seized her . . . and another woman with her. Two of the men with her were killed. Two others were wounded . . .” Scallion’s emotionless eyes slid from his liege lord’s florid face, and the duc pounced on his hesitation like a striking hawk.

  “And the others? How many were there?” he demanded.

  “I am not sure, mon duc. Three, perhaps four others.” He swallowed hard. “They . . . escaped.”

  “Damnation!” de Verville exploded. “Can those pissheads do nothing right?”

  “They did capture the demoiselle’s trunks,” Scallion offered warily.

  “Trunks? What in the dregs of Hell would I—” He halted halfway through overturning a small folding table and set it back down as a canny look stole over his face. Straightening, he tugged down his gold-embroidered black tunic and took a deep breath. “Have the trunks brought to me at once.”

  De Verville spent more than an hour sorting through the elusive demoiselle’s belongings. Nothing in those three vessels bore her name or the seal of a known royal house, but he did manage to learn a surprising number of things about his lovely quarry.

  All of her gowns were made of the finest silk, delicately embroidered, and her surcoats were made of an ingenious blend of silk and wool and were trimmed in silk cording embroidered with gold wire as thin as angel’s hair. Every garment in her trunks was white
. A curiously aesthetic taste, he thought, and one which demanded a fat purse. She wore chemises made of tantalizingly thin silk, and her girdles, crispinets, and slippers were all of intricate, sometimes whimsical, design . . . decorated in a style he had never seen before. Her jewelry was simple but elegant, and she groomed herself with a beautiful silver brush and hand mirror . . . adorned with a crest unfamiliar to him, but containing elements used as royal devices.

  If she was not royalty, she was certainly close to it, his “princess” in white.

  He lifted one of her chemises into the shaft of light streaming through the tent opening, and conjured the sight of soft naked curves wrapped in that diaphanous cloth. A powerful gust of desire shuddered through him, and he crumpled the weblike silk in his fist. Rising from his cot, he shouted for Scallion. When the grim captain ducked into his tent, moments later, the duc shook the garment in his face.

  “You said they fled to the north? Then send some of your men to search for her. Tell them there will be a fat reward for locating my princess.” He paced away, his black eyes darting with calculation. “I had planned to pay the gouty Count de Aveillard a visit next. Even now a legion of my men announce my intentions throughout his villages. When we decamp here, we will march north, into Brittany as planned, and search for her along the way.” He halted, savoring his inevitable successes. “The king is occupied in the east and reluctant to move against me. By the end of summer, I shall make most of Brittany my possession . . . and this princess as well.”

  Chapter Five

  A night in his arms. The words circled in Thera’s head, tying both her thoughts and her stomach in knots. As they rode through the gently rolling forests, fields, and upland valleys, she scoured the countryside for signs of an estate or village which might offer refuge or protection from her rescuer. But they encountered only a lone herder’s cottage, at mid-morning, and even that was deserted. The endless plodding of the horses and the sidelong glances Saxxe Rouen cast her way began to wear on her nerves.

  Past midday, the sun started down toward the hills ahead of them, confirming that they were traveling north by west . . . toward Brittany and her home in the mountains. It irritated her that the wretched barbarian seemed to be fulfilling her condition while she was feverishly searching for a way to escape honoring his. It irritated her even more that her eyes strayed more than once to his muscular thighs, gripping his mount’s sides, and his large, corded hands with their leather wrist guards, holding his reins with authority. She shivered and jerked her eyes from those long, bronzed fingers. At least seven layers of dirt on them, she told herself.

  When they stopped for water by a rocky stream, Saxxe Rouen and his companion dismounted and led their horses to drink without so much as a helping hand for their unwilling companions. They knelt to drink and dunked their shaggy heads, shaking off the excess water afterward. Like dogs, she thought.

  But as she watched from the back of her mount, her eyes fixed on the sunlit droplets sliding down his broad, mounded chest and bare arms. She had sometimes seen her subjects working in the fields without their shirts, but none of them looked anything remotely like him. He was massive and bronzed, yet his limbs were smoothly shaped and neatly tapered. When he moved she was enthralled by the way his muscles and sinews worked beneath his skin. Lillith had to say her name twice before she responded and managed a sliding dismount.

  “He is as big as a house,” Lillith murmured for her ears only as they knelt together on a rock, scooping handfuls of water to drink. She had seen the way Thera’s eyes lingered on the one called Saxxe Rouen.

  “But he smells more like a stable,” Thera countered with a twitch of the nose.

  “What will we do, Princess?” Lillith sat back on her knees and dried her wet hands on her fine woolen surcoat, watching Thera closely.

  “We shall have to find a way home, that’s what,” the princess said determinedly, shaking her wet hands, then wiping them on her embroidered surcoat with a pained look. She glanced over her shoulder at the male forms sprawled on the grassy bank across the way. “We seem to be traveling in the right direction, but Heaven knows how far we are from the village of LeBeau.” She thought of her loyal subject and agent who ran a tavern and a stable in the village that marked the trading road to Brittany. “If we can make our way there, Thomas Rennet will provide us protection and an escort back to Mercia.”

  “And what of this night you agreed to . . . with him?” Lillith finally raised the question weighing on both their minds. “A night with a man, Princess . . . you have never had a night before.”

