He yearned for the fiery, flame-haired Gabrielle.
His Viking Princess of Finistère.
****
The cold autumn breeze flushed her cheeks and rustled her hair, the tangy scent of pine filling the crisp air amid the morning trill of larks and finches. “Hold your body like this,” Bastien said softly, positioning Gabrielle perpendicular to the tree trunk he’d selected as a target. As he placed his hands on her hips to align them correctly, his body thickened and throbbed as he imagined positioning them into an upward tilt to welcome and receive him.
Shaking with desire, struggling to maintain his composure, he wrapped his arms around her to nock and tightly draw back the bowstring. When his hand grazed the swell of her breast, he brusquely stepped back with a guttural grunt. He adjusted his breeches, tossed his head back, and focused on the target, trying to distract his raging thoughts and calm his racing heart. Inhaling deeply, he sighed, “Perfect… now release.”
With a loudthwack,her arrow struck the target. She twirled toward him, her beautiful face alight with glee. “I did it! I hit the center. That’s the very first time.” In a swirl of green velvet, she raced to the tree and withdrew her arrows, dashing back to join him at the starting point. “I want to do it again. And practice here every day. Until I can hit the target without fail.”
And so, every day for the month of November, after galloping across the moors, practicing self-defense with her dagger, and honing her skills with the sword, Bastien helped Gabrielle develop precision and accuracy with her bow.
Fueling the scorching, smoldering flames of his impossible, infernal desire.
One afternoon after intensive training, as they tethered the horses at the top of the forested ledge, preparing to walk down onto the beach, Gabrielle removed a bag from Marivée’s saddle. “I’ve brought some food for us to share by the lake. I thought it would be nice to relax a bit after archery practice. Please tell the guards that we’ll be longer than usual today.”
His mouth went dry, and his stomach dropped.
Bastien strode briskly over to the guards, informing them that the princess wished to spend more time today along the shore. With orders for the knights to remain with the horses, he quickly rejoined Gabrielle, slung her bag over his shoulder, and led her down the path to the beach.
Into their secret cave.
****
Gabrielle followed Bastien through the dark tunnel, her thoughts and emotions blazing and flickering like the torch flame.
She was inordinately proud of her achievements. She’d become a truly exceptional rider who had mastered not only the art of self-defense, but who could also wield and hurl a dagger with lethal precision. She’d honed her impressive skill with the sword and had greatly improved her accuracy with the bow and arrow.
Yet, none of these stunning accomplishments really mattered.
Because, in two short weeks, the champion of the Yuletide Joust would win her hand. And Gabrielle’s freedom would disappear. Just like her foolish childhood dreams of becoming a valorous, victorious Valkyrie. A Viking warrior queen like her ancestor Brunnhild.
Instead—she’d be given away, like a prize. Denied her right to the throne. Forced to surrender her kingdom—and her body—to a stranger.
Because of a ridiculous, archaic French law—laloi salique.
Despair and impotent rage blazed in her fiery heart.
So, she had decided to act. To savor the ephemeral, exquisite taste of freedom.
Before it was taken away.
Although she knew perfectly well how to nock the arrow and draw back the bowstring, she always asked for Bastien’s assistance. Because she loved the feel of his arms around her. The intoxicating male scent of leather, pine, fresh sweat, and horses. The bristle of dark stubble against her cheek, the hardened length of his body against hers.
Today she would ask him. He just had to say yes.
“Please put it over there,” she said cheerfully, indicating a spot on the cloth she had just spread atop the decaying leaves and earthy loam near the edge of the lake.
Bastien placed the woven basket at the corner of the woolen blanket.
“I’ve brought bread, cheese, and fruit,” she announced, kneeling onto the cloth to unpack the supplies. “Please, sit here beside me, and pour us some wine.”
A cold breeze wafted the fresh tang of the lake and the clean scent of pine, the pale winter sun filtering through the rustling leaves. Bastien handed her a goblet and sat down at her side.
She accepted the pewter chalice with a smile, swallowing a large gulp to calm her nerves. The rich, earthy flavor lingered on her tongue. As they shared the fresh grapes, nutty bread, and sharp cheese, Gabrielle mustered the courage to voice her request.
“Bastien…Lancelot will be arriving next week, with an entourage of knights, stable hands, horses, and grooms. As will your father, Sir Esclados, bringing the magnificentdestriersfromle Châteaude Landuc.” Her finger traced the rim of her goblet as she stared into the dark red depths.
