Free The Bride Tournament by Ruth Kaufman Page A

that?” He flew across the room as if he had wings. Sparks of anger flashed in his eyes. “What else did she tell you?”
    “That she had to marry Lord Latimer and you had to marry me.”
    “As usual, she left out crucial parts of her tale. Can any woman be trusted?” He sat on the bed, brushing against her because she was so near the edge. “I don’t want to discuss Blanche.”
    Eleanor burned to know the whole truth. Had their love been tragic, like hers and Arthur’s, kept apart against their will? Despite Richard’s obvious reticence, he’d revealed a key fact: he didn’t trust Blanche or women in general.
    “I want to discuss us,” he said, his voice low. He reached for her braid and unraveled it. His fingers combed through the strands, soothing yet sensual. “On second thought, I can think of better things to do than talk.”
    He kissed her, a multitude of feather light pecks. Then his mouth grew insistent, claiming hers.
    The way he stroked her hair sent delicious shivers down her spine. His light, sweet kisses set her blood racing. Where would he venture next, what new sensations would he ignite?
    His gaze held hers as his fingers roamed across her neck and over her shoulders, awakening the skin beneath. Her nipples peaked as he gently circled them.
    Eleanor wanted more. She wanted him. Sudden need made her tremble.
    He withdrew his hands. “You’re shaking. What you said this morning as we broke our fast about me warming your bed…I thought you were ready.”
    Better for them both that he think she was nervous. She was, but not for that reason. Well, some of that, also. “I thought so, too. I’m sorry. I still need more time.”
    “How much more?” The warmth faded from his eyes.
    Guilt lanced her. How could she utter the truth, yet mislead him at the same time? No wonder he thought women couldn’t be trusted. But as she’d told Alyce, she was doing this for the greater good.
    “Soon.”
    “We must do our duty. I’ll give you until we arrive at court.”
    That wasn’t long enough. She kept her thoughts to herself.
    He turned his back to her and drew up the covers. In minutes his even breathing told her he was asleep, clearly not tormented by a racing mind as she was. Tonight the sound didn’t soothe. Each inhale was a hiss of ire, each exhale an admonishment.
    Hours later, Eleanor bit back a curse as she rubbed her calf to ease a sudden cramp. She’d crouched so long beneath the window outside her father’s alchemy workshop that her limbs protested. Her shoes and the hem of her old gown were soaked from the evening’s rains, clinging and uncomfortably clammy against her legs.
    She peeked inside, fury stinging her veins as she took in two long, polished wood tables with an array of oddly shaped glass containers for distillation and other processes. Scattered about were pages and pages of notes covered with mysterious diagrams, symbols and elaborate drawings.
    This was her last chance before they left for court to put an end to his experiments. Her father’s obsession to find a way turn inexpensive base metals into gold came from the devil and would be his ruin, just as her mother had said.
    He proved it by spending vast sums on tools and implements when the mania overtook him. The need to make himself the richest man alive, more powerful than the king, trounced reason.
    He worked ceaselessly despite the late hour, first heating something that looked like salt over the fire in the raised hearth against the back wall, then pouring colored liquids from one flask into another, pausing to write every so often. Soot covered his apron.
    When the fire dwindled and Eleanor’s eyelids drooped, he yawned. Her father stacked the pages of notes and carried them toward the hearth. Her heart leapt with hope that he was giving up and would toss the pile of vellum in the fire. Instead, he set the pages at his feet. Her jaw dropped as he worked several stones free from the wall, placing each on the