Kerrie's Quest for Passion

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication www.ellorascave.com Kerrie’s Quest for Passion ISBN 9781419912061 ALL RIGHTS R...

Author: Brice Dee

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An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Kerrie’s Quest for Passion ISBN 9781419912061 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Kerrie’s Quest for Passion Copyright© 2007 Dee Brice Edited by Helen Woodall. Cover art by Syneca. Electronic book Publication August 2007 This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 443103502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

KERRIE’S QUEST FOR PASSION Dee Brice

Dedication To Helen Woodall, editor extraordinaire. Your accepting my sophomore book made me feel like I graduated summa cum laude. To Lacey Thorn, author of the Bare Love series. Your enthusiastic review of Passion’s Four Towers came at a really low point. From a sister writer, your praise meant so very much.

Kerrie’s Quest for Passion

Act I—The Merchant With historical apologies to music box lovers everywhere.

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Chapter One Kerrie, lying naked in the middle of her wide bed, beckoned to the man at its foot. He stood in shadow, his face hidden, his magnificent body hidden as well, except for his glorious cock. That stood out from his body as if the firelight served only to show its perfection. Its size, the length and thickness of it, that he would bury it deep inside her, should have frightened her. It did not. ’Struth, she wanted it, yearned to taste its dew on her tongue, ached to feel it sliding in and out of her. “Come, love. See how ready I am for you.” Leaning back against her pillows, she spread her legs, then parted her nether lips with fingers that shook. His shaft throbbed and a drop of dew fell like a tear seeping down her cheek. “Touch yourself,” he said at last. “Slide your fingers deep inside so you can begin to learn how my shaft will feel when I swive you.” The crude word made her blush but she did as he asked. She would do anything to please him. Anything to bring him to her, into her. “Play with your nipples while you plunge your fingers in and out of your quim. Yes, like that. It feels good, doesn’t it?” She moaned and arched into the exquisite pleasure her own hands brought her. “’Twould be even better were you to…touch me there.” “Say the word, Kerrie. Only then will I know how much you truly want me.” She drew a deep breath for courage then cried out, “Tup me! Please, I need you to tup me.” “Bartholomew’s balls! Kindly stop daydreaming and pay attention to me. Sooner or later, Kerrie, you’ll have to make a decision. Marchon needs an heir.” Startled from her daydream, Kerrie focused on her embroidery to hide her blush. “You were older than I am now, Mother, when you finally married. Besides, Aida is besotted by Gaspar. Let them marry and give Marchon its heir.” “No.” The firm, almost angry dismissal of her sister made Kerrie look up from her embroidery. Her mother, Queen Audra, resumed her tatting but Kerrie could see that her mother’s hands trembled. “What have you seen, Mother?” Kerrie asked the question gently. She knew Audra’s dreams often foretold of tragedy and greatly pained her mother, for she could do nothing to change their outcome.

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“Nothing,” Audra avowed, sighing as she set aside the lace cuff she was creating, then strode to her solar window. From there, Kerrie knew, Audra could see her lands, a corner of the stables to her right, the knights’ training grounds to her left. Often, her mother, her sister and she had stood there, looked out and planned Marchonland’s future. But today, Kerrie suspected Audra saw nothing beyond her own dreams. Kerrie wanted to press her mother but bit back her pleas. Whatever troubled Audra must be worrisome indeed and must pertain to one, or all, of the three women. At last, her voice seeming to come from a great distance, Audra said, “I believe Aida is barren. Were she and Gaspar to marry, being unable to produce a child would make them both miserable.” “You want them to continue as they are? Without intimacy?” Audra turned and a small smile curved her lips. “I want them to continue exactly as they are. There is in Gaspar a great capacity to love. He loves Aida with all his heart and won’t care if they never have children. Aida, however, is another matter entirely. She thinks, and must continue to believe, that her…intimacy with Gaspar is either blessed or cursed by her inability to conceive a child.” “Oh,” was all Kerrie could think of saying. She’d been so caught up in trying to avoid marriage, she hadn’t noticed that her younger sister already enjoyed the physical pleasures of a marriage bed. “You mustn’t tell either of them what you know.” “Of course not.” “Neither about their sexual intimacy nor about Aida’s barrenness. Swear.” “I swear.” “Good.” Audra returned to her chair and retrieved her tatting. “In a fortnight the King of Puttupon will visit us with his family. He’s nearing the end of his mourning and is looking—” “For a nursemaid for his children,” Kerrie interrupted with asperity. “Moreover, he would expect to rule Marchonland. I will not have him, Mother, no matter how suitable you find him. No man has ever ruled here. No man ever will.” Audra shot her an aggravated look then said, “You are too stubborn for your own good. You need a man who can rule you, body and soul, yet you want one you can rule.” “I learned at your knee, Mother. I will choose who I marry or I shan’t marry at all.” Audra stared at her retreating daughter’s back and thought, I taught you well, Kerrie. No man will ever rule Marchonland but he will rule you.

*****

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Two weeks later, Aida burst into Kerrie’s solar and cried out, “Come! You must come and see all the wondrous things Alexandre has brought!” Kerrie laughed and pulled her hand from her sister’s grasp. “I cannot appear in the great hall dressed like a peasant field hand.” “Alexandre won’t care. He’s a merchant, only interested in selling his wares and funding his next voyage. Do hurry, Kerrie, before Mother either chooses all the best he has or sends him packing.” Since Aida wore a plain kirtle with a pair of muddy clogs upon her feet, Kerrie decided she could go as she was. A leather jerkin, leather breeks and boots might not impress this merchant but her people would hardly expect her to receive him in court clothing. “Oh very well,” she said, sounding put upon. In truth, she was as anxious as Aida to see all the wondrous things the merchant had brought. And if he did, in fact, want financing for his next voyage, how might Kerrie’s support aid Marchonland? So she followed her sister down the spiral stone stairs, her pace far slower as befitted a Marchon princess. As befitted a future queen. As she descended she could hear music and wondered that Audra had called for the court musicians for a mere merchant. Or had the King of Puttupon already arrived, the merry tune for his enjoyment? At the foot of the stairs, Kerrie paused long enough to take stock of the great hall and its occupants. Castle guards stood at ease at each of the four staircases that led to the castle’s four towers. Indulgent smiles curved their lips as their wives, sweethearts, sisters and mothers oohed and ahhed at the merchant’s wares. Audra sat on the dais, a look of awe on her lovely face. A man stood at her side, holding out a small, jewel-encrusted chest. Kerrie realized the music came from this box and closed her mouth just as Aida tugged her forward. Kerrie refused to let her sister see her amazement. As they approached Audra’s throne, the man turned and met Kerrie’s eyes. His smile faded and Kerrie wished she had taken the time to change her clothes. She barely resisted the urge to smooth her hair and tug at her jerkin. For the first time in her life, she could not think of a single word. He was simply… “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Aida whispered. “It’s called—” “He certainly is,” Kerrie muttered. Wide of shoulder, broad of chest, narrow of waist and hips, he seemed a veritable god. Kerrie found herself imagining him at the helm of a great ship, the wind blowing his long dark hair back from his craggy face, his eyes—eyes the color of spring grass—focused on some distant shore. At that moment those viridian eyes, surrounded by the thickest, blackest lashes she’d ever seen, were fastened on her face. The hubbub in the great hall faded to silence. That silence locked the two of them together in a world where nothing, no one else, existed. “And this is my daughter Kerrie. Kerrie, Monsieur Alexandre has come to show us all the marvelous wares he gathered on his last journey.”

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Audra’s voice called Kerrie back to reality. She blinked and held out her hand. Remembering how she was dressed, she jerked back but couldn’t withdraw her icy fingers from his large, warm grasp. “May I show you my music box, Princess Kerrie?” His low voice sent a shiver of heat spiraling down her spine. The innocuous words made her wish he would show her more than his music box. She wanted to see, touch, taste every inch of his magnificent body. She wanted to know if his sun-kissed flesh was bronzed everywhere. Did that thick mane of ebony hair cover his chest and thighs and the nest of his sex? She risked glancing down and her heart seemed to leap to her throat. Merciful heaven, even under his velvet breeks she could see his shaft pulse! She felt a blush heat her face and raised her eyes to her mother’s amused countenance. “I believe you have—your music box has struck Kerrie speechless,” Audra said, laughter in her voice. “As am I, Majesty,” Alexandre replied, drawing Kerrie onto the dais. Weak-kneed, Kerrie gratefully sank into her chair at Audra’s right. Aida, looking askance at her older sister, skirted to Alexandre’s side and peered into the chest he balanced on one broad palm. “Why doesn’t the music box play anymore?” she said. “I have to wind it. Like this, see?” A soft grinding sound preceded the tune Kerrie had heard before. “Now, if you look closely, you can see the wires move as the spindle plucks them.” “Magic. Where did you find such a magical instrument? In Cathay or India or—” His soft chuckle stroked Kerrie’s skin, light as a goose down feather. “Not so far away as that. The music box came from Helvetia, where there is snow on the highest mountains even in summer. But,” he went on, seeming to note Aida’s disappointment, “I have also brought spices from Morocco and silks from Cathay.” “There is about you,” Audra interjected, “an unusual scent. A pleasant one, I assure you.” “That, gracious Majesty, is sandalwood. I also have cloves for sweetening one’s breath or soothing an aching tooth or seasoning one’s food.” “A veritable treasure chest,” Kerrie observed, resentful of sharing Alexandre’s attention with her mother and sister. Alexandre focused once more on Kerrie’s face and wondered yet again why he found her so compelling. He had seen women more beautiful. Even in Morocco, where women wore veils, he’d glimpsed fetching noses, full ripe lips and flashing eyes more lovely than Kerrie’s. But something about her eyes, the changing color of gray that reminded him of cool gray dawns or sudden storms, captivated him. Her narrow, retrousse nose was dotted with charming freckles that made him wonder if she, like other women with reddish glints in their hair, had freckles in other places on her rosy

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skin. He wondered too how she would taste when he kissed her, if those soft, pouty lips would open eagerly for his tongue or remain sealed, prim as an untouched virgin. Not that he doubted her virginity. Something about her posture, her regal bearing, told him no man had taken liberties with her, no matter how much he might want her. And Alexandre wanted her. Badly, if he but heeded his cock. Even now it grew and pulsed and wanted to bury itself deep within her quim. More than he wanted gold for his next adventure, Alexandre wanted to mate with Kerrie. He wanted to hear her rich, low voice murmur love words in his ear or cry out with pleasure when he brought her again and again to climax. He wanted to feel her lithe body tremble under him, over him, around him. Yet what could he offer her, a woman who would be queen? True, he was wealthy beyond even the imagination of the richest, most greedy ruler. And yet he sensed riches would not win her. King Garr of Puttupon had gone courting elsewhere when informed that Kerrie would not have him. And Garr was, next to Alexandre himself, the wealthiest man he knew. Alexandre knew he should not dwell on things he could not change. On the positive side, if he ignored Kerrie’s high station, he had much to recommend him. First and foremost was Kerrie’s obvious fascination with him. He could easily envision long winter nights with her naked in his arms, while he regaled her with tales of his far-flung travels. Yes, she would like that, he told himself, feeling her cool yet hot gray gaze travel over his body. He could seduce her. Would seduce her. And if he got her with child, not even Queen Audra could deny him Kerrie’s hand in marriage.

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Chapter Two Kerrie, wanting to be alone with only her thoughts for company, retreated up the winding staircase to her tower. But Aida snapped at her heels like one of the dogs herding sheep. “How old do you think he is?” Kerrie shrugged as if she could not care less. “I don’t think he’s too old for you, do you? Not that he’s old, mind you, only old enough for you. And those eyes! I swear, Kerrie, if he looked at me the way he looks at you, I’d swoon at his feet. After I begged him to take me to bed, of course.” Kerrie turned around and glared Aida to a stumbling halt on the narrow landing. “Don’t let Gaspar hear you talk like that. I doubt the merchant would fight a duel for you on such short acquaintance.” Her gray eyes wide, Aida said, “Oh,” then added, “oh my! I do believe you’re smitten.” “Why Mother didn’t sell you at birth is beyond me. On second thought, even the Romany would have found you too noisy to bear.” Kerrie continued up the stairs of her tower while Aida continued her prattle. “I find Alexandre almost as handsome as Gaspar. Of course, he’s too old for me. Alexandre, I mean. Gaspar is the perfect age for me. In fact, Gaspar is—” “Perfect in every way. So you’ve said ad nauseum. If you insist on remaining with me, at least hold your tongue.” “Smitten. Totally, completely, irrevocably smitten,” Aida taunted, turning on her heel and marching down the stairs. Her clogs added an odious rhythm to her chanting. Kerrie leaned against her closed door and exhaled gustily. Smitten was far too weak a word. She’d fallen—totally, completely, irrevocably in lust. With a merchant, by all that was holy! His lack of noble status did not matter, Kerrie assured herself as she wove her way to a chair and collapsed. Otherwise why did her mind sneer at the merchant while her body ached for his rough, work-hardened hands all over it? Why did her nipples harden when he merely looked at her, his beautiful eyes hooded by those incredible lashes? Why did moisture pool between her legs? Why did her womb feel empty? Why did her gaze continually settle at his groin and her senses soar when she saw his cock make a tent of his breeks? And, merciful heaven, what would Audra say when Kerrie announced she intended to marry Alexandre? A merchant!

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***** Ensconced in his rooms, Alexandre heard himself humming the same tune his music box played. He could recall no other moment when he’d hummed or wanted to sing like a traveling troubadour. For one thing, he lacked the voice. For another, his mind normally distracted him with people, places and profits he had yet to meet, visit, earn. Anticipation rode him as he hoped he would soon ride Kerrie. Tonight he would dine privately with Audra and the object of his lust. Whether Aida would join them, Alexandre neither knew nor cared. In truth, he wished he could dine with only Kerrie for company. Knowing he would focus only on her, he chuckled. Farid, his friend and dogsbody, tugged midnight silk through the slashes in Alexandre’s velvet doublet and pantaloons, then pronounced him fit to dine with…well, the queen. What, Alexandre wondered, would Kerrie make of Farid? Most women—and many men, as well—in this supposedly civilized part of the world warded against evil when they saw him. In truth, Farid resembled a djinni sprung from a magic lamp. Taller than most doorways, wider in the shoulders as well, blacker than a starless, moonless sky, Farid frightened many. Yet Alexandre knew Farid’s soul was gentle, his mind that of a scholar, his fingers agile as a pickpocket’s. “Will you be all right here alone?” Alexandre asked of his companion. “So long as no pretty maid comes to warm my master’s bed, then screams the walls down upon my head, I shall enjoy my solitude. You will take the music box to your princess?” “Not tonight. ’Tis too costly a gift to give upon such brief acquaintance.” “Then you will give her the gold and emerald chain to remind her of your eyes.” Alexandre shook his head. “You must take a gift,” Farid insisted, his dilating pupils making his dark brown eyes look as black as his skin. “Every woman enjoys gifts, demands them as tribute to her beauty, as tokens of her suitors’ intent.” “I believe Kerrie would enjoy this more,” Alexandre said, plucking a clove-studded orange from the table and inhaling its scent. “You imply she stinks.” “She smells like attar of roses, sweet and fresh.” Farid sighed. “At least take something for the queen. It will come to your princess eventually. Unless…the younger girl is greedy?” “No. Aida seems…grounded.” Alexandre pondered the differences between the two princesses. Kerrie a born ruler, Aida more…gentle was the only word that came to mind. “But you are right, Farid. I shall take the cloth of gold to the queen. You will carry it for me.”

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“You would frighten your princess to death before you bed her? On such brief acquaintance?” Alexandre laughed, a hearty sound that brought a smile to Farid’s lips. “I think Kerrie fearless.” “And if she cowers at the sight of me?” “Then she is not the woman I think she is.”