  “And I certainly do not intend to have my first with an off-eyed ox who doesn’t even know which end of a tunic goes over his head! I shall deal with him . . . never you fear.” She cast another glance across the stream at Saxxe Rouen and found her gaze caught unexpectedly in his. His mouth curled knowingly at one end, as if to say that he knew she spoke of him. Jerking her head to break that disturbing contact, she shoved to her feet, muttering for Lillith’s ears alone.

  “I am a royal princess . . . heir to a throne . . . ruler of a kingdom. I will not be mounted and ridden in an open field like some brood mare.” Her eyes narrowed fiercely. “Certainly not by him. He’s not wearing spurs.”

  As Thera stepped across the rocks to the stream bank, Lillith stood frowning after her, thinking of the way the barbarian’s huge war-horse answered his every command, and muttering: “Perhaps that is because he doesn’t need them.”

  By the time the sun had become a fiery disk sinking into the horizon, Thera’s confidence in her ability to avoid spending her first night in a barbarian’s arms had begun to sink with it. Since their brief stop at the stream, she had been allowed to stray no more than an arm’s reach from Saxxe Rouen, and whenever she attempted to speak with Lillith privately, he directed his mount between them to prevent it. Each lidded look, each subtle gesture of command, reminded her that she was in his power and stung her already bruised royal pride.

  As dusk fell, they paused on the crest of a hill while Saxxe and Gasquar surveyed the land for a suitable place to camp for the night. With habit born of long years of fighting, they chose a defensible spot on top of a rocky hill that had slumped and sheared to form a small bluff overlooking a broad, treeless slope. The moment their feet hit the rocky ground on top of that cliff, Gasquar wrested their reins from the women and took possession of their horses, over Thera’s protests. Then Saxxe Rouen ordered: “Collect whatever wood you can find.”

  “Do what?” Thera demanded, watching her only means of escape being led to a patch of grass and tethered well out of her reach. Her back and legs were pinging from her long ride, her stomach was growling, and she was in no mood to be trifled with. “We shall do no such thing.”

  “Do you wish to eat tonight, demoiselle?” he responded, cocking his head and eyeing her regal stance.

  “Of course I—”

  “And how do you intend to pay for your supper?”

  “Surely you don’t expect . . . Simple decency would demand . . .” She ground to a halt. Appeals to his higher nature were futile, she realized. The wretch didn’t have a higher nature!

  “Providing food for you was not our bargain. And I do nothing without being paid . . . remember? Or perhaps you intend to pay with your fine cloak after all.”

  “I do not!”

  “Then gather wood,” he ordered, turning back to his horse.

  “And just what will you be doing, seigneur?” she demanded caustically. But he ignored her and, after removing something from his saddle, stalked off down the slope, the way they had come. She turned on Gasquar with her eyes snapping. “Where does he think he is going?”

  “Do not fear, demoiselle, he will be back,” Gasquar said with a chuckle. “I am the fire maker . . . he is the hunter. If there is hare or quail within an hour’s stride, we will have fresh meat for supper.” His brown eyes shifted from her to Lillith and narrowed speculatively as they slid up and down the countess’s fram
e. “Now, whether we eat our meat cooked or raw depends on you . . . and the wood you gather.”

  Thera glowered and, though it taxed her sorely, withheld her opinion of the man, the menu, and the task she had been given. Once again she seemed to have no choice. The wretch was fully capable of denying them food. She turned to Lillith and motioned toward the shrubby growth on the back side of the hill.

  “Princess!” Lillith hissed when they were out of Gasquar’s hearing. “You cannot mean to collect wood like a . . . a shepherd’s boy!”

  “It appears that we do it or we starve,” Thera declared, stiffening her spine as she struggled to assert some control in this humiliating situation . . . even if it was only control of the hot words burning the back of her tongue. “And I don’t find the thought of lying starved and weakened along the road especially appealing.”

  “Then I shall do it for you, Princess,” Lillith insisted, turning toward the bushes. Thera hauled her back by the arm.

  “No more ‘my lady’s,’ and for God’s sake no ‘Princess’s’ . . . or we will certainly find ourselves held for ransom. Only imagine what these vultures would do if they learned about Mercia.” She heaved a disgusted sigh. “I shall just have to help.” As she turned, the hem of her tunic snagged on some branches and she freed it, hissing at the sight of a small tear. “Come, Lillith.”

  * * *

  Gasquar was squatting on his heels by a mound of dry grass, holding a striking steel, when he looked up and saw Thera tripping toward him with the hem of her tunic and surcoat caught up protectively in one hand and a small branch held gingerly between two fingers of the other. He hooted a laugh and fell over backward. At the sound, Lillith came rushing up the slope holding up her skirts and bearing a branch that was only slightly larger than Thera’s.

  “Someone has taken very good care of you, eh, demoiselles?” he said as he wiped his eyes and vented a final chuckle. “We will need ten times that to make a good fire. And many times more to keep coals going through the night and have something to warm our cold bones in the morning.” He shoved to his feet and grabbed their elbows to usher them back into the underbrush. “Come, mes petites. I will show you what you must do.”