like to pull her up toward him, put his arms around her, and bend her back, searching for her mouth with his. Stop! He collected himself and brushed her hand with his lips, forcing himself not to linger over the creamy whiteness of her hand. She was but a stubborn wench and surely well-used by not only Edgar, but also by Osbert and everyone else who had been able to wheedle such a trusting little fool into bed, he reminded himself, and he needed someone like Mary. God’s bones, but he needed some peace from all this!

“In the morning, then,” Hugh said gruffly. He bowed once more and went to confer with his knights. As befitted an earl, he would retire later to his tent, which had been pitched near Eleanor and Mary’s.

Mary and Eleanor washed their faces and hands in the bowls held for them by Agnes and another servant. Anne was already in her cot and various other ladies-in-waiting nestled among blankets.

Eleanor lay down in her cot next to Mary’s and closed her eyes for a moment. How would she be able to ride in company with Hugh for the next two days, she wondered. At least he would be riding primarily with his knights and ignoring the company of ladies, she reminded herself. That might give her some rest from the constant thoughts she had about him.

The camp settled down for the night, knights standing guard on the perimeter against brigands and bandits. Horses whinnied from time to time and the knights’ low voices carried through the cold, crisp air. The firelight cast shadows on the walls of the tent, and every now and then, Eleanor could see the silhouette of a knight pacing back and forth. She lay very still and breathed evenly.

Could she even hear Hugh breathe in the tent a few roods away? The thought of him lying so close to her sent shivers down her spine, and she pulled the blankets up closer, around her chin. How did he sleep? Did he lie on his back, spread-eagled? Did he lie on his side, his arm under his head? How often did he turn at night, shifting to get comfortable? What would it be like to nestle next to him, hearing his breathing, smelling the scent of his skin, feeling his warmth…?

Eleanor wanted to bite her lip to force herself to stop this insane imagining. She had to gain control of herself, or she would lose mightily when it came time to deal with the forest poaching. And what about Mary, her dear sister? Eleanor stifled a groan deep in her throat. How could she let Mary wed that—that arrogant, pompous male? Eleanor grabbed her pillow and jammed it down over her head, hoping if she blocked out all sight and sound, she could block out feeling, too.

In the tent a few roods away, Hugh turned and tossed restlessly. The only trouble with accompanying the party from Strathcombe was that he would not be able to be serviced by any wenches on the way, lest Eleanor and Mary be appalled at his behavior and thus refuse his marriage proposal. He cursed softly. In truth, what he wanted to do was be with Eleanor in the most intimate way possible. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall of the tent, as if to pierce through it and into the next tent to where Eleanor lay in her cot.

Eleanor, she of the green eyes and wild, dark hair…pah! He raised himself up and spit into the corner of the tent. He should think instead about Mary, the blond beauty. If all went well, and Eleanor saw that his marrying Mary would be the only way to assure Mary’s staying in England, she would agree. William of Litchfield would no doubt also say yes, as well, if Hugh could find him a substitute bride for the French count. Now he would force himself to think only of the shy, retiring Mary. That had to be the answer—to purge thoughts of Eleanor from his mind.

Hugh rubbed his forehead as if to rub thoughts of Eleanor away. God’s blood, but there was something about her eyes he could not dismiss. He would have to dismiss them, however, in order to fulfill his duty to his King and manage his forest. There were far more important considerations for him to spend his time on than an upstart young countess who could not even manage her own forest and no doubt allowed her own chief forester to romance her!

Hugh stifled a groan and buried his face in the crook of his arm.

Chapter Eleven

“Wait, and endure the torment that now hurts and wounds you, for I know the potion that will cure you.”

- Le Roman de la Rose, 13th c.

The next morning, Eleanor awakened after a restless night, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and steeled herself to see Hugh at the morning meal. There had been no flesh-and-blood Hugh in her bed last night, but, oh, the dreams…

She and Mary dressed and washed their faces in the basins Agnes and Mary’s servant girl had brought them. Anne brushed Eleanor’s hair, pulling it back and up, and fastening it with a jeweled net.

“So shall you be beguiling for the Earl of Litchfield,” Anne said, her eyes twinkling in mischief.

“Nay, say not so, Anne!” Eleanor blurted out. “Methinks you overstep the bounds.”

Chastened, Anne hung her head. “I am heartily sorry, Milady. I thought only to jest.”

“This talk of marriage between me and the Earl is enough to make my skin crawl, as you know, Anne, and I know not yet how to extricate myself from it,” Eleanor said with a sigh.

“You speak truly, Milady,” Anne said. “Perhaps you could bed him only once and then disport yourself elsewhere?”

“’Tis not my way, as you well know, Anne,” Eleanor said.

“Aye, you speak true, as you always do,” Anne said.

Well, she spoke true, except when she was speaking of Hugh,

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