Wolf Bride (8 page)

‘Perfect?’

‘When I meet my future wife, I hope to recognise her as such at first sight. The French poets liken it to a lightning strike.’

‘The French are a fanciful people,’ Wolf commented drily, ‘particularly when they turn their hands to writing verse. I would advise you to avoid poetry and take a more hard-headed approach when it comes to choosing a wife.’

Hugh looked at him. ‘You do not believe in love?’

‘I believe in making the best of things, my friend. Look at me: my bride is fair enough to look upon, and hopefully there will be an heir to follow soon. If Eloise be not too unruly, nor too cold in bed, what should I need of love? Trust me when I tell you it is an empty word, used more by fools and liars than any sensible man.’

Wolf reined in his horse, signalling the other riders to stop.

As the cavalcade halted, he pointed across at the lake with his riding crop and raised his voice. ‘This place has water for the horses and good shade. We shall rest an hour or two here for luncheon, and allow the ladies to stretch their legs.’

Wolf dismounted, leading his horse across to the shady grove and lakeside. While the weary animal drank its fill from the greenish water, he glanced back at the litter, where his future bride was already descending.

Hugh’s remarks had rankled slightly, reminding him of the first time he had seen Eloise, tousle-headed and soft-cheeked, still a girl, not yet of marriageable age.

He had been little more than a youth himself, his heart still smarting with grief from his mother’s death. But he had not been a child anymore. No, that unquestioning innocence had been long gone by the time he saw Eloise and thought her memorable. In those days he had been hungry to be out in the world, fighting the king’s enemies rather than sitting at home, mourning his lost childhood.

Had his first glimpse of Eloise Tyrell been a lightning strike?

Nothing so dramatic, he thought wryly. But perhaps there had been an element of compulsiveness about his interest in Eloise. He had asked around discreetly a few months back and discovered that she was still a virgin. It was rumoured the king had considered her for his next mistress, though she was no beauty. Her features were a little too irregular, and there was no stately composure in her look.

So why had he chosen her? He had no answer to that.

Grasping the hem of her gown, Eloise came slowly down the wooded slope towards the lake. She raised her head and looked eagerly about herself at the trees and the sunlit water beyond, taking deep breaths.

He watched with interest. No doubt she was glad to be free of the stuffy confines of that curtained litter, even if only for a short time.

Her maid, following more carefully with armfuls of cushions from the litter, stooped to arrange these at the water’s edge for them to sit upon.

Suddenly Eloise looked round, seeing him amongst the trees.

Surprise flashed into her face, and a resentment which was quickly hidden as their eyes met.

‘My lord,’ she murmured, dropping a low curtsey. ‘This . . . this is a pleasant spot.’

He smiled, then his gaze narrowed on his bride-to-be. At that angle, he could see right down her low-cut gown. His gaze dwelt thoughtfully on that shadowy cleft between her swelling breasts, and for a moment he imagined how she would look naked, riding atop of him in bed, long golden hair tickling his chest, breasts thrust towards his face.

Behind the solid leather constraint of his codpiece, Wolf felt his cock twitch and stiffen. He looked forward to their wedding night with a desire so urgent it took even him by surprise.

He had enjoyed many women since that first clumsy night with Margerie, as courtier and soldier, and knew the undeniable pleasure of a willing mouth and a knowing body. But Eloise was a virgin, he reminded himself, and would need to be broken in gently.

One of the men hurried down the slope with a cloth-covered basket of provisions supplied by the tavern that morning for their journey, then returned to where the others were sitting under the trees, passing round a bottle of beer and heartily tucking into their own victuals.

With great eagerness, the maid Mary began to lay out their wrapped parcels of food, then invited her mistress to sit. ‘There is fish and fowl to be had, Mistress Eloise, and sweetbreads, and a few slices of manchet. Best eat before it spoils.’

Seeming to hesitate, Eloise turned to him with a careful smile. ‘Will you join us, my lord? There is more than enough here for three.’