***** “Some of the cottages need new roofs,” Kerrie was saying as Alexandre entered Audra’s solar, Farid at his heels. The queen’s gasp made Kerrie turn her head. As had happened many times before, she looked not at Alexandre but at the veritable obelisk behind him. Her gray eyes widened then focused on Farid’s face. Yes, she stared but not as if she had discovered vermin in the sweet-smelling rushes under her feet. And not as if she saw a creature that frightened her. She seemed to see the man, not an object of fear or disgust. “Majesty, Highness,” Alexandre said, stepping into the solar and to one side, revealing Farid in all his Nubian splendor. “May I present my friend Farid?” Noting the queen seemed shaken still, Alexandre looked at Kerrie. She smiled, more a response to a gauntlet thrown at her feet than a real smile. She stood then sketched a curtsey in their direction. “You are very tall, Monsieur Farid.” “Very tall, indeed,” Farid agreed, his expression solemn but his eyes alight with amusement. Recovering her voice, Audra said, “Will you dine with us, m’sieur?” “Alas, I cannot. Tonight I act only as my friend Alexandre’s ass. I bring you this gift on his behalf.” With that, Farid crossed the solar and laid the shimmering cloth of gold over Audra’s knees. A brief bow, a small smile at Kerrie, he backed away, then closed the door behind him. “And I have brought a gift for you, Princess,” Alexandre announced, holding out the orange on the palm of his hand. It was such a paltry gift compared to her mother’s, he expected her to slap it from his hand. Instead, as if he’d given her a priceless reliquary, she gathered it up and held it to her nose. The mischief in her eyes seemed to ask, “Did I pass your test, Merchant?” He grinned. “I hope you do not mind, Alexandre, that we serve ourselves,” Audra said, motioning him to a chair with a flick of her bejeweled fingers. “I would hear more of your travels and how you met your friend Farid.”

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“I shall relate the tales with pleasure, Majesty.” He sat, then pulled a small packet wrapped in gossamer silk from his sleeve. “Salt, Majesty, to season the fare. Although it is best when applied before the meat is cooked.” And so the afternoon darkened pleasantly to evening and then to night. At last, the queen hid a yawn behind her hand then dismissed them with a wave. “Kindly see Kerrie to her tower, Alexandre. On the morrow I wish you to tell my daughter of your financial needs. I haven’t a head for business but in those matters Kerrie is most like her father.” She made it sound more like a curse than a benediction. Kerrie grimaced then shrugged. “I can make my way to my tower, Mother. The merchant need not accompany me. I fear for his health. Down all these stairs of yours, up mine, then down and up again to his own rooms.” Audra, Alexandre noted, recognized the double entendre even if Kerrie did not. The queen hid a grin behind her hand and her eyes fairly danced with merriment. But her voice betrayed none of that, sounding every inch the monarch when she said, “Nonsense. He looks perfectly fit to me. More than fit. “But if the stairs prove too much, he can always stay with you, Kerrie. Until tomorrow.” Alexandre felt unsure of her meaning. Did she intend only that she would see him tomorrow or should he consider he had her blessing to spend the night with Kerrie? When the queen winked at him, he knew he had an ally. Even if he was only a merchant! Kerrie paused outside Audra’s closed door. Resigned to the inevitable, she sighed and motioned the merchant to precede her down the stairs. “Hoping I’ll break my neck?” His voice betrayed cheerful sarcasm. “Just ensuring you don’t push me.” When he took her hand, she wrenched it free and said, “Or pull me down to cushion your fall.” “Believe me, Princess, when you are beneath me it won’t be to cushion any fall.” Grateful for the dim torchlight that hid her flushed face, Kerrie followed him in silence. She remained mute as they crossed the wide expanse of the great hall. At the stairs to her own tower, she turned. “Good night, Merchant.” “Not yet, Kerrie. Your mother commanded me to escort you to your tower.” “We are there,” Kerrie said, hating the tremor in her voice, the plea in it. “Not yet,” the irritating man repeated as he took her elbow in his implacable, unbreakable grasp. “If not stated, your mother implied that I should accompany you to your door. I intend to ensure we both obey.” “You exceed your station—” “Merchant,” he finished. “And you exceed yours. You are not queen.”

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“Not yet,” she threatened and liked that far better than sounding like a helpless supplicant. Never, in all the years between marriageable age and now, had she felt so discomfited by a man. She wanted Alexandre yet despised herself—and him—for her feelings. Moreover, she refused to allow him to dominate her. By all she held holy, she was a princess. He was a common…merchant! “I can almost hear the gristmill grinding in your mind, Kerrie.” Tightening his grasp, he propelled her in front of him then pressed the length of his hard body against her back. With a startled gasp, she gathered her skirts and raced up the stairs. The memory of his shaft hardening against her buttocks heated her face and made that unwelcome moisture seep between her thighs. She wanted an end to these unwanted emotions. An end to the heat, the longing. She wanted… Reaching her door, she expelled a breath of relief. Without turning, she opened the door and flung “Good night” over her shoulder. The odious man had the audacity to follow her into her solar. Closing the door behind him, he surveyed the room like a connoisseur at an auction. She had learned to ignore the tapestries but shuddered to think what Alexandre now saw. “Interesting décor,” he observed, his tone wry. “These were my father’s chambers,” she explained, despising her need to apologize. Nymphs and satyrs romped or fornicated their way over her walls, a never-ending, licentious orgy in brilliant colors. “So far from his wife?” “They did not care for each other’s company.” “Yet they cared enough to create you and your sister.” “An heir and a spare. I believe they say that in the world of men,” she said, relieved she sounded indifferent. One dark brow winged upward. “‘The world of men’?” he repeated. “Aye. The world in which male children are prized as symbols of their fathers’ virility, while female children are either servants or chattels. Or both.” “You puzzle me. Do you mean to denigrate fathers and sons? Or mothers and daughters?” “Neither. I only voiced an observation.” “Then—if I may hazard an interpretation of your observation—men serve only one purpose and that is to produce female heirs and spares.” She laughed. “With my limited knowledge of mating, I would allow that a male of any kind’s sole purpose is to produce an heir of any kind.” Raising her hand, she admonished Alexandre to silence. “But that same man would prefer an heir of his own sex.” Emboldened by her laughter, Alexandre fought back his grin. “So you would have a world of women.” 15

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“As you would have a world of men.” Her laughter died before his. From opposite sides of her solar, they gazed at each other, unacknowledged desire holding them in place. At last she lowered her gaze and said, “Good night, Mer—Alexandre.” Alexandre groaned, clapped both his hands over his heart then staggered to a chair. Collapsing into it, he moaned as he rubbed his knee. “A mummer, by heavens. You shall have a new career when you grow older yet.” Opening one eye, he considered her grave expression but soon dismissed it. Humor shone in her eyes and a smile played at the corners of her mouth. He rarely had met a woman so sly as this prickly female. When they married he would sleep in their bed, her auburn tresses their blanket, her body warm in his arms, their juices hot where their bodies joined. He would give her heirs and spares and not bemoan his fate were they all females. Of their own volition, both eyes opened. He studied her boldly without considering propriety or her wishing him gone. The gown of gray silk brought out the color of her eyes, the shiny glints of red in her auburn curls, the creamy glow of her rosy flesh. The silk, like the gown, was of modest quality. Even without testing its texture with his fingers he knew the fabric chafed her skin. In his mind he inventoried the silks he’d left in Farid’s care, dismissing roll after roll until he recalled the softest, sheerest fabric the color of dawn over a calm sea. Yes, ’twas the perfect complement to her eyes, her hair, her skin. It began as dark as a cloudcovered midnight, lightened to the misty opacity of thick fog. Then came pure grays blended with pale blues and lavenders and, finally, the pale, pale pinks and golds. He wagered against himself that the sheer fabric would not make her blush. He also acknowledged he would seek Audra’s help in fashioning a gown suitable only for Kerrie’s bedchamber. Until the night she wore his silk over her skin, he would woo her. Patience. He had leaned patience standing at the helm of his becalmed ship. Waiting. Waiting minutes, hours, days for the wind to freshen and fill his Dragon’s sails. He had learned patience at Farid’s side while he bartered for wares rare, scarce and valuable in the western world Alexandre had once called home. The wealthy merchant in him gauged the value of the woman before him. She stood still as a statue, the perfect, shy maiden—biddable and wanting only to serve her master. Master, hah! Alexandre had seen her contempt, heard her belittling words, felt her soul-destroying vitriol. Despite all the points against her, the merchant knew she would bring a handsome price in the slave markets of Nubia and Morocco. The man in him… The man and the merchant both wanted to conquer her. Wanted her under him, his cock buried, unburied, reburied deep and deeper still in her woman’s body. The man in him demanded he make her beg him to take her, cry out his name as he brought her up, up, up, scream “Alexandre!” as he took her to the stars. Before his erection betrayed his thoughts, he surged to his feet and sketched a bow. He retreated with a curt “Good night, Princess.” 16


Struck mute, Kerrie watched Alexandre rush out. Why? Why had he fled so precipitously? As if the hounds of hell snapped at his heels? She paced the width of her solar and ignored the erotic tapestries. What had she done? she wondered, worrying her lower lip. Nothing. She’d stood before him and allowed him to ravage her with his mesmerizing green eyes. She had read the moment ravishment had changed to calculation then turned to lust. She had swallowed her own rising desire as she watched his shaft grow, seeming like a tent pole on a military campaign, leaving her breathless and needy. Had she said something to offend him? Nothing she could recall. ’Struth, she had even said his name. She repeated it now to herself. Aloud. Each reiteration revealed her frustration and anger. Her longing. Beyond gripping her hand, her elbow, he had not touched her, blast it! Nor had he kissed her, even though he’d wanted to. She’d seen it in his eyes. The ceaseless questions plagued her until, at dawn, she dressed in her customary leather and stormed to the stables.

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Chapter Three The following morning Alexandre found himself on the battlements of Marchon Castle. As the sun rose and the sky revealed all its wondrous colors, he discovered he was not the only early riser. Below him and to the west a couple walked hand-in-hand toward fields of wheat and barley. The man and woman stopped to share a kiss, then strolled to where hops grew up their intricate peggings. So, he thought, they make beer here in Marchonland. The pair seemed at peace with the world, happy with each other’s company. He wished he felt that at ease. To the east, young lads rubbed their eyes and went about their chores. Setting up targets on bales of hay or sitting in a patch of sunlight to polish spurs and other bits of tack, their voices barely reached him. Yet they sang a gentle song of contentment. He paused along the battlements and saw the sun glinting off the river to the south. Fishermen stood along the shore, quietly waiting. Finding the scene too still, too bucolic for his restless mood, he continued to the north and saw grooms leading dainty mares into grassy pastures. Zounds! Was there no end to this serenity? A shout rang out, followed by a string of curses a sailor would admire. Hooves pounded over hard-packed dirt and a destrier, as black as sin, flew out of the stable. A slim figure with long auburn curls sat upon the creature’s bare back, as much at ease as Alexandre was on his ship. “’Tis Kerrie’s horse,” Audra said from just behind him. “He seems not to like her much.” Remembering his manners, he sketched a bow then said, “’Tis a lovely morning, Majesty.” “Is it? You look like you haven’t slept. Was your bed not to your liking or was it simply lonely?” Smiling, she looped her arm through his and led him eastward. She apparently expected no response for she went on, saying, “I have seen Kerrie wither a man with a look, send another packing with her shrewish tongue, lead yet another on with girlish sighs and coy laughter, then box his ears when he stole a kiss. “You seem a different sort.” “I’ve heard neither girlish sighs nor coy laughter, Majesty.” “Nor have you tried to kiss her. You have no bruises,” she added in the same pleasant tone. “Pity.” “That she hasn’t boxed my ears?” “That you haven’t kissed her.”

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She stopped and turned to him, a stern expression replacing her usual placidity. “If you want her, you’ll need to gain the upper hand. Otherwise, she’ll mow you down like a peasant with a scythe in her hands.” “I already have the upper hand, Majesty.” She frowned up at him. “Have you? How did you achieve this superior position?” Grinning, he said, “I haven’t kissed her.” The queen laughed. They continued their stroll while Alexandre explained his battle plan and requested a seamstress. “When will you give Kerrie this remarkable garment?” Knowing he was about to step over every line of propriety, he said frankly, “When she comes to my bed.” “Well, don’t shilly-shally about. I want a parcel of granddaughters to dandle on my knees. And I’m not getting any younger.” With a lighter heart, Alexandre took his leave, confident he had Audra’s blessing to seduce her daughter. She watched him go, saddened by the thought that he would give her only one grandchild. And neither he nor Audra herself would live to see the girl grow to womanhood.

***** Hours later Kerrie strode into the great hall and beckoned Gaspar to her. Though she treated him like any other servant, she liked him. He accepted her moods, light or dark, with unruffled charm. Only slightly taller than Kerrie herself, he had the bluest, kindest eyes she’d ever seen. The only hint anything ever distressed him was the cowlick he tunneled his fingers through, making it stand on end. Today someone must have rattled him greatly for his sandy hair stood upright in several places. “If you would, Gaspar, kindly send someone to fetch the merchant and his friend. I’m in the mood to discuss finances so you may attend me as well.” “Alexandre and Farid are out, Princess,” Gaspar said, a thunderous scowl creasing his brow. “Out? Out where?” “Here and there. They wished to see the stables, the peasants’ village, the brewery and—only God knows what else! Aida’s taken them on a tour.” “And put you in a snit,” Kerrie observed, sounding more distressed than she liked. What bothered her most was Alexandre behaving as if ruled her and Marchonland already. Almost as displeasing was Aida’s being with him. Her sister’s remarks about Alexandre’s eyes felt like a thorn under Kerrie’s thumbnail. Not that Aida would betray Gaspar but still…

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“And put you in a snit as well,” Gaspar countered, running tense fingers through his hair and grimacing. “Yes. I think a bit of payback is called for. Have Josie bring some ale to my tower. We’ll go over Marchon’s accounts there. Leave word as to our whereabouts and have the gentlemen join us in my solar.” Gaspar looked like he might object. Kerrie turned on her heel and strode to her stairs. “I’ll see you anon,” she called over shoulder, heedless of who heard. Which, Gaspar suspected, was Kerrie’s intent.

***** Damn the man, Kerrie thought as she made her way to the great hall for the evening meal. She used her left hand to steady herself as she descended her stairs. Not only had Alexandre not come to her tower, she and Gaspar had imbibed too much ale. Well, she had anyway and paid for it now as she listed like a sinking ship and swallowed her nausea. When she finally reached the great hall, conversation stopped and all eyes seemed to focus on her. Groaning to herself, she squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath for courage and stability, then crossed the room. She saw various expressions as she neared the high table. Her mother simply raised both eyebrows then turned her head to talk with Farid at her left. Gaspar would not meet Kerrie’s eyes, while Aida alternately looked furious and hurt. Alexandre looked as if nothing were amiss in his world and stood to pull out Kerrie’s chair. He obviously had no feelings. Not for her at any rate. She’d spent close to two hours with Gaspar, the door to her solar closed. The merchant had been out the entire time, going who knew where, doing who knew what with her sister. That Farid was with them—supposedly—mattered not. Aida just as obviously knew Gaspar had been closeted with Kerrie. She, at least, had the good sense to act as if she were jealous. Alexandre seemed indifferent to the situation, like a duck in a gale, impervious to his environment. Kerrie sat and glared up at him. He ran his hand along the back of her chair, his fingers grazing her nape. Shivering, she leaned away from the caress and stared straight ahead. “You look a little frayed around the edges,” the infuriating, uncaring man had the audacity to say. Kerrie merely smiled and covered a fake yawn with her hand. “Reviewing accounts is so enervating, don’t you agree?” She intended Alexandre to believe she and Gaspar had indulged in more physical activities. Her efforts went for naught. They only earned her a twitch at one corner of his sculpted lips. Drat! she thought as she reached for a slice of chicken with her eating knife.

