Chateau of Desire (Chateau of Love Book 1) Read online

  If you like Chateau of Desire you’ll love Monica Bentley’s new steamy romance

  Tower of Lust

  (the prequel to this too sexy to hold Chateau of Love series)

  Will m’Lady Lela ever get to feel the Master’s muscular hands on her hips?

  Find out!

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  Chateau of Desire

  a steamy and sexy romance by

  Monica Bentley

  Book One of the Chateau of Love series

  © Monica Bentley 2017

  MonicaBentley.com

  Her fingers lightly trailed over the lips of her vulva and lingered on the button of her clitoris as she bit her lip with a silent moan. In the smoking liquid of the stone cauldron, the two young men circled warily around one another, their long hair streaming drops down their temples, their muscular chests heaving, shiny with sweat.

  Oh, she longed to run her hands over those chests! The boys were two peas of the same pod, except one had dark hair, the other fair. Both prime specimens of male flesh, with hard asses and toned thighs that flexed in and out with fervor as they continued circling, rapiers in hand, looking for that opening.

  What would it be like to be mounted by those thighs again, she wondered, seeing a bed in the background and remembering her night with the one, her breaths coming faster, in rhythm with their circling. Her fingers, busier than ever, brought wave after pulsating wave of pleasure shooting through her, her legs spreading wider beneath the heavy sapphire velvet gown thrust up over her own thighs.

  Should she nudge him? Should she trip him? She could. He would never know what hit him, she smiled, baring her teeth as she felt her orgasm sliding toward her as if in a hazy cloud. It would be just repayment for tricking her, for leaving her. He would never know. All he would feel is the bite of cold steel sliding right through him, watching his own blood stream back down his opponent’s blade, pooling at his feet along with his last thoughts of frustrated rage.

  As for the other, she could make sure that blonde bitch would never taste his cock. Ever.

  That was the most satisfying thought of all, she shrieked her moan aloud as the first pulse of the big O hit her, washing all over her, right down to her fingertips and the edges of her toes.

  Should she?

  * 1 *

  It was a beautiful Breton day. The forests of Brittany marched right up the hill in the distance beyond the castle, leading to the fabled Paris with all of its adventures. Or so Louis imagined. The sun was shining in a bright blue sky filled with the occasional puffy white cloud. No storm on the horizon at all.

  By Saint Denis, it was dull, he thought.

  He turned back to the sea, looking north and wondered what the equally fabled Angle-land, or England as some said, was like. Was it like their soldiers – reeking of mead with their dirty hands, rusty armor and improbable longbow victory at Crecy? Or was it like his teacher, Master John – honorable to a fault and so eager to punish his students of the sword when their minds wandered.

  The captain of the Guard at Chateau Brionde, his master, was English born. From Dover, some said, pointing at some white cliffs of chalk that could be seen across the Channel in the distance if one rode as far as Normandy. Or so one heard. But, then, one heard all kinds of wild things about the wider world beyond Brionde. About roving bands of condottiere, or adventurers, who were having a lot more fun than he was sacking English-held castle after castle. About midnight raids with burning torches setting forts alight that could be seen for miles. About a short, fat man named Dugecklin, spelled du Guesclin (if you could spell), who led such raids tormenting the English night after night, never letting them rest. And that whatshisname let his men take any women they captured behind a tree to...

  Louis shivered at the thought.

  About large tracts of forest so vast that one could get lost for months inside, maybe forever. That elves and tree sprites would lead you, like fireflies, into bogs and swamps where you drowned. Some even said that they might lead you to a black tower which held a raven-haired witch who lured you inside never to be seen again. About what kind of noises that could be heard from outside the tower on those nights. Happy moans of some pretty serious fucking, turning after the hours into pleas to rest, to stop, then finally ending in shrieks of terror.

