“You are well aware,” Hugh said drily, “that I do not have to ask your permission, truly. All I must do is speak to William of Litchfield, whose vassals you are, fill his coffers with enough silver to make him forget his wish to send Mary to France, and find him another sacrificial lamb to send in her stead. I thought, however, ‘twould be best that, since we are neighbors, I should accord you the courtesy of first approaching you.”
Eleanor fought to control herself. Hugh—and Mary—looking into each other’s eyes, holding each other close…nay! She swallowed hard. No, she couldn’t even think of it! Besides, Hugh would ill-use her sister, she was certain! He was so arrogant and supercilious, how could he ever treat anyone kindly?
“I—I need some time to think on this,” she managed to choke out. She glanced at his eyes and they seemed to bore right through her. Her mouth felt dry and she moistened her lips. What would it be like to feel Hugh’s lips on her own, insistently seeking her mouth? What was she doing, she scolded herself.
Hugh watched Eleanor. Such a perfect rosebud mouth. What pleasure could kissing that mouth—those lips—bring him? A sudden vision of taking Eleanor into his arms, finding her warm lips with his own, and molding her body against his, assaulted him. But, she was not for him—too naïve, too gullible, too stubborn, well-used by that knave, Edgar, and, no doubt, by Osbert, her favored chief forester. He couldn’t stand even the thought of being second in line to a chief forester. Who else had been able to breach that seemingly impregnable wall and tumble her into bed? She was so naïve, probably any knave who sweetened his tongue with lies had been able to leap o’er that wall and have his way. No woman could be trusted, he knew well. Why, then, did he persist in his imaginings? Hugh frowned in irritation and pressed on.
“If you need more time to think, make haste,” he warned. “Remember that William of Litchfield seeks to marry Mary off to France, and you shall lose your precious sister. If you wait too long to agree to my proposal, he shall be very angry with you for dangling him on so long and then refusing him. Mark that all his negotiations will then have come to fruition for the French marriage—and he will definitely not be pleased at the shame that will follow a reneging of his promises to the French count.” Hugh folded his arms across his broad chest. “Think about it with all due speed,” he finished, “and you had best think well, if you want to keep your dear sister in England and close by.”
Eleanor closed her eyes briefly and then opened them. She could not—could not—look at his eyes! Nor could she look at his mouth. His mouth was sensual and warm, she was sure of it. She could almost feel his lips brushing her neck and leaving a trail of small, soft kisses down her throat. Could she allow Mary to wed him? She would have to see them together all the time—could she bear it? Could she even allow herself to think of the two of them together? She shuddered. But then, Hugh was so filled with smoldering anger at the world, she could not imagine offering Mary up to him. But—could she stand to let Mary go to France? Was there not another way out of this terrible dilemma that wouldn’t bring disaster one way or the other?
“Aye,” she said in a strangled voice. “I shall let you know soon.”
“At the assize, then? In a month’s time,” Hugh said, firmly.
Weakly, Eleanor nodded. She felt numb. “Good day, Lord Hugh,” she said, forcing herself to sound businesslike. She inclined her head, and then looked up to meet the full force of his blue eyes gazing into her own. She tried to steady her breathing and held out her hand for the obligatory kiss from him.
Hugh took her hand in his, and, brushing his lips across her hand, was struck by the vision of her small hand stroking his cheek. What was this foolery, he berated himself. Bowing, he straightened up. “At the assize, then, Lady Eleanor,” he replied. “We shall have much business to conduct.” Striding purposefully, Hugh left the hall, the knights bowing to him as they opened the great oaken doors.
Eleanor’s mind spun with thoughts. She held her hand out in front of her, gazing at where Hugh’s lips had brushed across it. Marry, but his lips were warm and full! Shutting her eyes, she gave herself over to imagining him, cupping her face in his hands, seeking her mouth with his. Shivering, she could almost feel him slowly stroking the back of her neck, then enveloping her in his strong arms and pressing her even closer, his mouth full and firm against hers, his breathing deep, echoing her own.
Were these the kind of thoughts that led to the marriage bedchamber joys that Anne and her other ladies-in-waiting giggled and whispered about? She had never felt this way about anyone—much less Edgar, the horrid knave, whose mere touch was enough to make her skin crawl. Finis! she scolded herself. Taking the sleeve of her surcoat, she rubbed furiously at the place Hugh had kissed her on her hand. Perhaps that could erase the thoughts and feelings she was battling.
Nodding to the knights, Hugh made his way outdoors to the stone steps, leading to the bailey.
“Make ready!” Hugh barked out to his knights, who were engaged in a dart game in the courtyard of the bailey, and in general lollygagging about and leering at the Strathcombe servant girls who hurried through the bailey, carrying loads of washing, giggling at the suggestive comments the knights tossed at them. “We leave for Wykeham post-haste!”
The sooner he was quit of this place and could shed the feelings he had about