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Risking his finger, he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Allow me, Kerrie.” His low voice whispered against her fingers and raised the fine hairs at her nape. She desperately wanted to pull away but with the entire assemblage watching avidly, she refused to make a scene. Yet she could not draw a breath deep enough to fill her lungs and she felt caught in the trap of his seductive eyes. The entire hall and all its occupants faded, leaving them once more in a world of two. He raised a piece of chicken to her lips, his mesmerizing gaze fastened there. She opened her mouth, then lapped the juices from his fingers. Triumph flooded her when his eyes narrowed and he seemed incapable of speech. Good. She hoped he suffered more than she did. That this ceaseless heat and longing tormented him even more than it tortured her. Someone said “bed” and broke the spell. Alexandre chuckled then speared a piece of beef from the trencher in front of him. Quirking a brow, he held it out to Kerrie. She shook her head and broke off a chunk of bread. He could tell she wanted to offer it to him. Instead, with a blush tinting her cheeks, she bit into it and chewed like her life depended on squashing every crumb before she swallowed. Feeling the need to soothe her without touching her, he said, “Did you enjoy your ride this morning?” “Very much,” she answered, looking surprised that he had seen her. “Do you ride?” He felt a smile pull the corners of his mouth but quelled it. “As often as possible. But I would not risk my neck on such a mount as yours.” ’Struth, he would rather ride her. “Meaning you think me an idiot for riding such a horse.” “Meaning I think you brave for doing so, especially without a saddle.” “Satan dislikes saddles.” “What good is he then? A warhorse unsuited for battle?” “I said he does not like them, not that he will not accept one when necessary.” She looked like she did not quite understand what they were talking about, which suited Alexandre’s intent. She may have considered the subject about saddles and horses. He knew he was talking about riding. Riding her. “I stand corrected.” He offered her a bite of cheese, which she took without touching his fingers. “Did Aida take you to the orchard? Our mother tree is very old but still produces the sweetest fruit.” “She mentioned it in passing.” “Ahh.” A secret sort of smile curved Kerrie’s lips and lit her eyes. “Ahh?”

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“Aida shares a fear of the mother tree with most of our people. She believes the tree tempted Eve to offer that fateful apple to Adam.” “You, I take it, do not share her fear.” “I do not. I am, in fact, in awe. That something so old is still so beautiful and sweet.” Slanting him a wry smile, she added, “Would you like to see it?” “Only if you show it to me.” Again, he captured her hand then pressed it to his thigh. He wanted to hold it to his swelling cock and feel her warm fingers slide over it. But here was neither the place nor the time. Tomorrow, when they were alone, would be soon enough to begin her seduction in earnest.

***** “Where are all these people going?” Alexandre asked the following morning. A steady stream of brawny men and small children of both sexes flowed around them and called out cheerful greetings to Kerrie and him. They greeted her by name. In return, surprising Alexandre, she said their names and, if they slowed, inquired about an ailing sibling babe or other relative. He had not expected this caring side of her and recognized his own jealousy. He wanted her attention, that care and concern, focused on him. “You’ll see,” she said, taking his hand and swinging their arms as they plodded along. Marchon Castle rose at their backs, a fortress and a haven. Ahead lay the fertile fields of grain he’d toured yesterday. Beyond them he could see white and pink blossoms holding fast to their branches despite the gentle breeze. As they neared the orchards, the sweet scent of those blossoms filled his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, drawing that sweetness into his soul. “I think you need to prune a little higher, John.” Shading her eyes against the sun, Kerrie looked up an enormous tree where a man perched, precariously it seemed to Alexandre, on a limb. The limb seemed sturdy enough but the man was built like a blacksmith, heavy enough to break the bough. “Move back, Little John, lest your father drop a branch on your head.” She tousled flaxen curls as she passed the boy who grinned up at her with the toothless smile of a six-year-old. “This all looks very industrious,” Alexandre observed, spreading the blanket he carried where Kerrie pointed. “The bees are late this spring,” she said, as if that explained everything. She sat, leaned against the tree’s rough bark, then stretched out her long, leather-clad legs. They were in a large circle empty of trees except the one she sat beneath. “The mother tree,” he hazarded. “Aye. With her children all around her, keeping a respectful distance.” “Doesn’t so late a pruning reduce your crop?” 22


“In some ways yes, in others no.” Laughing, she motioned him to sit beside her. “The blossoms we harvest here will be placed around trees that are reluctant to bloom. The wind will carry the pollen to those shy maidens and, come fall, we’ll have a bountiful yield. It is rather like… “Lowering her gaze to her hands, she blushed. “Sex?” he suggested and bit back a chuckle when her blush deepened. “Of an indiscriminate sort.” “Is that why you refuse to marry? You fear your husband will play you false?” She frowned up at him. “I don’t refuse to marry. I simply have not found a man I’d want to spend the rest of my life with. Most talk of battles they’ve fought, their supposedly clever innuendos about their prowess on the field equating to their skills in bed. “In truth, if one believes the women willing to take such braggarts to their beds, those men fall well short—if not in size, in skill.” “You believe the women?” “Aye. Moreover I cannot imagine myself willingly coupling with a man who cannot keep his cock in his breeks.” “You expect fidelity then.” “The man I marry will expect it of me. Why should I not expect the same from him?” “Why not, indeed.” He took her hand then traced a light pattern in her palm. He felt her tense but she did not pull away. “What do you fear about tupping, Kerrie? Is it that the act will be painful? Or are you frightened that you will enjoy it so much you’ll break your vows of fidelity and lie with any man?” He continued stroking her palm and felt her shiver. Her fingers clenched around his, stopping his caress, then went limp. “Neither,” she avowed, a proud tilt to her chin. “I am not afraid of any man.” “But you are afraid of yourself. Of your needs. Of your body holding sway over your mind.” Wresting her hand from his, she glared at him. “I am not afraid. I am especially not afraid of you, Merchant.” “Prove it.” “I have no need to prove anything to you.” “Perhaps not. You need to prove it to yourself, this lack of fear you claim as yours. I throw down the gauntlet in challenge. Will you pick it up or creep away and hide your lack of courage under disdain?” “Very well then. Name a place and time and I’ll meet you on a battlefield of your choosing. You’ll not complain that I, knowing the ground of my own body, have unfair advantage.”

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“Done. Tomorrow night. My tower.” Unable to hide his triumph in this skirmish, he smiled at her. He let his gaze roam over her as if seeing her naked and willing in his arms. “You do know which tower is mine?” “I know which tower the queen has put you in, Merchant.” He swallowed his laugh. “Shall I await you at the foot of my stairs?” “And have half the castle know where I am going? No, I’ll make my way to your chamber with more discretion than that. And I expect you to keep this—duel—between us. No one else is to know anything. Are we clear?” “Not even Farid shall know.” “Good!” With that, she stood and strode away, fury evident in the rigid set of her shoulders and head.

***** That evening, Kerrie dismissed her maid then settled on her wide bed while she brushed her waist-length hair. A gentle tap made her stomach churn but she called permission to enter. Biting her lower lip, she beckoned her sister to her and let Aida take the brush from her icy hands. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your summons, Kerrie? Or should I say to whom?” Kerrie glared. Aida laughed then said, “So you have accepted Alexandre.” “No!” Kerrie sighed. “Not yet.” “When? Never mind. It’s none of my concern.” “Perhaps it is. To an extent at any rate.” Standing, Kerrie paced to the fire and added a log to the blaze. “Bartholomew’s balls!” she swore. “I need your advice. I…I have no idea what to do, what to expect.” “And you think I do?” “Kindly cease all efforts to seem pure. You and Gaspar make little attempt to keep your tupping secret.” “What we choose to show is our love for each other. Tupping is something we share only with each other.” Kerrie felt so helpless she allowed her anguish free rein. “Do you refuse to help me?” “No. I just think Mother might be of more use to you.” “A woman who banished her husband from their marriage bed? A woman who has, since his death, lived like a nun? A woman who—” “Has taken a variety of men to her bed, including suitors we both spurned.” Kerrie gaped, then shut her mouth so firmly she heard her teeth click.

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“Haven’t you ever wondered how Audra manages to look so serene all the time? A good tupping does that for a woman. That much I’ll share with you. And, if you wish, I’ll show you the secret passages between the towers. At least you won’t have to skulk across the great hall and risk waking the men-at-arms should you trip over one.” “I know about the passages,” Kerrie said resentfully. “I would know more about…fornicating.” Aida shot her a small grin. “If you think of it as sin, you’ll never learn its pleasures.” “What can you find pleasurable about sweat and semen all over your body?” “How it got there.” Taking pity, she drew Kerrie to the bed and took up brushing her hair again. “I will tell you this much. No matter how much he makes you want him, the first time hurts.” “Does it hurt as much…later?” “Not if Alexandre is as skillful as I believe he is.” “Upon what do you base this remarkable supposition?” “Like Gaspar, Alexandre’s feet are large. So are his hands.” “So?” “A large hand can cover…certain parts of a woman more completely.” “Oh. And large feet signify what?” “Not that I have experience with men other than Gaspar but I have noticed that…” Kerrie wanted to scream and box Aida’s ears. Instead, she said calmly, “What have you noticed?” “Oh only that the wives and sweethearts of men with large hands and feet seem more content. Better satisfied, if you will.” With that, Aida kissed Kerrie’s cheek and left her to wonder. And worry about the coming night.

***** Kerrie brushed cobwebs from her hair and face, then pushed a cleverly concealed lever. The screech the panel made while closing made her jump. She placed one hand over her mouth, stifling a shriek, the other patted her galloping heart—a futile attempt to soothe and comfort herself. She expected to hear the men-at-arms come clattering up the stairs. Her held breath expelled in a huff, the only other sound her heart rat-a-tattatting. Shivering, she drew her cloak close around her then tiptoed to Alexandre’s door. When she rapped on that oak barrier, the door swung inward on an empty, fire-lit room. “Merchant?” she whispered, shoving the door open wider then going into his solar. “Alexandre?” Silence. 25

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With a sigh of relief at finding him gone, Kerrie turned. Appalled to see the door closing, she raced to it. And found it already closed and locked from the outside. Unable to hold back her fear, Kerrie sobbed Alexandre’s name as she slid to her knees, a supplicant before an altar. Mercy! She must be more nervous than she’d thought, to behave so foolishly. At length she thought that he, Alexandre, might have imbibed too much ale and had fallen asleep. With that comforting thought lightening her heart, she rose and strode to the inner door. Another blazing fire, another empty room, greeted her. Searching the flickering shadows, unable to discern anything or anyone lying in wait, she ventured into the bedchamber. At the foot of the wide bed she discovered a gown of such fragile gossamer she was afraid to touch it. It seemed less substantial than a spider’s web. Yet it did not lose its shape when she held it to her shoulders and viewed it and her cloaked but otherwise naked body in the cheval glass across the empty room. Without conscious thought, Kerrie tossed her cloak onto a chair then donned the gown. It slid down her body like a feather drifting on a zephyr. The darkest gray covered her breasts and mons while blues and lavenders, pinks and golds fell in soft folds. She pulled combs from her hair and arranged the locks over her shoulders. The hints of red that normally displeased her added to her feeling like a sunrise. And looking like a wanton. “It suits you. I knew it would,” Alexandre’s reflection said to her reflection in the glass. His hands, those large hands with their long, clever fingers Kerrie only now thought to notice, slid through her hair. Satisfied apparently with its texture, he eased the tresses back until they all fell down her back. Whatever illusion of modesty she’d thought to create vanished. Of their own volition, her arms rose to hide her puckering nipples. He caught her hands then gently, inexorably, held them at her sides. Heavy-lidded, her gaze sought his in the glass. The desire in his lambent green eyes sent a sense of power skittering up her spine. Yet her legs trembled and she feared she would swoon at his feet. “Aye,” he whispered, his breath hot and moist against her ear, “’tis a double-edged sword, this need.” “Where have you been? How did you get here? Do you know we are locked in?” He chuckled as he turned her to face him then placed a gentle kiss upon her brow. “Farid provided food and drink. Obeying your orders for discretion, Princess, I went to get them from him.” Looping an arm around her waist, he led her to the window. Upon its wide seat were dozens of pillows in gem-bright colors she had never seen, in fabrics so fine her fingers itched to touch them. “Go ahead,” he said, amusement in his deep voice and flashing in his eyes. Afraid he would rescind his offer, Kerrie filled her arms with silk, satin and velvetcovered pillows. Then she sat and examined each. She had never touched velvet so plush her fingers left a trail in its nap. The satin felt like cool water under her hand

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while the silk… Even the little nubs running randomly through it felt smooth as…well, silk. Smiling with pleasure, she looked up at Alexandre and took him in for the first time that evening. He wore a tunic the color of spring wheat that fell from his wide shoulders to his bare feet. Large feet, she thought, remembering Aida’s comments and feeling a blush creep up her neck. She quickly refocused on his face, yet could not resist the sight of his bare arms. “You look like some pagan prince, Merchant.” He laughed. “I’ll pretend there’s a compliment in there somewhere.” Feeling more at ease with him, sensing he would not pounce on her and ravish her, she took a goblet from his hand. Her fingers drifted over his and she felt them tremble. That fleeting sense of power touched her again. Holding the warm goblet in both hands, she raised it to her nose and inhaled deeply. “What is this?” “Tea with a touch of ginger. Believed salubrious to the chest and stomach. Taste it.” “Delicious.” He settled on the window seat then eased her feet across his lap. When he touched her arch, she jerked and tried to pull away. To no avail. “You are ticklish.” “You surprised me.” “Are you ticklish all over, Kerrie, or only on your feet?” “I don’t know,” she replied before she thought. “I’ve never been… That is, no man has ever…” He smiled as if her embarrassment amused him beyond words. Again she tried to pull her feet from his warm grasp. Again he held fast and his fingers dug deep into her arch. It felt…soothing. She sighed and relaxed against the pillows at her back. “Tell me about yourself, Merchant. Tell me how you became what you are.” He frowned and a peculiar pain flickered in his eyes. At last he said, “What I do has little to do with who I am. Besides,” he grinned at her, ”I would rather know what you did while you were hiding from me.” She bristled. “I wasn’t hiding. I had things to do in my tower.” “Such as?” he challenged, making her sit up straighter and struggle to free her feet. Again to no avail. “My bedding needed airing, the tapestries needed beating, the rushes needed…” “Changing,” he supplied. “And, of course, you had to do these tasks yourself. You, who command an army of servants.” “Sometimes,” she began, his fingers moving from her ankle to her calf, sucking rational thought from her mind. “S-sometimes it is best to take out frustration on 27

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inanimate objects rather than on people. It allows one to shout and swear while eliminating the need to apologize later.” His fingers stilled at the backs of her knees then slid firmly back down to her ankles. “You surprise me, Kerrie. I thought the feelings of others mattered not to you.” Something in his voice compelled her to touch him. His dark hair felt as cool as satin, as soft as the silk gown against her body. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Alexandre.” “Disdain is an effective means of avoiding intimacy.” “Is it? Did distain bring me here tonight?” “No,” he said so firmly she laughed nervously. He looked at her, lust blazing in his eyes. “What brought you here tonight was this.” He drew her into his lap. His warm hand cupped her chin as he brought her face to his. Now. Now he would give rein to the lust she saw in his eyes, the madness to dominate she felt in his muscled arms. Now he would bruise her lips with his, thrust his tongue into her mouth until every breath became a fight for her life. When she slapped him, he would try again to master her. But by then, when he reached for her, she would be gone. And on the morrow so would he. Rigid, she awaited his assault. But felt only the brush of his thick eyelashes along her jaw, over her cheek. The whisper touch of his lips on hers. Then he drew back and gazed into her eyes. His fingers traced her eyebrows then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She reached out and mirrored his gentle caresses. And when his lips touched hers again, hers softened and parted to expel a sigh of pleasure. His gentleness firmed to exquisite pressure. His tongue teased across the seam of her lips and she opened her mouth to it. With her own tongue she matched the tentative thrust of his. Soon they were locked in an intimate duel that left her breathless, not with disgust but with yearning. Her head lolling against his shoulder, she savored each kiss he placed on her neck and shivered with delight when his tongue laved her ear and his teeth nipped her lobe. Sifting her fingers through his hair, she sought to draw his face to hers for another of his soul-searing kisses. His soft laugh vibrated against her ear, along her neck. When his lips closed over her rigid nipple and his tongue laved it through the sheer fabric of her gown, she gasped. And arched against his mouth while her fingers tangled in his hair and pressed him tighter to her breast. The exquisite pleasure built until she could bear no more. Her fingers gripping his earlobes, she jerked his head up and sought his lips. “As much as I want you, Kerrie, you’ll not rush me. I want you to learn pleasure first. Passion will keep…for a time.” She moaned. “If you wish to punish me, Alexandre, beat me.”