  He shivered again, giving his long tawny colored hair an irritated shove out of his eyes. Like all boys his age, he wore it long, held in a pony tail to keep his vision clear for swordwork. Master John insisted that all soldiers of the Guard learn the rapier. In a day and age of knights fully encased in ponderous metal, hefting large shields while swinging bulky broadswords, a rapier seemed capable of little more than a flea bite. But Master John had picked it up during the Crusades in Sicily and, according to him anyway, had killed several fully armored knights during an attack on a castle there. He claimed to have ducked under each opponent’s broadsword attack, then thrust into the exposed armpit, killing the man instantly. Such nimble footwork in battle called for very light armor, mostly leather in fact, and the much lighter rapier.

  Well, whatever one thought, Louis agreed that when it came to defending a castle – with all its crazily canting steps and odd corners – nimble footwork would win the day over any slowly shuffling armored lobster. Besides, Louis liked the Guard’s uniform. Or maybe it was the way the ladies of the castle looked on the Guard’s uniform – knee boots, skin-tight breeches dyed a dark brown that, he knew, emphasized his ass when he lunged, a flowing linen blouse that could easily trap an opponent’s sword tip in its folds, and the tell-tale blue shoulder cord worn over the left (ie non-sword) arm. The blue matched that of the dolphin in Chateau Brionde’s yellow flag, the crest of the family Brionde for several generations.

  The thought of the ladies of the castle made his cock twitch. Coletta, m’Lady’s mistress, and her large knockers passed through his mind. He wondered what it was like to cum on them as so many of the Guard had. Or so they claimed.

  Louis was a virgin. And he didn’t like it very much. Maryl of the tavern would never let any of the tavern girls near him as he grew up. Many had tried, too, particularly the last years before Master John had scooped him up and put a rapier in his hand. When the others of the Guard drank after practice and began boasting of their recent conquests, he was careful to sip his mead in the corner and keep his mouth shut with one eye open for the Master. If John caught him listening to their stories, he invariably made Louis run barefoot to the top of Mons Fontaine to fetch a sprig of pink heather for Maryl to wear in her hair. Which wasn’t really fair since he was certain that he had once heard her take the Master in her mouth inside the tap room. Nevertheless, as each sharp stone cut his bare soles all the way up until he was tracking blood all the way down, Louis settled for cursing the Master into a limp dick. What else could he do?

  Which reminded him that he was supposed to be sharpening the blades for today’s practice. With a sigh, he made his way to the castle gate and the practice yard beyond.

  *****

  The castle’s narrow streets were full of their usual life. Hawkers plying their wares – slaughtered hens, eggs, piglets, small sacks of flour, rushes or flowers, you name it. It was all available for the right coin or, more typically, the right barter. He heard a sharp voice sing out above him “’Ware below!”and, just in time, he skipped out of the way to avoid someone’s night slops being dumped into the street. He never got caught. He was quick on his feet, which is why Master John had recruited him after watching him tumble a somersault neatly off a table at the tavern without spilling a drop of mead from a pint held in his hand. Louis
had learned how from a traveling entertainer and used to earn the odd coin from drinkers for years after.

  The Master had put an end to his fun, however. And all because Maryl had owed the Guard captain for one evening when some traveling knights had gotten out of hand and begun trashing the place, until the Master had begun trashing them. Louis turned out to be the payment.

  Master John was a harsh overlord. Louis slept in a cot in the Master’s hut near the castle gate just off the practice yard. He was responsible for keeping it swept clean, emptying the night slops jar in the river (the Master disapproved of those who threw them in the street), washing their clothes free of the ubiquitous bloodstains, polishing their boots, and fetching meals from the castle kitchen, including the Master’s evening mead if he was in the mood to sit outside on the bench rather than going over to the tavern. And, whenever the Master decided to fuck one of the village girls on a Sunday night, Louis slept outside on that same bench. He counted himself lucky that it only happened once a week. Of the fucking, Louis never asked, for he knew better. He did hear from time to time from gossip in the marketplace that the Master was famed for two things – how long he lasted and the steady, slow rhythm of his thrusts. Louis had seen many a village girl render a number of others spell-bound telling them about her “night with the Master.”

