Bewitching in Boots Page 3

  He just might teach her a lesson on the folly of arousing sexual interest with no intention of finishing what she started.

  “She’ll be here a day, two at most.”

  She wouldn’t last the week.

  Chapter Three

  Elisabeth was miserable. It was early in the morning, the sun still new in the sky. Waiting for Tristan and her first lesson, she stood in the gardens—if the weed-ridden expanse littered with poorly tended shrubs and bushes could be considered a garden. Her scabbard rested against her hip, her precious sword sheathed within.

  He was late.

  She was exhausted.

  She hadn’t slept at all last night. Tossing and turning in her bed, thoughts of Tristan, images of his aroused body warming her, added to the heat in the stifling rooms. In fact, she suspected that if she’d slept in the kitchens near the cooking fires, she’d have been more comfortable.

  She was no fool. It didn’t take long for her to realize he’d selected the “east wing” for a reason. To make her stay as uncomfortable as possible so that she’d pack her trunks and return home. Elisabeth was willing to wager the other rooms at the opposite end of the château were much cooler.

  Yesterday, she’d bathed. She’d primped. Spent the better part of the afternoon preparing for supper and had donned one of her favorite and most becoming gowns. With her pulse racing with nervous excitement, she’d made her way to the Salle de Buffet with Claire, only to find Richard and Gabriel there.

  But no Tristan.

  Gabriel had offered Tristan’s apologies, claiming that his leg was troubling him. But she didn’t believe it. She was troubling him. He was avoiding her.

  And if he was avoiding her, then she was affecting him strongly. Good.

  That made the time she spent with him during the fencing instruction all the more important to advancing her plan.

  From the moment she’d laid eyes on him years ago, she’d been hopelessly enchanted. Other men paled in comparison. She’d tried not to look his way at the palace. She tried not to think of him. She’d tried to silence the errant emotions her heart had attached to him.

  She’d failed.

  This was her final opportunity to quell this infatuation.

  The sooner he bedded her and diminished his hold on her, the better.

  Then, if she succeeded in marrying Tristan, she’d have the civilized marriage she’d always wanted to a husband she respected and shared common interests with, like fencing—without the unsettling influence he presently had on her.

  The sound of footsteps snatched her out of her thoughts. She snapped her head up and saw Tristan approaching, cane in hand, his baldric across his chest. He looked strong, despite the cane. And fierce. A formidable opponent on any battlefield, she often heard others say. He was well respected by his men. Admired by the realm. A highly decorated officer, his valor in battle was legendary.

  His tan-colored breeches outlined his powerful thighs, his plain white shirt hung loosely from his broad shoulders, yet she could still detect the dips and ripples of his chiseled chest. A tiny thrill shivered down her spine when he stopped before her.

  He looked so good, it made her ache.

  “Good morning, Tristan.” She smiled.

  “Let’s begin.” Again no mincing of words. No exchange of pleasantries. She tamped down her irritation. Would it kill him to be less abrasive?

  He unsheathed his sword. “I trust you know the basics?”

  She knew more than the basics. Her passion for fencing was great. As a young girl, she’d watched the Musketeers practice as often as she could sneak away. Whenever they entertained the court with demonstrations of their skills, she’d been transfixed. It had taken carefully planned, carefully worded conversations with the King over a period of months before she’d finally managed to secure her first fencing instructor. That was years ago. Prior to her marriage. She still fenced. Still took it seriously. Practiced every opportunity she could.

  She’d become so good at swords, she’d bested all of her instructors.

  She was about to impress Tristan at last. Perhaps even garner herself a bit of praise for her skill and elevate his opinion of her.

  “I’m no novice at swords.” She unsheathed her blade and squeezed the hilt. She felt strong and it felt so right in her hand.

  “Good. Then show me what you know. Step back and begin when you’re ready.”

  She was smiling now as she assumed the proper stance. “En garde.” She lunged at him on the attack.

  His arm whipped up, his blade striking hers with stunning intensity, his defensive move ripping the hilt from her hand, sending her sword spiraling in the air before it landed twenty feet away with a thump in the weeds.

  Her mouth agape, her palm throbbing, she simply blinked at him, astounded, reeling over how easily he’d just disarmed her.

  Calmly, he sheathed his sword and stepped close to her, a mimic of what she’d done to him yesterday. Slipping his fingers under her chin, he tilted her head back, bringing her mouth within inches of his. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

  “Lesson one.” His warm breath caressed her lips. “If you are going to engage in a sword fight, hold on to your sword.”

  He released her and walked away.

  Her chin nearly collided with the ground in open-mouthed astonishment. Ire erupted inside her. She clamped her mouth shut and raced up to him, jumping in the way of his path, halting him in his tracks, her fists clenched at her sides.

  “What was that?” she demanded.

  He cocked a brow. “What was what?”

  “That,” she said, jabbing her finger in the direction of where they’d been. “Surely you don’t consider what just happened there a lesson.”

  “You didn’t specify how long these lessons had to last. I feel I’ve taught you something. Practice holding your sword. And speak to your father. You told me you know the basics. Your instructors have either been inadequate or you lack the ability to grasp basic concepts.”