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He said nothing. Placing her hands in her lap, he stood, turned his back to her then let his tunic slide to his waist. “St. Christopher on a crutch!” she cried, seeing the white scars and fading red welts that crisscrossed his wide back. “Who did this to you? Do they still hurt? The scars, I mean. If Farid had a hand in this atrocity, I’ll give him a taste of Marchon justice!” “Farid risked his life to save me from a gang of Frenchmen intent on beating the devil out of me,” Alexandre said. “My fellow countrymen apparently thought if they applied the whip to me, Farid would vanish.” “Someone else beat you,” she said, running her fingertips lightly over the older scars. “Oui. Some knights returning from the Crusades mistook me for a Saracen. They decided to make me an example of what would happen if other infidels ventured into Christian territory. “These scars are why I will never beat you, Kerrie. Or anyone else.” “I said that in jest. I didn’t realize…I didn’t know.” “I wanted you to know before…” Resettling the tunic over his shoulders, he turned to face her. “Now you know I am not the perfect figure you have imagined.” “Au contraire, Alexandre, I find you even more beautiful.” “Men are not beautiful, Kerrie.” “To me you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. But if that embarrasses you, then I will call you noble instead.” And think of you as beautiful where only I can hear. “Alexandre? Will you teach me about pleasure and passion?” He looked down at her. She felt as though he could see inside her to her very soul. At last he said, “I think you know all about passion, Kerrie. What you need to learn is trust. When you learn to trust you will free the passion inside you.” “Free passion to conquer me?” “To conquer it. To own it and never fear it again.” Lost in his seductive gaze, held captive by his melodious voice, she reached out and took his hands. “Teach me, Alexandre. Teach me now.”

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Chapter Four His smile felt like a benediction on her soul. Keeping one of her hands in his, he tossed a pillow on the floor then knelt between her knees. “Lean back, dearling,” he murmured. Her free hand on his shoulder, she said nervously, “What do you intend to do, Alexandre?” His breath hot against her inner thigh, he chuckled. “If your seamstress followed my instructions… Ah yes. Here is the opening I wanted.” He parted the sheer fabric then simply gazed at her. She felt a blush race from her toes to her sex, to her breasts with their peaking nipples, then to the roots of her hair. “Alexandre,” she protested and tried to cover herself. He caught her hands then tucked them under her buttocks. “You are beautiful, Kerrie, especially there.” As if to prove it to her, he kissed her…there. “Oh!” “Lean back,” he demanded. This time she obeyed, too weak with anticipation to protest. “You bathed for me. You smell like roses.” He sniffed loudly and she thought she would die of embarrassment. “I thought roses a more pleasant scent than eau de cheval,” she muttered, her voice betraying more of desire than of sarcasm. Chuckling, he touched his tongue to her little nub. She gasped and jerked but he held her hips. She could not escape him and soon she did not want to escape at all. He licked and sucked gently, then plunged his tongue deep inside her. He kept murmuring for her to relax but every muscle, every nerve was tight and strained toward… Something she wanted desperately but was powerless to name. “Alexandre.” She sobbed his name. Feeling completely inept, a failure as a woman, she drew a deep breath, prepared to tell him to stop. A sigh of pleasure came out instead as he lapped and sucked and eased a finger inside her. Wanting more, needing more, she opened her legs wider. He began a rhythm that took his finger deep then shallow then deeper still. Her hips rose and fell, keeping the tempo of his tongue and hand. Whimpers of delight escaped her lips. He murmured words of praise against her woman’s flesh. Spasms struck her like a violent storm. She fought them but could not withstand the exquisite release they brought her. She cried out his name, her voice betraying how much she enjoyed these wondrous moments.

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But he had even more to show her. Easing up her body, he kissed her. “Taste your cum on my lips,” he whispered. “Lap your juices from my fingers.” She did, amazed that she could be so bold—so wanton. When he stood, she felt bereft and whimpered a protest. “Look at me, Kerrie. See how much I desire you.” Opening her eyes, she drank him in. No matter how much he protested, she found him beautiful. His midnight hair hung to his wide shoulders. He seemed not to feel it and obviously did not mind the mess she had made when her fingers tangled in those silky strands. His eyes blazed like green fire under his black brows and rekindled her need. A nest of dark curls hid his nipples and arrowed downward, beckoning her gaze lower. His shaft curved upward toward his flat belly. She licked her lips and watched his cock throb and grow. Merciful heavens, he was huge! And his balls! Even as she gazed at them they seemed to swell between his muscled thighs. Large as he was, she felt only curiosity untinged by fear. She reached out and cupped his testicles, heard his breath hiss out. “Did I hurt you?” “No.” The strain in his voice brought her gaze to his face. He looked so tormented she snatched away her hand. “I am hurting you.” “You aren’t. ’Tis only that…I fear my control will snap. That I’ll spill my seed over your hands.” “Are you unable to make more seed?” she wondered, once more taking his shaft in her hand. It felt warm and smooth as heated velvet, a texture very different from his coarse-haired balls. “I can make more but…” His breath hissed out again. He covered her hand with his, stilling her exploration. “’Twill take time.” “So you do want to rush.” “No! I…I can pleasure you again while we wait.” “Good,” she said, then lapped the dew-like drop of moisture from the tip of his cock. His groan, his fingers tangling in her hair, emboldened her. Parting her lips, she took him into her mouth and repeated the patterns his tongue had followed when he brought her such pleasure. Hot, salty liquid filled her mouth. His shout of release filled her with joy. She had given him this, had repaid his gentle tutelage with her own gentleness. His fingers raised her chin, wiped the remnants of his cum from the corners of her mouth. Leaning down, he kissed her then drew her into his arms.

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“’Tis time to take this to bed.” As if she weighed no more than a feather, he lifted her and carried her into the bedchamber. There, he let her body slide down his until she stood before him. Wonder filled Alexandre’s soul. As if to memorize her features, his fingers traced her brows, her cheekbones, her jaw and chin. When he touched her lips, they parted and sucked his fingertip into her mouth. He groaned, then continued his lazy tour of her body. His gaze traveled down her neck, over her chest until her breasts filled his hands. Her nipples hardened against his palms and she shifted restlessly. He wanted to see more of her. Finding the ribbon that held her sheer gown closed, he pulled on it then slid the fabric off her shoulders. It pooled in a shimmering heap around her ankles. Shivering, goose bumps rising on her flushed skin, she covered her breast and mons. “Nay, love, do not hide from me.” Her hands fell to her sides, yet she looked solely at the center of his chest. He found himself wondering at her shyness. After the things they had done to each other, would do to each other, he had expected her to flaunt her body, her power over him, to stand proudly and indifferently under his scrutiny. Laughing to himself, at himself, he remembered she was yet a maid, that no other man had seen her thus, touched her thus, possessed her as he would possess her. “I have seen drawings from which artists carved statues of Venus. Yet I have never seen a woman as beautiful as you.” And, he thought when her lambent gray eyes rose to his face, you do have freckles all over your body. Taking her hand, he led her to the wide bed. He drew her down beside him then kissed her neck, her ear, her lips. Her soft sigh parted her lips and she accepted the invasion of his tongue. Arms entwined, they lay together and, for a time, simply gazed at each other’s faces. His hands and fingers trembling, he spread her auburn curls over the pillows then studied her body. His head propped on his left hand, he traced her soft skin from her breastbone to her mons. Her pinkish-brown nipples peaked and he found them irresistible. Stroking one puckered peak, he laved the other with his tongue then nipped it before sucking it into his mouth. Her sigh feathered over his brow and her body trembled. He slid his hand down her torso and rejoiced when she opened her legs. Her nether curls were as silky as those on her head, her nether lips as hot and wet as her mouth. His cock swelled and throbbed against her warm thigh but he refused to let it master him. Not now, when he knew he could bring her higher, make her beg him to be inside her, then take her to the stars. He eased his middle finger into her and felt her clench around it. He withdrew, making sure he stroked that little nub that brought her such sweet torment she bucked against his hand. “Alexandre.” Her voice contained a soft plea but he wanted more from her. He stroked deeper, withdrew, stroked deeper still. Her breath came in pants. Her hips rose

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and fell to his command. He felt her body tense and knew she hovered on the brink of release. He stopped. She cried out, a sob of pure frustration that pierced his soul. “Alexandre. Please. I want you in me.” “Say it again, sweet Kerrie. Tell me how much you want me to fuck you.” The crude word made her juices flow hotter over his fingers. “Yes, Alexandre, I want you to…Please, fuck me, Alexandre. Fuck me ’til I go blind and breathless.” “Sweet heaven,” he whispered and drove his cock into her spasming cunt. Her eyes flew open, not an ounce of pain in them. What he saw was wonder and pleasure. A small smile curved her lips as she ran her hands gently down his back and grabbed his ass. Wrapping her legs around his thighs, she demanded, “Fuck me, Alexandre.” “Gladly,” he said and did. Kerrie felt the tension renew its assault on her body. This time she knew what to expect and embraced it even as she embraced Alexandre. Her lover, Alexandre. Her— merciful heavens!—her master. She sought the familiar resentment and failed to find it. Alexandre filled her mind as surely as he filled her body. When she climaxed again, she took him with her. Shouting each other’s name, they went limp in each other’s arms. Before she fell asleep cradled against Alexandre’s muscled chest, she thought Aida had been wrong. Properly prepared, fucking hadn’t hurt at all.

***** To Kerrie the next week passed in a haze. Her days she spent in her normal way. She oversaw the knights’ and men-at-arms’ training. Practiced with her own bow and arrows, broadsword and mace. Selected which mares to breed. Walked the fields with Aida and Gaspar and now Alexandre to ensure their crops remained healthy. Yet these duties, so mundane, took on greater meaning under Alexandre’s insatiable curiosity. “Why do you practice fighting with your men?’ he asked. “Were I a man, you would not ask me such a question.” “I have known kings who never joined in battle but stayed safe behind their men.” “They were not worthy, then, to lead. A ruler must never expect her people to do what she is unwilling to do for herself.” “Ah, then you will empty the chamber pots come dawn.” She laughed and kissed him soundly. Which, as seemed so natural now, led to other things.

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They could have used the secret stairs. That hidden passage would have taken them directly to Kerrie’s bedchamber, more quickly to her bed. Instead, hand in hand, they strolled from the training grounds, through the great hall, then mounted the stairs to her quarters. Anticipation rode them. Kerrie could feel it in Alexandre’s trembling fingers, in her own quivering belly. In the way her quim seeped in preparation and wanted his cock. With every stair need grew. “Kiss me,” he demanded when they rounded the first corner and were no longer visible to those in the great hall. Pressing her against the stone wall, he trailed feathery kisses over her brow, along her chin, then laved her ear with his tongue. She could feel his cock through his breeks and her own. She reached for it but he grasped her hands. Then he raised them over her head. His body, one hand gripping her wrists, held her prisoner. Even before he touched her lips with his fingertips a surge of fearful delight shivered through her. “Am I hurting you?” “Do you want to hurt me?” “Non…et oui. I want you to admit I have power over you. That I can rule you.” “You can.” She licked her lips, fascinated when his gaze narrowed on her mouth. Feral need ripped through her again. “You do.” “Eh bien. Kiss me, Kerrie. Give me life with your breath.” She nipped at his lips, teased the corners with her tongue until they parted. She breathed into his open mouth, followed breath with her tongue. The duel began. Like two swordsmen testing each other’s technique, they thrust then parried. Lazy at first, their need soon built to frenzy. “Mon Dieu, Kerrie, I want you here. This minute.” Arching into his mouth on her breast, she moaned. She tore at the laces holding his breeks closed. He tore at hers. Freeing his cock was a simple task. Freeing her was not. Alexandre groaned. Kerrie giggled. “Stop it,” he whispered, his chest vibrating with suppressed laughter. “Stop laughing, Kerrie. I cannot do it if you are laughing.” Taking her hand, he pulled her up the remaining stairs. Reaching her solar, they shed their clothes in haste. Naked at last, the frenzy faded but the need remained. Alexandre barred the door then turned to take her in. She stood before him proudly. Shoulders back, breasts thrust out, her nipples tight and protruding like little rosehips. Her braid had come undone. Her auburn curls tumbled in waves over her shoulders. With his eyes, he followed one thick strand from her breast to her slender waist to where her nest hair curled. Her long legs seemed to go on forever and seemed to tremble. 34


Her eyes, stormy gray with leashed desire, caressed his shoulders then seemed to wander over his chest hairs downward until they reached his swelling cock. “You are magnificent,” she told him in his native tongue, her voice low and throaty. “Magnifique.” A blush stole into her cheeks. “Why is it, Alexandre, that even the crudest words sound…lyrical in French?” “Perhaps because French is a romance language? Who knows?” He stalked toward her like a great dark cat, his eyes mere slits of green. “I think you think to distract me, ma petite chou-chou.” “Non. No to the distraction and no to the petite. I am nearly as tall as you.” “Oui. But you are small, dainty even, in all the places a woman should be small.” His gaze on her face, he raised her hand to his lips then teased each finger with his tongue. “Your hands are delicate, your fingers soft despite the hours you spend training with your men or digging in your fields. “Like the rest of you, Kerrie, your hands are elegant.” He lapped her palm, felt her hand tremble, saw her nipples harden, heard her breath hiss softly. Releasing her hand, he stroked her nipples and watched her eyes go black. Cupping her breasts, he leaned into her and sniffed. “Even sweaty you smell sweet.” She snorted took a half-step back. “I can smell desire on your skin, Kerrie. ’Tis the sweetest scent a man can hope for. It says you want me. Want me to kiss you. Want me to touch you—especially here, between your thighs. Here, where your cunt aches to have my tongue in you. My cock in you. “Tell me what you want, Kerrie.” “I want you to…baiser me.” He laughed. Indignant, she tried to retreat but was trapped against the wall. “Later I will teach you how to conjugate the verb in French. For now, say it in English, Kerrie.” “Tup me.” He shook his head and slid a thick finger into her heat. “Swive me,” came out on a shaky exhalation. She widened her stance, allowing him deeper penetration. He could feel her legs tremble, feel her juices seep over his hand. “Non,” he whispered, finding the little button inside her womb that would bring her the greatest pleasure. “Say the crudest word, Kerrie. It will excite you. Excite us both.” Nuzzling her neck, her ear, he whispered, “Say it, Kerrie.” “Damn you, Merchant. Fuck me.” He eased his cock into her, then grabbed her ass with both hands. Her arms wreathed around his neck, her legs wound around his waist. He pumped faster until she sobbed his name and her spasms took them both to completion.

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With her still wrapped around him, his cock still buried in her, he staggered to the bed. She opened her eyes and gave him a wry smile. “Much as I hate to admit it, Merchant, you were right. The word does excite me.” “Eh bien. I shall teach you all the naughty words in English and in French.” “Not just the naughty words, Alexandre.” She yawned then added, “The crudest, vilest, most exciting words you know. In all the languages you know. Promise?” “Avec plaisir, ma petite. With great pleasure.”