He stared, a little taken aback by this unexpected invitation. But perhaps she was warming to his courtship. Wolf had his own supplies in his saddlebags, but decided he should not waste this opportunity to know his bride better.

‘Gladly,’ he agreed, and threw himself down on the damp grass in a careless fashion, stretching out his legs beside her. ‘Is there beer?’

‘Wine,’ she murmured, and poured him a cup.

He took the wine with a muttered ‘Thanks,’ and tossed it back, entertained by how Eloise’s gaze widened at his lack of knightly etiquette.

Well, his manners were more suited to the battlefield than the court, and it was best she understood that straightaway.

‘Venison pie, my lord?’

He nodded, and took the thick slab of pie with relish, biting into it so hard the jelly oozed about the sides and ran down his chin. With a harsh laugh, he shook his head when she offered him a napkin, and wiped his chin on his sleeve instead.

Eloise averted her gaze, so missed him grinning like a boy at her expression of distaste. But the maid did not, and stared from one to the other in surprise.

His uncouth manners were partly for show, for Wolf knew well how to behave in the company of ladies. But he would be damned if he had to treat his new bride as daintily as Venetian glassware. She was from the hardy north like him, not a soft-natured southern maid, and must already know the ways of Yorkshiremen to be rough and ready.

Why pretend otherwise just because he had learned to kiss hands and bow in the dance like a courtier?

‘Not bad, this pie. At least the tavern’s luncheon fare is better than its beds. I might as well have slept on the bare boards last night, for all the comfort I enjoyed in my bed.’ He paused, glancing at Eloise. ‘How about you? Were you comfortable in your bed last night?’

To his amusement, she blushed. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she stammered. ‘Yes.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

He held out his cup to be refilled, and their eyes met fleetingly as she poured the wine. Greenish-dark eyes, slanted, her lashes long and thick.

Yes, the girl had the makings of a beauty. Not conventionally, for she lacked feminine grace, her curtsey was too awkward, and her lips rather too full and sensual for courtly approval. These days, to be considered truly beautiful, a woman had to have the thin lips and sharp chin of Anne Boleyn. But Eloise would do him very well as a wife.

He noted that her hand shook while pouring, as though the wine flask was too heavy. Not as bold as she had seemed at court, then.

He saw some flicker of emotion in those green-flecked eyes. Fear?

‘You will be made most comfortable at my estate, of course,’ he assured her abruptly. It gave him little comfort to see that look of apprehension in her face. ‘When we are married, you need not fear losing that privacy and level of service you have enjoyed at your father’s home. Mary here will not be your only maid. You may have women to tend your hair, your dress, whatever you wish.’

Wolf paused. Her gaze had lifted to his face, suddenly intent. Had Eloise assumed she would be his prisoner once they were man and wife?

The thought was a chastening one, for he had not meant to make his future bride so afraid of him.

‘Indeed,’ he continued, ‘you may have your pick of my servants for your own personal entourage. You will lack for nothing once you are Lady Wolf.’

‘You are too kind, my lord.’

He was not fooled by her submissive murmur. But he did not press the point. Once they were married, he would have many more opportunities to tame her.

This time he did not finish his wine at once but sipped at it thoughtfully, then set it aside.

Mary held out a small unwrapped cloth, her eyes wide with curiosity. No doubt she too thought him a cruel husband, taking his new bride so far away from the comforts of court.

‘Manchet bread, my lord?’

Neither of these women could realise how restrictive Wolf found the English court, how much he loathed his every move being watched and reported back to the king, for his master feared betrayal even from his most loyal servants. If he wished to be free, to walk unobserved by spies and speak his mind, returning to his native northlands was his only option. Though he knew the king would recall him to military service soon enough, and he would have no choice but to obey.

He accepted a piece of bread, dipped it in his wine to moisten it, then finished his meal in silence, for his thoughts had turned sour. For King Henry there was always one more traitor to be crushed, one more rebellion to be put down before it threatened the Tudor dynasty.