  “L-Lack the ability?” she sputtered, so outraged she could barely speak. Oh, how she wanted to plant her fist against his arrogant jaw. It was the first time in her life she ever wanted to strike a man—anyone, actually. “I do not lack ability!”

  “Really,” he said blandly.

  “Yes! Really. You hit my sword—” Abruptly, she arrested her words.

  “Too hard?” he supplied.

  She cringed, embarrassed that he’d guess what she was mistakenly going to say. Her palm and her pride both hurt. She’d never come up against an opponent as large and as strong as Tristan.

  “Madame, I assumed you were interested in being able to take on any opponent. Are you only going to fight women?” She hated the slight taunt in his tone.

  “I can fight any opponent. I have only fought men. And I’ve bested them all!” She stalked away, so scorching was her fury, she wondered if her eyebrows had been singed off. She was infuriated with herself for being so easily beat, and with him for being so insufferable. She didn’t care that she was showing too much emotion—knowing full well that by showing anger she was showing weakness—alerting Tristan to the fact that he had enough influence over her to affect her this strongly.

  Nor did she care a whit that she was doing what others didn’t dare—chastising the mighty Tristan de Tiersonnier.

  He needed a dressing-down. He deserved one.

  She turned and marched right back up to him again. “You—” She poked him in the chest with her finger. “You are . . . rude! And arrogant.”

  She marched away, picked up her sword, and sheathed it with an angry stab.

  Tristan was having a difficult time holding back his smile, the corners of his mouth tugging hard. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes ablaze, and her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breaths. She looked adorable and incredibly alluring in her fiery state.

  She stomped back to him. Back for another round. This time Tristan had to fight even harder to keep a straight fac
e.

  “And another thing—you know nothing about me.” She rose onto the balls of her feet and stuck her pretty face in his. “NOTHING!” She stormed off. Tristan watched her stalk away.

  Now, that’s not true. He knew she had the sweetest derrière he’d ever seen. In her breeches, it was perfectly defined and inspired an assortment of salacious thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to strip away her clothing, push her down on all fours, grip that luscious behind, and sink his stiff cock into her warm wet core.

  She disappeared into the château. At last he allowed himself to break into a smile. Dieu. The woman wasn’t dull, and she had more fire in her than he’d have guessed. He’d rather direct all that fire into more carnal endeavors.

  She is also highly intelligent . . . She couldn’t have maintained her elevated status with her father otherwise. Too many royal siblings had tried to knock her off her privileged perch. Without success.

  She was crafty. Cunning. And he’d just provoked her in the worst way.

  His smile died.

  *****

  Fool. Fool. Fool! Elisabeth walked across the Grand Salon, making her way to her rooms. Never in her life had she lost her temper like that. Never had she behaved in such an infantile manner.

  She’d completely lost control and made a spectacle of herself in front of Tristan. She was mortified. Why did it have to matter how he perceived her? Why couldn’t she be indifferent to him the way she was to every other man she’d ever known?

  Why would her heart and body not relinquish their incessant longing for this impossible man? For this impossible situation.

  You know why, Elisabeth. Besides his masculine beauty, his sexual allure, he was a man with honor. Something rare in her world. Something that touched her deeply. How could she not want him? Despite his personal feelings, he’d stand in front of an assassin’s blade for her or anyone else he’d sworn to protect—just as he’d done for the King. That was something she didn’t believe the new Captain of the Guard, Antoine de Balzac, would do—and that was yet another reason to see Tristan reinstated.

  He was the right man to hold the esteemed position. He deserved it above all others.

  “Madame?” Tristan’s voice arrested her steps.

  By the time she turned, he’d reached her and grabbed hold of her arm. Her in tow, with his cane and his purposeful strides, he ate up the distance to the first door on the right.

  Tristan opened it, pulled her inside and slammed the door shut.

  She didn’t know what to make of his actions or of him pulling off his baldric and tossing it down on the nearby settee. Stupefied, she let him pull hers off as well, without question or protest, and watched as it landed on top of his. His cane followed.

  Before she could form a question, he shoved her back against the wall.

  Her eyes widened.

  Pressing his palm against the wall near her head, he slipped the fingers of his other hand beneath her chin. Her nerve endings sparked to life.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “You brought me in here.” Tingles rippled from his touch down to the tips of her breasts, tightening her nipples.

  “I mean at my château. Why have you come here?”

  “I told you, I want fencing lessons—”

  “That is a lie and we both know it. I want the truth. I want you to admit you’re here for your amusement and that you’ve been purposely behaving like a coquette.”

  She pushed his fingers away from her chin. It was too difficult to talk when he touched her. “I’m not here for my amusement, and I have not been behaving like a coquette.”

  He pressed his other palm to the wall, hemming her in between both hands. “No? What do you call this outrageous outfit of yours?”

  “My fencing attire. You don’t expect me to fence in a gown, do you?” she countered.

  “I would expect you to dress like a woman once in a while—and for God’s sake, where did you get those boots?”

  “What is the matter with my boots? I happen to like them. They’re comfortable. As for dressing like a woman, I do. In fact, I did. At supper last eve. You wouldn’t know that because you weren’t there.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “Disappointed, were you?”