***** “Gaspar told me that this field will lie fallow next year. Why?” he asked. “He recommended we allow the earth her rest.” “You trust him, then?” “Yes. He would not risk damaging Marchonland or its people.” “You mean Aida.” “To Gaspar, Aida is Marchonland.” “What am I to you?” “I’ll show you, Merchant.” Taking Alexandre’s hand, urging him to run with her, she led him to the secret passage that took them to her bedchamber. She slid the tapestry over the hidden door, then turned to Alexandre. He seemed to float in a cloud of lavender-scented steam. Suspicious of the enormous vessel sitting in the middle of her chamber, she quirked both brows then said, “What is that?” “What does it look like?” Alexandre looked aggrieved. Like a little boy who has presented his maman with a frog and cannot understand why she shrieks, he frowned. “It looks like a bathing tub,” she said cautiously, inching close enough to peer into its depths. “A very large tub that has turned the water this ugly reddish-brown. Nearly the ugly color of my hair.” “Fishing for compliments, Princess? You know I find your hair exquisite.” He came to her then quickly undressed them both. Stepping into the tub, he held out his arms. “Come.” She shook her head. “The water is clear, mon coeur. ’Tis the copper lining that makes it seem discolored.” Sill wary, she watched him hold clean water in his cupped hands. “Why copper?” she said at last, stepping over the high side and into Alexandre’s arms. “To better hold the water’s heat.” He guided them down until they were immersed in warmth.

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Sighing with contentment, she leaned back against Alexandre’s damp chest. His hairy legs, muscled and still sun-browned, curled around her pale ones. His cock twitched against her buttocks. “Your cooper made it to my design. As you can see, ’tis big enough to hold us both.” “Hmmm,” she hummed, wiggling her bottom and feeling his cock pulse and lengthen. “And the rim is high enough to hide us should someone enter while we bathe. Very clever, Merchant.” His laugh vibrated against her back as he slid his soapy hands over her breasts. His breath warm against her ear, he muttered, “’Twasn’t why I had it made so.” His fingers traced gentle patterns around her areolas. Her nipples pebbled and anticipation pooled low in her belly. “Alexandre,” she whispered, tilting her chin so he could kiss her. His tongue eased into her mouth. His fingers continued their arousing patterns and she lost coherent thought. “Fuck me, Alexandre. Please.” “Not yet, my heart. You near bliss even now. I want to see your eyes when you climax. Watch them turn black with need. Know I brought you to this with only my fingers on your breasts. Come for me, Kerrie. Yessss.” She writhed. Her fingers sought the tub’s rim and clenched over it. It was her lifeline as her body swam deeper and deeper into the waves of bliss that threatened to drown her. “Alexandre,” she moaned. “Alexandre, mon coeur, mon amour.” Her spasms eased and she went limp in his arms. “How is this possible? How can these lightest of touches bring such delight?” “You love me. ’Tis as simple as that.” She twisted until she sat astride him, his engorged shaft between her nether lips. “And you, Merchant? Do you love…fucking me? Or do you—” “I had this tub fashioned to hold us both. The thought of being apart for even the brief time it takes to bathe…even that is too long. More than loving to fuck you, I love you. All of you.” She spread her legs then guided him into her. He groaned as she slid slowly up and down his cock. “This is the real reason you had the tub made so large. ’Tis so we can fuck while bathing. Admit it, Merchant.” “Oui. In part, yes. This way I can suckle your beautiful breasts while you ride me. This way I can see every inch of your beautiful face. This way—yessss,” his breath hissed out and he grasped her hips, “you can see how very much I love you. “Ride me, Kerrie. Ride me.” He fastened his lips around one nipple then sucked greedily. His hands guided her hips to a faster pace. 37

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“Good,” she murmured as her eyes drifted closed. Every fiber of her being seemed focused on reaching release, his as much as her own. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice gravelly. “Look at me while—together— we come.” She opened her eyes then focused on his. Desire burned like green fire. Brighter still was his love shining from the emerald depths. Wave after wave, release and love, flowed through them. Need fulfilled, she slumped against him and barely heard him whisper, “Je t’aime, mon coeur. Je t’aime.”

***** “Why breed this mare and not the other? The other is prettier.” “Looks, Merchant, have nothing to do with breeding. My choice has sturdy legs and a stout heart. She will pass on these traits.” “As you will pass on your courage and steadfastness to our children.” “Our daughter. Marchon queens don’t breed sons.” “Our daughter, then.” He took her hand and led her up the stairs to her own bedchamber. “’Tis the middle of the day, Merchant. You cannot mean to swive me now.” “Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll leave you.” She cupped his cheek and whispered, “You know I want you more than I want my next breath.” “Then come tomorrow we shall wed.” “You seek to rule me, Merchant?” “Nay. I would have you rule me for all my days.” “And your nights? How will you spend your nights?” “With you, Kerrie. Fucking you. Loving you.” “Ah Merchant, you have a silver tongue.” “Oui.” “I shall act as your abigail. Sit,” he commanded. “My abigail refuses to attend me when I am dressed like a man.” Noting the predatory gleam in Alexandre’s green eyes, Kerrie backed away. She had never imagined games like these could excite her. That laughter could arouse not only need but joy. “Sit,” he said again and gave her a gentle shove. She plopped down on the window seat. “Alexandre…I stink,” she protested as he pulled off her boots. “You have the daintiest feet,” he murmured. He rubbed her arches, pulled on her toes, then sucked each in turn. 38


She laughed. “Do I tickle?” “Yes but no. Aida… Never mind.” “Tell me, Kerrie. Aida said what?” He rubbed her calves, stroked them with his clever tongue. She sighed then said, “Men with hands and feet… Ahh.” “Raise your hips so I can remove your breeks. Men with hands and feet—which most men have—have what?” He nuzzled the curls surrounding her quim, breathed softly over her clit. “L-large hands…um…large feet. Large cocks,” she managed to get out before his silver tongue distracted her completely. “’Tis not size that matters,” he murmured, laving her with his clever, silver tongue, “but application.” Clutching his ears, she drew him up then placed his hands—his large hands—over her breasts. “Would you like swiving me as much if my breasts were a different size?” “In France we say anything more than a handful is wasted,” he said, untying her laces and exposing her breasts, her pebbled nipples. “Ah. I begin to see your point. You might enjoy fucking me less were my hands smaller.” “Mmmm.” She unfastened his laces then eased his shirt off his wide shoulders. “Are your nipples as sensitive as mine?” They rose as she stroked and suckled. “Yes, I can see they are.” She kissed her way down his body and felt his muscles tense when she neared his cock. She caressed him through his breeks, felt his cock swell and his balls fill. Impatient now, she freed him and simply stared. His cock grew even larger. It twitched as if begging for a kiss. A drop of dew seeped from it and she lapped then circled the head with her tongue. “This pleases you as much as your tongue pleases me.” He groaned then whispered, “Oui.” “’Tis strange how soft your skin is here when you are so hard. ’Tis stranger still that your balls feel so rough.” Another drop of dew tempted her to lick it away. Then, gently cupping his balls, she took his cock in her mouth and sucked until his groans, his hips surging restlessly told her he neared completion. He filled her mouth with his cum then said, his voice sated, “Now who has the silver tongue?”

***** Ten months later, Kerrie swore at Alexandre and vowed never to take him to her bed again. Her labor pains were getting closer and closer, the agony nearly unbearable. 39

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The odious man, the cause of all her misery, laughed. Gripping his hands as another pain wrenched her back, she cried, “Damn you, Merchant, I’ll not go through this again.” The baby kicked and another pain speared her belly. “At least once more you will,” he said, wiping her brow with a cool cloth. “An heir and a spare, remember.” “Go away! You’re not supposed to be here anyway. This is women’s work. Go away!” “I have labored at your side in your fields. If I could, I would bear this labor for you.” As they had for several weeks, tears filled Kerrie’s eyes. “Oh Alexandre, I love you so.” “You must love me greatly to bear this pain.” “I do-o-o-o. Damn you, Merchant!” “Push,” the midwife demanded. “It hurts!” “Push, my love, and it will all be over soon.” “And when it is… I’m going to kill you, Merchant.” “Marchon justice, Kerrie? Now I know just how great your love is for me.” She screamed and pushed. “Ah,” the midwife cried as if she herself had expelled the yowling babe. “A princess, Princess Kerrie.” “I’m an aunt,” Aida crowed and placed her niece on Kerrie’s belly. “’Twould not dare be anything but a princess,” Alexandre said, smiling down at his wife’s exhausted face. “May I name her?” “I should deny you—after all, you had all the fun.” “And we shared the pleasure,” he murmured against her ear. “Let me name her.” Kerrie tugged him down for a kiss then said, “Oh very well, name her.” But she quirked a brow, warning him of mayhem if he chose badly. “Yvonne. I name her Yvonne in hope that she will have Kerrie’s courage, stout heart and—” “If you plead for sturdy legs, Al—” “Steadfast love for her husband.” “And that he return her love as steadfastly.” Again, Kerrie reached up and stroked Alexandre’s cheek. “How could he do otherwise?” “Ten perfect little fingers,” Aida crooned, placing the baby in her mother’s arms. “Ten precious little toes.”

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The midwife scurried about, neatening up, then helped Kerrie from the bed so she could change the linens. In no time, Kerrie was propped against her pillows, Yvonne at her breast. “Nursing will make your breasts sag,” the midwife warned. “It will also make the babe less vulnerable to certain diseases,” Farid said, coming through the door and grinning at them all. The midwife crossed herself and fled. “A pretty picture you make—father, mother, aunt and child. What will you call her?” No one questioned how Farid knew the baby was a girl. Farid knew many things without being told. “Her name is Yvonne,” Kerrie said, looking at Alexandre with a pleased smile. “Her father named her.” “Archer, yes. Her name suits. She will defend Marchonland with all her might and courage. You have chosen well…Merchant.” “If you intended to remind me we need to travel,” Alexandre began then spread his hands and shrugged helplessly. Farid smiled. “No, you must stay with your family. I shall travel for us both. When I return, I’ll bring you wealth beyond imagination and stories to amaze and entertain the babe.” Alexandre and Farid embraced. Then the Nubian took his leave. Kerrie touched Alexandre’s hand. “If you think you should go with him…” “No, I want to stay here with you and Yvonne. By the time Farid returns our baby will be old enough to travel with us.” “Mayhap by then we’ll have another babe, one who won’t be old enough to travel.” Alexandre leaned down and placed a kiss on Kerrie’s brow, another on his suckling daughter’s cheek. “Then I shall remain here again and let Farid do the traveling.” After a brief pause he quirked a brow and said, “Unless you wish me gone?” Pulling him down for a kiss, Kerrie whispered, “I would keep you with me always.” “Then I shall stay with you. Always.”

***** One year later I, Kerrie, Queen of Marchonland, being of sound mind…

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“Alexandre, stop it!” Kerrie said, laughing. Her husband’s tongue lapping at her neck tickled and made her nipples pucker with desire. But as a new mother and a queen, she had an obligation to complete her will. “Come to bed, Kerrie, while our babe still sleeps.” “Only half an hour more, Alexandre. I promise.” Grumbling good-naturedly under his breath, he retreated to their bed. Kerrie retrieved her quill and continued to write. After a time she finished with, When she comes of age, Yvonne is to marry the heir to Puttupon. This is my wish and that of Yvonne’s father and the heir’s parents. Placing her signature and seal on the parchment, she rushed to the bed. Discarding her gown, shivering, she climbed in bed beside her husband. And found Alexandre dead.

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Entr’Acte—The King

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Chapter Five “Our condolences on your double loss, Queen Kerrie.” Ungrateful for the reminder of both Audra’s and Alexandre’s deaths, Kerrie looked over both shoulders. “I thought we were alone, Your Majesty. Or have you a mouse in your pocket?” She continued to make a pretense of looking around her vast gardens for someone near to where she and the king stood. King Garr had the grace to blush. She expected him to scold her for her impertinence. Instead he laughed and looked younger than the fifty years she knew him to be. For a moment, Kerrie could understand why women found him attractive. Tall, still broad-shouldered, only a little gray in his short-cropped hair, a little round in the belly, she might consider his suit—for a moment. That he had courted Audra, then Kerrie and would probably pursue Aida if she came with Marchonland was more than off-putting. Remembering he too mourned—was it his third or fourth wife?—she said, “And my condolences for your loss, sir. I trust your sons are well?” “As well as can be expected under the circumstances. Gareth, my oldest, is fostering with my brother at Raven’s Keep. Gerard and Edgar are with their cousins at The Eyrie.” He sighed. “Edgar is too young for fostering but I thought it best he have someone familiar to help him through the rough patches. He greatly misses his mother, may she rest in peace.” “Very wise, Majesty, and kind as well.” “Please, call me Garr. We—and I mean you and I—have much in common. It seems ridiculous to act so formally when we are alone.” “I agree…Garr.” She hesitated at using his name but found she liked the sound of it. In a way it reminded her of love sounds Alexandre made when— No! She could not bear to think of him, especially not in another man’s presence. “Your daughter—Yvonne, is it?—favors you. I expect she’ll become a real beauty too.” “Thank you. She has her father’s eyes, which…” “In some ways comfort you and in others bring pain.” “You understand very well, Your—Garr.” “Too well.” He took her hand and toyed with her fingers. She should not allow it. But it had been so long since anyone—a man—had touched her in ways that made her feel like a woman. She sighed, then eased her hand from his, with more regret than she’d thought possible.

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She missed the pleasures of the marriage bed. Even more, she missed the laughter, the hours she and Alexandre spent together with Yvonne, the stories he told as he held wife and child in his arms. “I came to Marchonland,” Garr said, “to ask you—” “Please do not ask. I admire you, Garr. Greatly. But I do not wish to—” “Marry me.” He smiled, a little sadly it seemed to her. “I had hoped you’d change your mind but I see now you want, need, a younger man.” He slanted a calculating look in her direction. It set her teeth on edge. “Gareth is not only too young, Your Majesty, he is betrothed to my daughter.” “Hmmm. I see you do not know about…” Turning, he beckoned to someone in the entourage that had maintained a discreet distance behind them as they walked. A young man of twenty years or so separated from the group and sauntered toward them. Shorter, rounder than his king, he had the look of Garr in his swagger, about his chin and eyes. Kerrie disliked his eyes. They were pale blue, like a sun-hazed summer sky. They looked at her as if she were a possession he would take or discard at his pleasure. Without thought of her needs, her wishes. “Queen Kerrie, Lord William.” Lord William sketched a bow then looked up at her—all charm and pleasantness now. Too late, she thought as she directed a distant smile at him. Too late to fool her. She had seen avarice in his eyes and refused to be taken in now by courtly manners and seductive glances. Moreover, King Garr had dealt her an insult so great she wanted to smite him. That he would present his bastard to her was unconscionable. That she had to treat that bastard with civility galled her. But she had to, not only to protect Yvonne’s betrothal to Gareth but to avoid a war. Puttupon, Garr’s kingdom, surrounded Marchonland. Garr had more knights and men-at-arms than she did. Marchon Castle could withstand a siege of many months but her people, their homes, their children would bear the brunt of Garr’s anger. Her castle could safeguard them for a time but could not protect them from the destruction of their homes, their crops. She wanted to banish Garr and his by-blow but… A disturbance on the battlements saved her from precipitous folly. Gaspar’s voice rang out, clear and joyful. “’Tis Farid, Kerrie, home from his travels.” “You must excuse me. Farid is my late husband’s partner and friend. He does not know of Alexandre’s death.” Without waiting for comment, Kerrie gathered her skirts and fled. “Well, William, what do you think?” 45

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“Of her? That I’d like to fuck her mouth first, then fuck her ass. Then I’d beat the insolence out of her before I fucked her cunt.” Slinging an arm around his son’s shoulders, Garr said, “I’d like to see that. Or mayhap join in.” “Why not?” William said lightly. In truth he had no intention of sharing Kerrie with anyone. Especially not his father.