  Louis was also responsible for ensuring that the thirty rapiers of the Guard were kept razor sharp. It wasn’t hard work, just dull. Most of the Guard were pretty respectful of the time it took and were careful to leave them stacked neatly alongside the hut next to the grinding wheel Louis used. They might take their morning archery practice light-heartedly, they might lie through their teeth about who they had supposedly fucked over the weekend. Afternoon rapier practice was different. It was the standard by which a Guardsman was judged. Everything depended upon it: his hut, his clothes, his meals from the kitchen, his ale allowance from the tavern. If the Master cut you from the Guard, you were screwed. Everybody remembered what had happened when the Master had cut Raoul last year. His body was found a few mornings later beyond the castle walls. He had jumped.

  Etienne was running late again, Louis could see. Etienne was a prime candidate for being cut. He was clumsy, he was fat, he was slow. Yet, Louis liked him. Etienne was funny. So, Louis covered for him whenever he could. He had even started tutoring him in basic thrusts from time to time, since he couldn’t manage a lunge. Mostly, their practices pretty much devolved into bitch sessions and gossip about which girls had larger tits. Louis didn’t care. It was time away from the Master.

  Louis heard him before he saw him. Etienne was gasping loudly as he shambled his way, clearing a house across the yard. He paused, his pouch of a belly trembling as he leaned on the corner and drew in large gasps, his round cheeks red and streaming with sweat.

  “Tell him that you were helping me reset the wheel,” Louis beamed at him.

  Etienne managed a weak grin in return then stumbled over to him. “It’s better than telling him that Marguerite finally showed me her tits.”

  Louis was just bending back over the stone. He froze a moment then resumed pedaling the wheel to turn as he applied a rapier’s edge to it. “Color?”

  The color of different girls’ nipples was a never-ending subject of fascination for them. Like Louis, his friend was a hapless virgin.

  “Light pink.”

  “Liar!” Louis beamed. “You better get a move on. He’s in a mood this morning.”

  “Sunday’s coming,” Etienne chuckled, lingering.

  Louis looked up. “I mean it, ‘Tienne. You best get up there.”

  Etienne nodded, unsheathed his rapier and laid it on the bench for him. Wiping some more drops off his brow, he trotted off to the castle’s front steps.

  *****

  Watching them from a distance Phoebe tucked her wavy tresses behind her ears. She could already feel them turning pink, but she made herself wait until Etienne had moved on. Saint Genevieve, he’s so good-looking, she thought, as Louis bent over his wheel again, the slow rasp of stone on metal heard across the practice yard, to her corner.

  When Etienne drew closer, she pulled back around the corner until she could hear his deep breaths move on up the steps above her. Then, tucking her corn blonde hair behind her ears again, she collected her bundle and started forward.

  “Hey, Twig!” God, she hated that nickname! She hated it even more that Louis was the last boy in the castle to have given it up. Even the older Guardsmen had noticed that her boobs were coming in. Kind of.

  At least she liked to think so. When she was much younger, she had seen older girls squeezing their arms to their nonexistent boobs to see what they would look like. They all did it when they were down at the river bathing or swimming. So, when she got older, she did the same. She had started it a few years ago. There was nothing to see in the water’s reflection, of course. Just mosquito bites, if anything. Still, one could hope.

  She had been in love with – had a crush on, she sternly reminded herself – Louis ever since that time she had dropped a bunch of flowers in the marketplace mud and had started crying thinking of the beating she was going to get. It had happened last summer. Louis had helped her gather them up, then gotten some water from the Master’s hut to rinse off the mud. Then, because she couldn’t stop crying – she had felt like such a baby – he had taken the sprig of heather that he had just gotten from Mons Fontaine and put it in her hair. She sighed now at the memory, knowing even then what it had meant to him. Everybody knew about his hilltop runs and why the Master made him do them and that the sprig was meant for Maryl. Nevertheless, he had turned and, trailing bloodstains behind him, had jogged out the castle gate to fetch another sprig.