  Oh, she wasn’t about to respond to that.

  He continued. “Were you saddened you missed out on an opportunity to flirt? To stand too close, and bat your pretty eyes at me?”

  Again, she held her tongue and simply gazed up at him, refusing to admit to a thing. It was one thing to attempt to seduce him, quite another to confess to it.

  “I am not like those men at court you toy with. If you make sexual overtures to me, you’d better be prepared to be taken and fucked—any way I choose.”

  Her knees almost gave way. Dear God, how she wished he would fuck her.

  He grasped her hand and pressed it to the sizable bulge in his breeches. “This is what you want, what you’re trying to accomplish with your teasing, isn’t it? To stiffen my cock.”

  Her sex answered with a warm gush. Through the cloth of his breeches, he felt hard as iron, his proportions more generous in size than any man she’d ever known.

  “There aren’t going to be any more ‘lessons,’ any more games. And no more cock-teasing. If you’re still here tomorrow night, Duchesse, I am going to fuck you.”

  Her clit gave a fierce throb, then pulsed in rhythm with her wild heart.

  He grasped her wrists, raised them above her head, pinning them against the wall with one hand. Her heart lurched. She tested his hold. His grip was strong and firm. Unbreakable.

  “Tristan?” she questioned, his name tumbling from her lips between rapid breaths.

  The corner of his mouth rose in a half-smile. “For the first time in your life, you won’t be dictating, demanding, or commanding a thing. Tied and bound for my pleasure, you’ll submit and surrender your control to me. That’s how I’m going to take you. That’s how it’s going to be.”

  A jolt of fear rocked her. She wanted to be with him so fiercely . . . but tied and bound? She wasn’t afraid he’d harm her in any way, but . . . surrender her control? He couldn’t possibly be serious. “You—You jest.” What was even more frightening was how appealing she found his wicked words. The thought of completely acquiescing to him, not being able to hold back in any way, set her ablaze.

  He cupped her breast and pinched her hardened nipple through her shirt. She jerked with a sharp gasp. “No jest. There won’t be a part of your body I won’t avail myself of.” His thumb languidly stroked her nipple, sending delicious sensations swirling down her spine. “You’ll be all mine to do with whatever I wish.” He pinched her sensitized nipple again. She barely caught her cry of pleasure in time and swallowed it back down. Oh, God. He was serious.

  This was no jest.

  If she wanted him to take her, it would have to be his way. If she stayed, she’d have to cede to him in the manner he described. He wasn’t going to let her finesse her way around it.

  Warnings against giving a man complete power over her—especially this man who wielded so much power over her already—sounded in her head.

  Ever so lightly he brushed his mouth against her lips. “You’ll be at my mercy, Duchesse, and you’re going to come harder than you’ve ever come before.”

  *****

  Tristan rested his head against the back of the chair in the library the next day and swirled the brandy in his goblet.

  She’d bolted.

  Thirty Musketeers, two carriages, close to forty horses, and two royal daughters—gone.

  He’d done it. He’d chased Elisabeth de Roussel away. So why didn’t he feel any joy from his accomplishment? Not only had he rid himself of the King’s most errant daughter, he’d also gotten rid of the men who’d escorted her. He’d never hidden from anyone or anything in his life, yet he found himself avoiding his former men. The last thing he wanted was for them to watch him moving about in his depleted state. It was mor
e than his pride could bear.

  He should be rejoicing at the sudden solitude, but instead he was gripped by the most irritating sense of disappointment.

  He wanted Elisabeth. He wanted to do to her everything he’d described. Beneath her masculine clothing was a highly excitable, very feminine form, his every instinct telling him that fucking her would be one of the most intense carnal encounters he’d ever have. He’d seen the arousal in her eyes as well as the fear. She’d been torn between wanting to be possessed and wanting to run.

  It had taken all that he had not to taste her and stroke her into an eager willingness, driving everything from her mind except her desire for him. He had to remind himself over and over as his cock throbbed harder than his leg that she wasn’t just the daughter of the King, but the daughter whom His Majesty doted upon.

  Held most dear.

  And, therefore, that made her untouchable as far as he was concerned.

  Besides, after Veronique, the last thing he should want was to bed another of the King’s daughters. The hot rooms hadn’t driven Elisabeth away, nor had the ridiculous “lesson” in fencing he’d given her.

  He’d run her off with the promise of a simple sex game, and he wasn’t going to waste another moment feeling regret over it.

  “Good riddance, Duchesse.”

  Tristan tipped the goblet and let the brandy flow down his throat, hoping that the burning liquid would take the edge off the pain in his leg.

  Fast, hard footsteps approached the library.

  His uncle entered the room. “Tristan, are you expecting guests?”

  “Guests? No.”

  “Well, there are a number of men here.”

  Tristan sat up. “Dear God. Not more Musketeers?”

  “No. More like workers.”

  “What are you taking about?”

  Gabriel walked in. “He’s talking about the fifty men who are here, clearing the gardens, repairing the façade of the château.”

  “Fifty men?” Tristan grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. “Where did they come from?”