***** Closeted alone with Kerrie in her solar, Farid’s dark eyes filled with tears. Kerrie never had seen a man weep. Uncertain what to do, she put her arms around the Nubian’s waist. And wept with him. After a time, they drew back from each other and swiped tears from their cheeks. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Why? I should thank you.” “When Audra died, Alexandre held me. Just having his arms around me was a great comfort. When he died…” As her voice faded, she shrugged as if throwing off a great burden. “You had no one to hold you.” “Aida, bless her, tried her best to comfort both Yvonne and me. She had more success with her niece than with her sister. Still… I know Yvonne misses her father.” She made a rueful sound. “She even tries to comfort me. She pats my hands when I clench them, kisses my cheeks when I cannot stem my tears.” “I suspect King Garr would like to aid in that effort.” “Gaspar and his wagging tongue,” Kerrie said with less resentment than she’d expected. Could she—should she—confide in Farid? She assuredly could not confide in Aida or Gaspar. Aida likely would suggest Kerrie take Garr or his bastard—or both!—to her bed. Gaspar…Gaspar would marshal Marchonland’s forces and escort Garr and his baseborn son to Marchon’s borders, then order the King never to return. A certain path to war. Drawing a deep breath, praying Farid would not think her mad with grief, she said, “Will you grant me a favor?”

***** When Kerrie entered the great hall for the evening meal she noticed three faces. Aida’s brows winged upward, making her look so much like Audra, Kerrie’s steps faltered. Gaspar shot Kerrie a slight nod—approving, it seemed to her—then poked Aida’s ribs. King Garr’s glare scorched her. She wagered if he had a sword, he would plunge it into her heart. 46


Farid touched her hand where it rested on his arm. Smiling down at her, he leaned closer then whispered, “Our performance seems to be working.” “Mayhap we celebrate too soon. I shan’t feel completely at ease until the king and his spawn quit Marchonland.” “Then we shall play on ’til they have gone.” She smiled at him, all the while hoping she looked smitten, or at least in lust. Which was not as difficult as she’d expected. Farid was a handsome man, powerfully built with eyes that made her nerve ends tingle. And, because of their shared love for Alexandre, they had far more in common than she and Garr had. Together she and Farid mounted the dais. Together they stood while pages pulled back their chairs. Together they sat. Many of the knights and men-at-arms had seen Farid before, some had not. Those elbowed each other and held tight-lipped, whispered conversations with their nearest companions. For the first time since Alexandre’s death, the meal passed in relative silence. Kerrie deliberately ignored Garr who sat to her right as befitted his royal station. Instead, she took every opportunity to share her meal with Farid, smiled fatuously at him, laughed at bons mots he murmured in her ear. She dared not look at Garr, could not judge his mood beyond the anger she felt roiling from him. But she could see William. He looked at her, glared at her with rapacious eyes that made her shiver. She judged it fortunate that Farid thought she felt chilled and circled her shoulders with a brawny arm. ’Twas beyond propriety but served her purpose well. William mouthed whore then quit the hall. Garr growled an excuse then followed his bastard to their shared tower. She and Farid maintained the charade of lovers. He leaned toward her and said, “It may prove useful to post guards outside their quarters.” “Aye. For their own protection,” she agreed, “as well as Marchon Castle’s.” Farid nodded. “’Twould be unwise to let them skulk about searching for your secret passages.” With his dark skin, she could not say with certainty that he blushed but it seemed he did. “Secret passages of any kind must remain secret,” she said, her voice sounding husky and sensuous. Was she beginning to feel those emotions she thought to portray? Farid shot her a questioning glance, then let loose a laugh that brought Aida’s and Gaspar’s startled faces to Kerrie. She seized the opportunity to call them to her side. “Gaspar, I dislike the way Lord William looks at me. Set a guard—someone you trust implicitly—on his chambers. “I’ve already seen to that, Majesty.” “And seen to other needs as well,” Aida added, shifting her gaze and warm smile to the king’s men. “They’ll not notice their hard stone beds when they fall to sleep this night. “And whatever game you’re playing, Kerrie, watch your back.”

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“I shall. We need to talk. All of us.” Gaspar nodded. “Once the men are asleep, Aida and I will join you and Farid. Your tower, Majesty?” Kerrie nodded. “Yes. I would know what Garr is up to. Farid and I must continue to play our besotted roles.” The two couples left the high table together. Aida and Gaspar took the stairs to her tower. Kerrie and Farid proceeded to hers.

***** The next morning, Gaspar—bleary-eyed from lack of sleep—tried to ignore the gaudy and highly erotic tapestries in Kerrie’s solar. Instead he strove to focus on his man-at-arms’ report. Next time, he promised himself, I’ll choose someone less loquacious. “‘Ey, Gaspar. You listenin’?” “Yes, I’m listening. Garr and William were shouting at each other but you could not make out many words. They demanded wine and… What happened then?” The guard looked pained, as if thinking were torture. “Well, they shouted s’more. Said some really nasty things ’bout Queen Kerrie. I wanted to bust down the door and toss ’em in that ’ole in the dungeons. That ooo-blee…somethin’.” “Oubliette,” Gaspar provided. “Go on.” “They was callin’ ’er a whore, goin’ on ’n’ on ’bout fu—er, swiving ’er ’n’ gettin’ some of what that…that noobean was gettin’. Then one shouts ta the other that the noobean weren’t getting’ anythin’ ’cause ’e’s a nuch.” Nuch? Gaspar silently asked. “That’s when they started in shoutin’ again. One says to the other that a nuch’s like a gelding, only ’stead of cuttin’ off ’is balls, they cut off ’is quim-sticker. That got me. Sucked m’jewels right up in my belly. And then… Well, all I ’eard after that was snorin’.” Eunuch, Gaspar thought, running his hand over his lips and bristly chin to hide his grin. “Thank you, Middle John. Go to the kitchen and break your fast. Tell Cook to give you an extra slice of bread and butter. And some sweets for Little John,” he added as he watched the man leave. “Nuch?” Aida said, pushing aside the tapestry she’d hidden behind. “Eunuch,” Gaspar clarified but she still looked baffled. “Eunuchs are guards in the emirs’ harems. They cut off their quim-stickers so they cannot swive the women.” “Oh! Oh that must hurt!” “Sucked m’jewels right up,” Gaspar said then laughed. Even to him, his laugh sounded nervous.

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“Bartholomew’s balls!” Aida swore. “If Farid is a eunuch, Kerrie isn’t being swived. And she needs a good one or two.” She glared at Gaspar as if he should bear the blame. “There are other ways to please a woman.” Her smile shy, Aida murmured, “As I know very well. And had we time, I’d let you show me some of those other ways.” Catching her hand, he pressed a kiss into her palm then closed her fingers over it. Aida sighed. Gaspar always did these things—sweet and silly little things—that made her love him even more. She wished Kerrie could find such happiness, such abiding love. She feared her sister would always seek but never hold such a fragile, precious thing as love. Oh Kerrie had known it with Alexandre. When Audra died, Alexandre’s love had brightened Kerrie’s days and made her a better, more caring ruler. After Alexandre’s death, Kerrie had gone through the motions of living but everyone knew her heart was buried with her husband. Then one day…Yvonne had been playing with her mother’s wedding ring—a huge emerald surrounded by gold—and said, “Green. Like my eyes.” With those few words, Kerrie seemed to realize Alexandre lived still in his daughter’s eyes. Since then it seemed Kerrie had been on a quest, searching for a man for her bed, a man who, even if she never loved him, could give her another heir for Marchonland. As far as Aida knew, Kerrie had refuted Audra’s path and had not taken any man to her bed. More’s the pity. But she would. Soon, Aida wagered, thinking it sad that, even if Farid could pleasure Kerrie, a child from their coupling would bring disaster to Marchonland. Not that marriage to Garr or his bastard would help. Each would strive to rule Kerrie and only God and his angels knew what might come from that! “’Tis time,” Gaspar said gently, as if he had read her thoughts as thoroughly as he read her heart. “Aye. I’ll return to my tower, waken Kerrie and prepare to play out the next act in this charade.” “We cannot let Garr besmirch her reputation.” Sighing, Aida nodded, kissed Gaspar’s cheek, then went back the way she’d come—through the secret passage behind the tapestry of Zeus swiving one of his many human lovers. Gaspar ran his fingers through his hair then smoothed down the cowlick he’d raised. With a heavy heart he went to waken Farid. With luck, this debacle Kerrie’s flirtation with the Nubian had set in motion would end tomorrow. Garr, his bastard and the rest of their men would leave. Leave Kerrie. Leave Marchonland. Just leave. Unfortunately, Gaspar did not believe in luck.

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***** “I wish I could have seen their faces!” Kerrie crowed, clapping her hands gleefully. “Tell me again, Gaspar. Tell me how Garr and William looked when they found you and Farid alone in my bedchamber.” “You’ve heard it thrice already,” Aida complained although she looked like she would hear the tale again. And again, until both men expired from embarrassment. Raising a hand to silence them, Farid said, “Let us say they no longer believe me a eunuch.” “But they do believe our Nubian friend here has unnatural tastes. Your reputation is saved, Kerrie. Mine,” Gaspar added with a heavy sigh, “hangs in tatters from the battlements.” “Nonsense. Our people know us—about us—Gaspar. No one will believe you have unnatural tastes.” She blushed and shot Farid an embarrassed glance. “I didn’t mean… That is, I do not believe…” “It matters not, Princess, what anyone thinks of me. So long as Kerrie—and her reputation—are safe, nothing troubles me.” “And so long as Garr leaves tomorrow, nothing need concern any of us.” Kerrie stretched her arms over her head and twirled around. “Let us go down for supper. We can bid the king farewell. Tomorrow we’ll raise a cup and wish him gone forever.”

***** Kerrie rose early the next morning. Unsure if her churning stomach was due to King Garr’s imminent departure or because she would soon see Farid, she dressed with care. Not so fancy Garr would think her sad to see him leave but fine enough to acknowledge his rank. Last night, once their mood had sobered, they agreed Farid should remain in his quarters. No need to antagonize Garr, who—if he perceived an insult in the presence of Kerrie’s lover—might linger and goad Kerrie into folly. She met Garr in the great hall. They greeted each other, pleasantly enough for his knights and her own to believe they parted cordially. Their lips curved in fake smiles but Garr’s eyes betrayed his true feelings. If he dared, he would kill her here, now. She could only pray her own eyes told no tales of equal hatred. Were Yvonne’s future not tied to Garr’s legitimate heir, Kerrie would plot to overthrow the king. Although she was powerless to know what kind of man Gareth would become, she hoped he would treat Yvonne fairly, that his father’s mien would pass him by, that William would die before he wreaked havoc on Gareth and Yvonne. Kerrie threw off her morose mood and, together with Garr, progressed from the hall into a bright March sun. She inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of apple blossoms the light wind carried to the bailey. Alexandre seemed very near, yet all too far away. 50


Garr mounted his destrier, quaffed the tankard of ale she passed him in a single gulp, then leaned down. She nearly recoiled from his foul breath but stood her ground. “If not sooner, I shall see you for our children’s betrothal ceremony,” he said, his eyes promising mayhem or worse. She smiled up at him. “The betrothal ceremony can but come too soon, Your Grace. Until then, Godspeed.” He raised a hand as if to strike her but drew back, then wheeled his horse away. His troops followed, seeming as glad to leave as she was to see them gone. At the open portcullis, one knight turned back and raced directly toward her. Again, even though her heart leapt to her throat and her knees shook, she stood her ground. “A brave whore,” William shouted into her face, “but a whore nonetheless. I too shall see you at a betrothal ceremony. Ours. Then I’ll fuck you on every table in the great hall, share you with my knights and men-at-arms. If you live, I’ll let you watch me fuck your precious daughter. To her death.” At her side, Gaspar began to draw his sword. She waved a warning, halting him. “I shall look forward to your return, William. I’m certain your men will enjoy seeing your shaft shrivel before their eyes.” Temper overcame sense and she shouted, “And if you lay a finger on me or mine…I’ll make a eunuch of you. Even if you bleed to death before you can get your meager shaft up, you’ll not rape another. “Leave! Leave now or I’ll kill you here!” Gaspar’s sword felt good in her hand. Starring into William’s enraged face, she leveled the sword point at his groin and grinned when his face blanched. She knew the sword could not reach his shaft but— since he had foresworn armor—she knew she could cut him deep enough to hurt. Growling, he wheeled his horse then spurred it after Garr’s troops. Just before he reached the portcullis, he made a rude gesture with his middle finger. The iron bars crashed down behind him, barely missing his horse’s ass. As he galloped off, Kerrie’s men cheered. “Unwise, Kerrie,” Aida murmured. Yet her eyes brimmed with laughter, her smile wide. Sighing, her hands trembling, Kerrie returned Gaspar’s sword. “I know. But it felt good to defy him. No man will treat me or mine with disrespect.” “Still,” Gaspar said, “I’ll send a small troop to see Garr and his bastard do not tarry on Marchon land.” “See to it but have them return at the first sign of trouble. I’ll not lose a single man to the King of Puttupon.” Aida cringed at Kerrie’s vehemence but Gaspar nodded and went to do her bidding. “Shall we break our fast, Majesty?” Farid appeared at her side, offering his arm. Smiling up at him, she placed her hand over his. “Yes, let us eat. I am suddenly famished.” 51

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Act II—The Duke

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Chapter Six With Garr’s departure and William’s threats embedded in her mind, Kerrie became obsessed with two-year-old Yvonne. She slept, restlessly, with the toddler in her own bed. Bathed with her. Kept her on her lap through long hours of Marchon business. She insisted Yvonne remain in sight as she and Aida penned invitations to nearby and farflung kingdoms for gentlemen and ladies, noble or not, to attend a jousta feast for no reason at all. Although Kerrie said nothing, Farid sensed another obsession underlying Kerrie’s fevered activity. Those myriad invitations, so carefully worded, included marriageable men—old or young, healthy or ailing. It seemed Kerrie would do anything, accept any proposal of marriage to protect herself and Yvonne. To give Marchonland its spare heir. So the parade began. Despite her desperation, Kerrie’s innately fastidious nature served her well. With years of breeding horses an unconscious guide, she made her decisions quickly. Dismissing one suitor, she declared him cross-eyed and refused him. Another she found physically appealing, even dined alone with him, had—so her people vowed—taken him for a ride in her bed. Shrugging, sighing with regret, she said, “Alexandre spoiled me, I fear. That young stallion is perfection but he cannot string together two sentences.” Despair and a sense of failure seemed to smother Kerrie’s spirits. Farid began to share her opinion that Alexandre indeed had spoiled her. Spring arrived and with it came yet another suitor. Beneath his coarse tabard he wore chain mail of such fine links his entire body seemed to shine. Kerrie, Yvonne in her lap, straightened on her throne. Head tilted to one side, she watched the man approach, removing his helm as he neared. He must have donned it recently, for his brown hair lay smooth against his well-formed head. Yvonne squirmed and grinned at the man at Farid’s side. When the man merely stared at her, her eyes widened, revealing the emerald green color she’d inherited from her father. “Papa?” she said in a clear voice. “Shhh,” Kerrie murmured, then kissed the toddler’s auburn curls while she assessed the stranger and resented his scowl. Still, even looking sour, he was a striking specimen of manhood—tall, well-muscled, with blue eyes that took her measure as she took his. He apparently found her more pleasing than her daughter. He smiled, sketched a deep bow then paced to the edge of the dais. Farid said, “Your Majesty, Lord Brecc, Duke of Serenity.”

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Lord Brecc mounted the dais, took Kerrie’s hand from the arm of her throne then raised it to his lips. His hand was smooth and cool, unlike Alexandre’s. And, unlike Alexandre, he did not kiss her fingertips but kissed the air above them. Still, Kerrie felt her senses stir for the first time since Alexandre’s death. “How come you to Marchonland, Lord Brecc?” Without looking at Farid, he said, “I met this…gentleman upon the road and he told me of the loss of your husband. I came to offer my sword and my protection, Majesty.” Handing Yvonne to Aida, Kerrie stood. With a nod to her men-at-arms, she said, “As you can see, Lord Brecc, I have no need of either.” In her right hand she held a sword. Its honed edges glittered menacingly in the torchlight and refracted the emerald she wore on her left hand. “Moreover, Lord Brecc, my husband died over a year ago. If your need to serve me is so great, what delayed you?” His eyes changed color, lightening to the hue of a distant sea Alexandre had once described to her. Merriment at her double entendre? An effort to charm? “Alas, I spent some months as Lord William’s guest. I had the misfortune to lose to him in a sword fight. Since I had no one to ransom me, I had to win my freedom.” “Mayhap one day you will tell me the tale. For now, before we dine, answer one question. Was it a fair fight?” His eyes darkened, the corners of his mouth turned down, his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. Yet his voice portrayed only indifference when he said, “As fair as any fight with King Garr’s spawn can be.” Kerrie handed her sword to Farid. “Marchon’s gardens are exquisite this time of year. Walk with me while my people prepare for our evening meal. I promise to speak only of pleasant things.” “You honor me, Queen Kerrie.” Placing her hand on his proffered arm, she smiled up at him. “Kerrie. When we are private, you may call me Kerrie.” “With pleasure…Kerrie.”