Lying back on the grass, Wolf stared up into the overhanging canopy of trees. The green buds of leaves rustled in the breeze. He ran back through his thoughts, surprised by his sudden yearning to be free of the court. Free, above all, to woo his bride without interference from the too-lascivious king.

Eloise would be his wife whether she willed it or no. Yet she held no special significance for him except as a sweet memory from his youth. So why was he suddenly so concerned to put his bride at her ease before their wedding night?

Shouts broke his reverie. Men calling urgently from the road. He was on his feet in a second, his hand on the dagger hilt at his belt.

‘What is it?’ Eloise looked startled, and her maid gasped as one of the men came running down the slope, a drawn sword in his hand.

‘My lord!’ It was Hugh. He was out of breath. ‘Riders coming across the fields from the south-west. They will be upon us within minutes.’

‘How many?’

‘Maybe a dozen, maybe less.’

‘King’s men?’

‘I cannot tell, my lord. They’ve kicked up a dust-cloud, and the sun is at their backs. But their mounts look to be rough beasts.’

‘Stay here, I will send men to guard you,’ Wolf told Eloise, then returned to his horse and mounted the surprised beast while it was still drinking from the lake.

Eloise ran after him. ‘Who are they?’

‘Ruffians,’ he threw back over his shoulder, his voice curt. He straightened in the saddle, gathering the reins. There was no time for a discussion, not if he wished to keep her safe. ‘Get back to the litter and take Mary with you. Hugh will guard you.’

He spurred the horse up towards the road; the younger man ran alongside. ‘You did right to raise the alarm, Hugh. This is dangerous country. We cannot trust they will respect the law.’

Hugh looked back at the two women following them hurriedly up the slope. ‘And the ladies?’

‘Escort them to the litter, and have it drawn between the trees for safety. Guard them with your life. The rest of us must be ready to defend this slope. You must pray God none of those men break through to you.’

‘Aye, my lord.’

Reaching the track where he had left his men, Wolf gave orders for them to find vantage points among the trees and hold their positions in twos and threes. Then he shielded his eyes against the sun and looked south-west to where the swirling dust-cloud proclaimed riders approaching.

He narrowed his eyes. Hugh was right. Ten or twelve men, their mounts low northern ponies rather than well-bred horseflesh, and growing nearer every moment.

He glanced up and down the track, which stood sunlit and empty in both directions. They were not far from the northern moors here. These could be some of the moorland bandits who made a name for themselves by attacking travellers and murdering them for their possessions. If so, the ruffians would soon discover they had picked a difficult target.

‘Where do you want me, my lord?’ It was Sir John Tyrell, his sword out and gleaming in the sun. His face was flushed. ‘I know I’m no seasoned campaigner like yourself, but I can still fight.’

‘Your daughter is below in the litter, sir, guarded by Hugh Beaufort. I’m sure she would welcome your stout defence.’

‘No, no,’ Tyrell objected. ‘I’ll stand with you here.’

‘Sir, your daughter needs you more. If any of these ruffians should break through our ranks . . .’

Tyrell looked grimly at the approaching dust-cloud. ‘Very well, I’ll be with Hugh below. They will not reach Eloise alive.’

When Sir John had gone, Wolf called out a few last commands to his unseen men, then drew back into the shadows himself.

He waited just within the line of the trees, dagger in one hand, sword in the other. There was no time to dwell on what might have happened if these ruffians had fallen on them unseen. Thanks to Hugh’s sharp eyes, they had the advantage of forewarning. When the riders reached the north road, they would find the track deserted, but men with swords and crossbows hidden amongst the trees, ready to defend themselves.

Less than a moment later, the first rider lurched out of the fields, cleared a gap in the hedgerow, and turned towards their hiding place. He was a big man, clad in a leather jerkin and coarse shirt, an ancient battered helmet pulled low across his forehead. His pony was squat and broad-flanked, and it gave a high whinny as he dragged its head about, his sharp gaze searching the road and woods for his victims.