  Now, he was smiling even as he wasn’t looking at her. All, almost all, of his attention was on the grinding stone.

  She decided on saucy this time. Nicole, such a slut, was always doing the saucy bit with Guardsmen when they came by the kitchen. They certainly liked it, lingering, helping her pull down jugs from shelves while looking down her dress as she pretended not to notice.

  “How do you know I’m here for you?” she asked, sweetly.

  His grin grew larger, she could see, which made her mad. “Because I can smell that biscuit you have wrapped in your kerchief.”

  She pursed her lips. Why not try difficult? Maybe that will work.

  “Adalene says I can’t bring you biscuits anymore.”

  The wheel stopped turning. “Why not?”

  She had to work her lips to stop from grinning. Her eyes trailed down the lines of his muscular back to his thighs, and she wondered what it was like to trace her fingers along those same lines. She found herself growing short of breath.

  He looked up. “Why?”

  Distracted, confused, she shook her head a moment then felt like an idiot so pretended to brush away a gnat. “She says that you aren’t helping out in the kitchen enough.”

  He shook his own head, then growled a “Doing what?” He sounded exasperated.

  Her mind started buzzing a bit, then whirling as she tried to make up something that sounded right. She looked down at him, saw his golden brown eyes looking back up at her. At her eyes, not at her boobs, she noticed, then blushed. She looked down at his chest and saw that the sun was turning some of his light hairs a nice gold. Oh, to tickle them, she thought, then looked away.

  And then she hit on it.

  “Maybe...come by in the afternoon, after practice. Carry a sack of flour or a bundle of rushes or something when they get delivered.”

  He sighed and, setting down one rapier for another, went back to his grinding. She thought she heard him grunt a “Maybe.”

  Encouraged, she tried her saucy tone again, just a bit. “Come on, you know what she’s like. In a week or two, she’ll forget what she was complaining about.”

  He didn’t reply, just kept grinding.

  She ventured, “I’m making the gravy these days. If you’re nice to me, I might let
you taste it when you come by, before even m’Lord or m’Lady gets to.”

  The grinding stopped again. He paused so long she almost forgot what she had offered. In the distance far above, they could just hear a faint cheer for someone’s well-placed arrow shot. Finally, he shook his head. “Best not, Twig. You’ll catch it if you do.”

  She sucked in some breath to protest but he cut her off.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be by after practice, anyway.” Then, he bent back over his wheel again.

  She unwrapped the biscuit and left it on the bench behind him. Someday, she vowed as she turned to go, you will stop being so protective of me, Louis.

  *****

  Far away south in a dark forest, Tristen blinked a falling leaf out of his eyes and reined in his horse. Commander Bertrand was up ahead on a slope consulting with one of his spies. The rain was coming on again. He shivered and pulled in his cloak against the chill wind. Last night’s raid still rang in his ears. It was so bloody. The vision of that red-eyed Scot with his stinking breath floated up in his mind. That fucker had thrust his torch right into Tristen’s face, singing his eyebrows and bangs he had learned later. Tristen had gotten him, though, a two-handed upswing that took off the man’s chin and opened up his throat...

  Tristen closed his eyes and tried to think of other things. They were on the lower slopes of the Pyrenees. Gaspard said that Spain was just on the other side of the peaks. Spanish ladies with their dark hair, dark eyebrows, rich full lips, huge tits and dark pussy lips. They sounded fun, Tristen thought. His cock twitched at the thought.

  Suddenly the sight of the castle’s keep from last night broke into his thoughts. It was being set on fire by the advance soldiers who had broken through the wall. The stupid Brits, burning up in their armor had no choice but to jump to their...