***** As if painting scenery for a play, dusk lingered. Pinks darkened to reddish-orange and lavenders deepened to purple. Kerrie stopped for a moment and inhaled deeply. Lord Brecc did the same. “What is that scent?” he said, seeming to search the darkening horizon for a source. “Spring!” she replied, twirling around, her skirts flaring, her laughter surprising a matching laugh from Brecc. “Good. ’Tis good to laugh. I feared you incapable of laughter, Brecc.”

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“I’ve had little reason for joy, Maj—Kerrie. Nor have you.” “True enough.” Comfortable with him, yet unwilling to concede a point to him so early in the game, she paced away. One instance of perspicacity about her widowhood did not make him a sensitive man. “Tell me a little about yourself. And please, do not say you’d rather hear about me.” That startled another laugh from him, one he smothered with a large hand. Without her leave, her gaze swept down. Oh dear, large feet as well. “In truth, Kerrie, the thought of talking about you…” “Never crossed your mind,” she provided, amusement in her voice. “A gentleman—a knight—does not cross-question a queen.” “Does a man ask questions of a woman?” When he remained silent, seemed stunned by the idea, she said, “Where are you from, Lord Brecc?” Mayhap he could find comfort in formality, which she despised. Too many lies lay hidden in chivalrous language. “My lands—my former lands—lie just north of Puttupon.” He looked down at his fingers clenched around his sword hilt. Sighing, he let go and squared his wide shoulders. “Tell me,” she commanded softly, sensing he would obey. A knight, duke though he be, would not refuse a queen. “’Tis—was—a small dukedom. My mother called it Serenity and, in truth, it is. Was. Like Marchonland, Puttupon surrounded it. And much like your lands, Majesty, it gave us everything we needed. Its rivers and streams provided water and fish. Its soil nurtured our crops and fed us all—noble and crofter alike. Deer, pheasants, rabbits abounded in its forests and fields. “It was Eden.” She felt his pain in her bones, almost cried out. She could picture that land, knew it in her heart, in her soul. She wanted to silence him, return to the great hall and pretend they—he—had never spoken of his home. She could not retreat. She had to know the rest, prepare for the worst, in order to defend what was hers. He drew a deep breath and released it on a sigh. “Apple blossoms. I recognize the scent now. As a boy I used to climb the mother tree to the very top.” “Where lies the sweetest fruit.” “I’ve had the stench of sweat and offal in my nose for so long, I forgot how sweet the air can be.” “You spent time in the dungeons,” she hazarded. “The one part of Serenity that is not serene.” He darted a glance at her, then looked away. “It grows late, Majesty. Your people…you must be hungry.”

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Shaking her head, she said, “Affairs of state often detain me, Lord Brecc. Aida, my sister, will ensure our people eat.” She touched his tense forearm. “I must know what happened. Surely you can see that.” Reluctance rode him. She could see it in the brackets around his turned-down lips, in the frown that made his brows a slash across his forehead, feel it coursing through his rigid muscles. At last he nodded and, seeming lost in horrific memory, twined his fingers with hers. In a soft voice she had to strain to hear him, he told her. William, with much of Garr’s forces to support him, came to Serenity on Brecc’s sister’s wedding day. They arrived just as the newly married couple was about to ascend to their bridal bower. Brecc’s men were drunk—he was drunk—and no one had expected an attack. Serenity had lived in peace for decades. The portcullis, the doors to the great hall—all of Serenity stood open. “‘Just in time,’ William said as his troops surrounded us all. ‘I claim droit de seigneur.’ My sister cried out. Her husband lunged between Amelie and William and impaled himself on the bastard’s sword. “My men were too drunk to fight. Soon—so horribly soon—we were overpowered. I was tied to my chair at the high table. The bastard ordered two of his men to hold Amelie. He tore off her clothing, then had his men tie her to the high table, literally beneath my nose. “Except for her first cry, she’d said nothing. She looked at me once, her eyes blank. William opened his breeks and mounted her. Even then she kept silent. But as he drove into her, she spat in his face. The dagger he held to her throat sliced deep and true.” “Enough!” Kerrie cried, flinging her arms around Brecc and holding him to her. She rocked him as she rocked Yvonne when the child awoke with the sweat of nightmares on her small, precious body. “Aye. More than enough,” Brecc agreed, his arms limp at his sides. Then he drew back and kissed Kerrie with all the fury in his soul.

***** She did not fight, did not want to fight. Their lips, their arms, their bodies erupted with shared rage. His with his sister’s death, hers with Alexandre’s. That Amelie had died so horribly while Alexandre had died in their marriage bed mattered not. They— she and Brecc—had each lost someone they loved too soon. Each felt violated by that loss. “Let me,” Brecc growled, fumbling with the links of his chain mail. Mere moments later, a lifetime later, he stood before her. Naked and bathed in splendorous moonlight, he reached for her, his eyes feral, his fingers brutal around her arms.

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Aroused, more aroused than she had been in more than a year, Kerrie fumbled with the ties on her gown. Her trembling fingers refused to obey her silent commands. She groaned. “I cannot wait.” Grabbing her skirts, he jerked them to her waist. She held them there and whispered, “Then don’t.” Growling deep in his throat, he took her to the hard ground then plunged into her. She clutched his firm, driving buttocks and matched his furious, rage-driven thrusts. She felt her body gather for release, fought it back. “Harder. Fuck me harder, Brecc. Yessss. Like that.” His skin felt hot against her flesh, his cock a glorious invasion deep within her. “Yessss.” “God! Good. You feel…too good.” He slid his hand, his large hand, between their bodies and found her swollen nub. “I cannot wait,” he said again, for the first time gazing into her eyes. “Come for me, Kerrie. Come with me.” Rapture collided with release. Wave after wave crashed over her, through her, until she thought she would die of it. He shouted her name, she sobbed his and welcomed his hot seed as it spewed deliciously inside her. Still racked by shudders, Brecc rolled to his back, taking Kerrie with him. She settled against him and listened to the steady but slightly rapid beat of his heart. He smelled of sweat, his own and hers. So long, she thought. It had been so long since a man had held her like this. So long since she’d felt this peace. “Next time ’twill be better,” Brecc murmured into her hair. “Better?” Her voice squeaked. “Well, the time after this time will be even better than this time.” Still buried inside her, his cock twitched. Her cunt clenched around him. Before she could draw a breath, lust overwhelmed her. “Your grooms say you rode your first husband to death. If that is how he died, I wish the same fate for myself.” He forced her to sit up then ripped her bodice open. She sputtered, outraged that he would treat her thus. After what he’d told her about his sister… His lips on her nipple, his teeth nipping, his mouth sucking at her breast drove rational thought from her mind. “Ride me, Kerrie. Ride me hard and fast. Now!” Helpless against her own lust, she complied. Her spasms, those sweet, sweet little deaths, began again. And went on and on until he drenched her with his cum. Sobbing relief and embarrassment, she collapsed against him. Moments later, hours later—she neither knew nor cared—he ran his fingers through her hair. “I assume there is a private entrance to your quarters.”

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“Why?” Suspicion replaced lethargy. She sat up then rolled off him. Standing, she thrust at her wrinkled skirts then pulled at her torn bodice. Which proved a belated and futile attempt at modesty. “Would you have your people see us thus?” He rose, swept an arm across his body, then stood before her. Brazen, proud, magnificent. Naked. Do not look. But she did. Don’t touch. But she did, unable to draw back her hand. She’d taken his cock inside her. Now she wanted to learn more about it. Its texture, its shape, the weight of his balls. Cupping him, she squashed a sigh of pleasure. Instead, quirking a brow, she said, “It seems your cock has an endless supply of seed.” “The better to fill you with.” His cock apparently agreed for it grew and grew. “Sweet heavens,” she murmured, “how long have you been without a woman?” “Long enough. Too long,” he admitted, the pain of loss back in his voice. Kerrie nodded once then took his hand. Silent, their fingers entwined, they made their way to the secret passage that led to her chamber. To her bed.

***** As she entered her solar, Kerrie heard the inner stairway door shut with a quiet click. Brecc apparently heard it too. Drawing his sword from the scabbard in his hand, he stepped in front of her, his still naked body tense. “Relax,” she said, admiring the warrior’s body she could see clearly for the first time. “’Twas only Aida, I suspect, seeing to our supper.” His shoulders were wide, his upper arms heavily muscled, as was his chest. His forearms gave testimony to hours with a sword and shield or mace and battleaxe in his hands. His thighs and calves attested to more hours spent in a saddle. Yet his hands lacked the calluses a warrior’s hands inevitably bore. She’d had those hands on her body and, even in the grip of lust, their smoothness registered. And if he’d been imprisoned in his own dungeons, how had he maintained his physique? “Do you make a habit of dining with men in your private rooms?” The question interrupted her wandering thoughts. Ignoring his testy tone, she went to her outer door and barred it. “What I make a habit of is my own comfort. Contrary to what my grooms say—or anyone else who gossips about me—I am not promiscuous.” Crossing to her window seat, she picked up the garments Aida had left there for Brecc. “Now which would you like first? To bathe or to eat?” He strode to her bedchamber door then disappeared within. When he returned, he sheathed his weapon. Grinning, he said, “Neither bath nor food. What I want first is

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you. On your bare back, your legs spread wide while you stroke your nipples and plunge your fingers in and out of your juicy cunt. When you are about to come, I want to hear you beg me like you did earlier. Say ‘Fuck me, Brecc. Fuck me harder’.” The blush began in her toes, surged to her ankles, then rushed to her face. She wanted it all. Every crude word, every self-indulgent touch, everything. “If you want me naked, Lord Brecc, you must help me disrobe.” He took his time, touching her unexpectedly, his fingers gentle as he eased her tattered bodice from her shoulders, then trailed them down her breastbone to her turgid nipples. She shivered and arched into his hands, those hands now drifting down her ribs and making her giggle. His fingers stilled. “Don’t,” she warned in her most imperious voice. “I’d find little pleasure in tickling you when you expect it. Besides, I find it fascinating that a noblewoman—a queen—wanders her castle without her stays.” “As I find it equally fascinating that a nobleman—a duke—knows so much about women’s undergarments.” He chuckled. “I believe you already know that answer.” He untied her skirts. For an endless moment he simply stared at her. She wanted to cover her mons, hide her breasts, snatch a gown from her garderobe and drape her entire body. Rubbing his chin, he circled her. Like a mare he might consider breeding to his prize stallion. No doubt himself! She tilted her chin and, when he completed his inspection, met his bold stare with one of her own. As if to prove he knew exactly how to best her, he drew both his hands down his own body. Holding her breath, she watched him take his cock in one hand, his balls in the other. They seemed to swell, to fill his hands. She licked her suddenly dry lips. “On the bed. Now!” Brecc continued to stroke his cock. She watched him as she backed away, her gray eyes half hidden by her lashes. Had William not raped and murdered Amelie, Brecc might thank him for the months he had spent in his own dungeons. Those months had left him randy as a goat. And if Kerrie had told him the truth about her own celibacy, she was as needy and eager as he. Smiling inwardly, he admitted she was even more randy than he. So in need of a good fucking she’d taken him on the hard ground. So much in need she now lay on her own bed, her legs spread wide, stroking herself as he had commanded. He could see she neared climax. Her nipples pebbled, her breath rose and fell with her quickening breath, her hips and legs moved restlessly over the ermine furs. Had her husband given her those furs? Fucked her against their cool silk? What else had she let the Frenchman do to her? What had he made her do to him?

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“Stop!” Brecc said, his voice harsh. Fury rose in him. Had William not intruded into Brecc’s life, he might have been Kerrie’s first lover, could have trained her in the ways that pleased him most. “M’lord?” she said, her tone puzzled, her eyes lambent and needy. Her pulse pounded, he could see it in her slender neck. He, Brecc, had done that, he thought as his fury eased. He had made her do that to herself. What else might he make her do? For him. Only for him. “Begin again. Tell me how you feel when you touch yourself, what excites you and makes you hot and wet. What makes you want my cock sliding in and out of your cunt.” So, he thought, seeing her skin turn rosy, her husband had not talked about their bodies’ wants and needs. “Tell me, Kerrie, so I can please you even more.” Her breath shuddered, lifting her breasts—those lush handfuls, those pert nipples he would fondle and suck until—without him even touching her sex—she would cry out. Scream his name. Beg. Her gaze on his face, her voice soft, she said, “I used to dream of this. Of me lying naked and needy on these very furs.” She sighed and plucked her nipples until they rose to peaks that made her grimace with pain and pleasure. “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice as soft as hers. And it gave him great satisfaction that her husband may have had her on these furs but he had not given them to her. Why it mattered… “It felt—it feels dangerous, exciting yet lacking…something. Someone. I,” she licked her lips, “I know it is forbidden, that I should not… But I am helpless to stop. And somehow I know what will feel even better.” Circling one turgid nipple with her fingers, she slowly slid her other hand down her body, then spread her nether lips. Her little nub exposed, she touched the tip. “Yessss. This was—is—even more dangerous, more exciting. Unsure what else I want, I continue stroking my breasts, my…sex.” Her legs opened wider and she slid one finger into her cunt. “Yes! Oh yes! This is what I want. What I need. I’m hot here. Hot yet wet. And getting wetter. Hotter. And still it isn’t enough. “‘Mayhap I can help you,’ a man’s voice says. He is standing at the foot of my bed. His cock stands out from his body and at its tip is a drop of dew. I want that dew, that rigid, throbbing, enormous shaft inside me. I must have it. Now! “He seems to know without my saying what I want. But you make me say it. You make me beg. Brecc…Brecc, come to me now. Fuck me, Brecc.” He slid into her as her spasms began. It took every ounce of control he had not to join her in her joyful, agonized release. Somehow, he managed, giving her time for her spasms to ease.

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“Bartholomew’s balls, Brecc,” she murmured, looking up at him from satiated gray eyes, “you are a bull. A magnificent bull.” “Hmmm,” he muttered, then took her nipple into his mouth. Repeating the patterns of her fingers, he tongued her nipple. Gasping, she pressed against his mouth. He bit her, harder than he’d intended. She sobbed but shoved upward and her cunt pulsed around him. If she enjoyed a bit of pain, he would give it to her. Later. Just now he wanted to give her pleasure and find his own. He withdrew his cock to its head. Her cunt muscles resisted, then helped draw him in when he eased deeper inside her. She made a soft mewing sound he wanted to hear again. “Like that, do you?” Running her fingers down his back, gently digging her nails into his buttocks, she nodded. “More,” she whispered. “Greedy wench. Greedy queen.” He matched his strokes to his words. “Greedy, greedy, greedy. My queen. Mine. Say it, Kerrie.” “Yours, Brecc. Yours.” Then, frantic, she wrapped her legs around his hips and took them both over the edge, into frenzied ecstasy.

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Chapter Seven “The bathwater’s cold,” Brecc said, shaking drops off his hand. “’Tis your own fault,” Kerrie told him through a yawn. “You distracted me.” He laid his cold hand on her warm belly. She gave a small yelp, then inched her body higher against her pillows and parted her thighs. Laughing, he eased his thick middle finger into her. “I cannot believe how tight you are. How insatiable you are.” Tightening her legs around his hand, she said, “Like you, m’lord, I have been too long without…this.” “Your husband was a good lover?” He had to know, whether he liked her answer or not. “He was my first. Until you, my only lover.” A devil made Brecc persist in his questioning. “He gave you pleasure?” She shoved at his hand. He wiggled his finger and she moaned. Her breath hissed out, breathy. “I will not lie to you, Brecc. Alex—my husband and I brought each other pleasure. But you…ahh. You please me too. Greatly.” A small smile twitched her lips. “So greatly I will risk my reputation and Aida’s wrath and have hot water brought up.” “That greatly, eh?” “St. Christopher on a crutch! Can you not tell how much? You have but to look at me to make me want you. When you touch me my skin burns with a fire only you can douse. Does that gladden you, m’lord?” The asperity in her voice, on her face, made him grin. “Greatly. So greatly, in fact, that I’ll forego a hot bath.” “For what, m’lord?” “For you. To have you claw at my back. To hear you scream my name. To feel your tight, wet cunt pump my seed into you.” Opening her legs, she smiled up at him. “Then you may do so, m’lord.” When he said nothing, only wiggled his buried finger, she said, “Please, m’lord. Please fuck me, m’lord.” Her voice rose on a plea. “Fuck me, Brecc. Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck. Me.”

***** A loud thump on her solar door awakened Kerrie from a deep sleep. It sounded again. Twice and harder. Only Aida knocked thus, with such impatience. Worried now—had something happened to Yvonne? Had William attacked Marchon Castle?— she hastened to don her robe, ran to her door, then unbarred it. 62


“Yvonne?” Aida glared at her then shoved her way into the room. Signaling to a phalanx of servants behind her, she said curtly, “As usual at this time of day, Yvonne is with Gaspar and her bow.” Her sister’s disapproving expression made Kerrie want to hide behind her outer door. Instead, she strode to her bedchamber then closed that door. She did not need Brecc, in all his naked glory, to rush to her rescue. Leaning against a wall, she watched in silence as six burly men emptied her copper tub then returned to fill it again. Steam rose in lavender-scented wisps. Kerrie sighed with bliss. Her skin tingled with anticipation. Soon—once Aida left—Kerrie would soothe her aching, albeit well-sated body in that lovely water. The last bucket of hot water empty, the men departed. Aida closed the door. “A lecture, sister?” Kerrie quirked a brow at her frowning sibling. “I doubt Lord Brecc will enjoy the scent but…I had little choice. The servants, among others, are already speculating where he passed the night, why neither of you came down to break your fast.” “Thank you, Aida.” “Perhaps you should thank Lord Brecc. You still have shadows under your eyes but you look…well-bedded.” She grinning and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. A soft rap sounded, saving Kerrie a need to respond. “Enter.” A maid appeared, carrying a large platter that overflowed with food. Aida quickly moved the platter of uneaten morsels out of the way. The girl put the full tray on the table then, with a small sigh and a bobbed curtsey, took the other from Aida’s hands and left. “You realize you must marry him.” No! formed in her mind, on her lips. She pressed them closed. Shaking her head, she paced to her casement window and gazed out. The usual midday activity soothed her. She could barely see Yvonne but knew instinctively the determined figure with her toddler-size bow was her daughter. Laughing to herself, Kerrie thought, Who else could it be? How many almost-three-year-olds, girls at that, had their own bow and quiver? Her heart filled with joy. She loved that child with all the love she’d had for Alexandre. Yvonne was Kerrie’s lodestar. But Brecc… “Lord Brecc seems to dislike Yvonne,” she said, motioning Aida to sit with her on the window seat. From somewhere Aida produced a comb and began to work the tangles from Kerrie’s hair. “Perhaps he has no experience with children. Once he spends time with Yvonne, once you provide him with children of his own, he’ll come to love them.”

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The words were meant to soothe but Kerrie found little comfort in them. Unwilling to share her morose thoughts with Aida—who always found a kernel of good in the direst occurrence—Kerrie said, “He’ll want sons.” “Every man,” Aida grinned, “except Alexandre wants sons. So you’ll give Brecc sons, after—” “I’ve given Marchonland another princess.” Rubbing her belly, wondering if last night’s couplings had already planted a babe in her womb, Kerrie sighed. “We barely know each other.” Aida snorted. “You know each other well enough.” “There is more to marriage than tupping. Besides, Brecc may not want to marry me.” “Why not? You’re beautiful, wealthy and a queen. What man in his right mind would refuse to marry you?” Kerrie shook her head. “I need time. He needs time.” “You don’t have time, Kerrie. If you already are breeding, you’ll not want people counting the months on their fingers.” Aida drew the comb once more through Kerrie’s hair. “I’ll pin it up so you won’t get it wet when you bathe. Which,” she added as she stood, “you need to do before the water cools. Again. “A week, Kerrie. Two at most.” With that dire warning, Aida left. Kerrie went to waken Brecc. She found him gazing out the window. “Am I banished?” He remained as he was, his back to her. “Of course not. Do you wish to leave?” That turned him toward her. “Where would I go? I am dispossessed of my home, am forced to sell my sword to whomever can use it, am reduced— Are you laughing at me, Majesty?” “Not at you, Lord Brecc. I swear, not at you.” She took his hand and led him to her solar. “Once we have bathed and eaten, we’ll talk of your sword,” she glanced down then quickly up into his lightening eyes, “your other sword. And how best to use it. Agreed?” His shoulders slumped, seeming to ask “What other choice do I have?” Kerrie’s heart sank to her toes. What choice does either of us have?

***** “These are not my dead husband’s clothes!” Kerrie shouted, shaking the breeks, tunic and leggings in Brecc’s face. ’Twas the fourth or fifth time she’d told him and she was furious at having to repeat it yet again. “Whose are they then?”

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She blushed. She could feel it, see it reflected in Brecc’s turquoise eyes. His amused eyes. “Farid’s. That is,” she hurried on, “I made them for Farid. He has never worn them, if that is what bothers you.” Throwing the garments to the floor, heedless of the precious and costly fabrics, she spat at Brecc, “I give up! Wear your chain mail ’til your skin is raw. I no longer care. Wear what you will. Wear nothing at all. I’m sure my maids will offer to clothe you in their shifts. In their bodies!” “You are jealous.” “No more than you. At least I am jealous of living beings. You! You are jealous of a dead man. A man you never knew. A man—” “You love still. Mourn still.” “Yes, I still love him. Yes, I still mourn him. Don’t you still love your first love?” “I cannot even remember her name, let alone her face.” “I do not mean the first woman you swived. The first woman you loved.” Pain filled his eyes. “Too well.” “And even though Amelie is dead, do you not still love her? Mourn her?” He sighed. “You know I do.” “Aye.” She ran her fingers through his short brown hair then wrapped her arms around his waist. Again, they shared their loss. Shared their grief. “Are you sure Farid has never worn these garments?” Fastening her hands around Brecc’s neck, she growled into his startled face. “I swear. As Queen of Marchonland, I swear. As your current lover, I swear. As your—” “Wife. Will you swear as my wife?” She knew—even before she looked into his eyes, into his earnest face—she knew she would not equivocate. “I swear as your future wife. I shall swear again when I become your wife.” He swung her around, making her dizzy, making her laugh. Making her feel a joy she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Forgive me, love. Forgive me, Alexandre. I do not love Brecc but circumstances conspire against me and Marchonland. It seemed Alexandre answered her. Do what you must, my queen. My eternal love. Still laughing, Brecc set her on her feet. “When I have dressed I would like to assess your defenses. If I do not o’erstep my place?” he added, accurately interpreting her sudden stiffness. “I must ask a boon of you, m’lord.” He nodded. “I ask that you keep your opinions to—” “To myself, locked firmly behind my teeth,” he finished, his teasing tone surprising her. “When I still ruled Serenity, I would neither welcome nor tolerate another’s comments about my men. Especially not in front of my men.” 65

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Tying a wide sash around his narrow waist, he held out his arms. “Am I handsome enough to escort such a beauteous lady?” “You, m’lord, are handsome enough to escort Venus herself.” His frown told her he did not know the name. She pretended not to notice, kissed his cheek, then placed her hand on his arm. Together, lost in their own thoughts, they ascended to the battlements.

***** After the evening meal, Aida and Gaspar joined Kerrie and Brecc in Kerrie’s solar. The men quaffed ale in large gulps, the women sipped hard cider. When Gaspar reached to refill his tankard for the third time, Kerrie put a halt to their childish contest. “If you wish to see who can piss the farthest, go outside. Otherwise we have serious matters to discuss. I need—I command you both to keep clear heads.” Gaspar refilled his and Brecc’s tankards. Each man raised his cup to the other, then took a small sip. Nodding her approval, Kerrie said, “If you will, Lord Brecc, please relate the tale of treachery you told me last night.” Aida exchanged a questioning glance with Gaspar. Do you believe they actually talked? He shrugged, seeming to say, Apparently they did. Omitting only his sister’s rape, he repeated the events—events made more horrific by his toneless voice. When he finished, they all sat in stunned silence, Kerrie’s and Brecc’s faces blank. At length Gaspar cleared his throat. “You’ve assessed our defenses, Lord Brecc. What do you recommend?” Kerrie eased out a grateful sigh, relieved Gaspar and Aida had both accepted Brecc. “We need more men. I would hire them myself but, as you can see, I don’t even own the clothes on my back.” Undeceived by his smile, Kerrie schooled her expression to match his. “Kerrie can—” Aida began. Kerrie cut her off. “What else can we do, m’lord? Are there actions we can take to ensure our safety without hiring more men?” He made a few desultory recommendations. Make sure they had several water sources within the castle walls, make sure those sources could not be poisoned, keep guards posted at all times. He is sulking, Kerrie realized. Seething because, among all the important things they had discussed, Kerrie had failed to say a word about their marriage. “We have a more pleasant topic to discuss,” Kerrie said, taking Brecc’s hand. Looking up, his eyes lightening to that impossible blue, he said, “May I? Kerrie has made me the happiest of men. She has agreed to marry me.” 66


They shared a toast, laughed and hugged. Then Brecc said, “I advise we keep the ceremony simple. The four of us and the priest, of course.” “I agree completely,” Kerrie said. “A simple announcement to our people, after the ceremony, a single toast.” “They won’t like that,” Gaspar said. Aida put in, “Perhaps, if Lord Brecc agrees, we can put it about that he is mourning. But even mourning could not keep him from wanting Kerrie as his wife. The women will find it romantic.” Gaspar chuckled. “And the men will understand the wanting.” Realizing he might have insulted them, he blushed and began to stammer an apology. Kerrie and Brecc laughed. Neither could deny the wanting. Why not acknowledge it? “When?” ever-practical Aida asked. “A fortnight?” Kerrie looked at Brecc. He groaned but nodded. Knowing he thought of them sleeping alone and found it as dreadful as she did, she took his hand. “Aida can show you how to come to me,” she whispered. “Aye? Then expect me to return quickly.” “Not tonight, m’lord. I have things—women’s matters—to discuss with her tonight.” “They cannot wait until tomorrow?” She glanced at his groin, saw the cloth of his breeks move and quickly looked up at his face. “If you wish to marry in two weeks, m’lord, I must settle things tonight.” “Until tomorrow then,” he said with a sigh of resignation. Bidding her and Aida good night, he left with Gaspar. “There is more to his tale, isn’t there?” Aida said. “Yes.” Kerrie repeated what Brecc had told her but had left out tonight. Pale, Aida murmured, “I always suspected Garr was cruel but his bastard…” “Is a monster,” Kerrie finished and shivered. “How did Brecc escape?” Kerrie shrugged. “I did not ask. He…I… We were both in such pain, so furious—” “So aroused,” Aida offered and laughed when Kerrie blushed. “You were right, Aida. I have found such pleasure in tupping, I no longer think it a sin. However, I will not discuss our swiving with you. We have more important matters to tend.” “Drat!!” Aida protested. “I’ve had only Gaspar’s loving.” “And, until Brecc, I had only Alexandre’s. If God had not been so cruel as to take him from me…” Tears stung her eyes but behind them and the ache around her heart, she felt a quiet joy.

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“So what do you need from me?” “Brecc needs clothes but… He wants nothing that belonged to Alexandre. Or Farid, for that matter.” “I’ll set the seamstresses to it in the morning.” “Nothing too fancy,” Kerrie warned. “Not at first. Eventually he’ll need court clothing but those can wait for now. Something suitable for our wedding, of course. And, Aida, he must not learn where the cloth came from.” “He is that jealous of Alexandre?” “I fear he is.” They lapsed into silence. “Kerrie… Are you sure you want to marry Brecc?” With a grim smile, Kerrie rubbed her belly. “I think I must. I think he’s already sown his seed in me. That it already grows.” “After only one time? Oh! Lucky you, you’ve found another stallion.” “A bull,” Kerrie admitted, laughing. Sobering, she said, “We need to know how Brecc escaped William’s clutches. We need more men, no matter how much Brecc’s pride denies it.” “You can afford more,” Aida began. “Ahh. Because Alexandre left you all his wealth, Brecc mustn’t know you can raise an army to rival Garr’s.” Kerrie sighed. “We’ll think of some way around his pride. Tomorrow…tomorrow we’ll take Brecc to the village. Mayhap he’ll devise a plan to keep William away from the castle.” “Without burning the fields.” Aida stood, smoothed her skirts then said, “I must discuss this with Gaspar—without fear of being overheard.” “Are you suggesting…?” “That I send Brecc to you tonight? Aye. If I let him sleep in my tower, he’ll pace the hours away. Perhaps overhear something you’d rather he not hear at all.” “Mayhap something you’d rather he didn’t hear. Like your screams while Gaspar tups you. Oh very well, send Brecc to me.” “Try not to look so disappointed when you see him.” Kerrie’s smile widened. “I’ll try.”

***** “You waited for me,” Brecc said, stepping from behind a particularly lurid tapestry into Kerrie’s bedchamber. “I hoped you would.” Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her. For the first time, his tongue invaded her mouth. She met it, hesitantly at first, then opened her mouth wider. After that brief reluctance, her willing surrender seemed to please him. Still kissing her, still holding

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her, he sank into a chair. Only then did he shift her, position her skirts, her legs, so that she could feel his breeks-clad shaft pulse against her naked sex. “Brecc, Brecc,” she moaned into his mouth. “Why do you torment me? Why do you torture us both?” She felt her stays give, her bodice fall away. Heard herself groan when his lips, his teeth, his mouth found her nipples. “I am going to make you come just by playing with these. These beautiful nipples that rise, that beg so prettily for my touch. They are silent, Kerrie, but you have a voice. You will tell me everything your breasts feel. What they want.” He knew talking about her feelings embarrassed her. But she would give him anything, do anything, say anything to have him do what he was doing. “They like—” “Say I, Kerrie. ‘I like.’ Better, ‘I love.’” “I…I love it when you lick them. I wish…you had two tongues, two mouths so you could…ahh, lick and suck them—me—at the same time.” He pushed her breasts together, moved his head quickly and licked each nipple in turn. Her juices soaked his breeks, her spasms almost brought him to his own release. “Are you happy now, m’lord?” “Perfectly. Almost perfectly,” he amended. “Open my breeks. Free my cock and guide it home.” Buried deep inside her, yet held more tightly than when her legs were wider spread, he groaned. “Now I am completely content.” “Well I am not. You will allow me to ride you, m’lord. You will fill my…cunt with your seed.” “As you will give me your cum.” “Then we are agreed.” She lifted, eased down, her movements slow, a challenge to her own control as much as to his. Just when she thought she could bear no more, that she would explode in a thousand pieces, he grasped her hips and guided her movements. Faster, deeper, faster still until they both cried out.

***** Aida’s Tower Naked, Aida and Gaspar looked at each other then reached for their robes. Their lovemaking would keep, sweeter for the delay, until they’d freed their minds from worry. “Kerrie has no idea how Brecc got free?” “None. Which makes his appearance here…”

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“Suspicious, at least. I must go to Serenity, learn—” “No! No,” she repeated in a calmer tone. “If William and his minions still reside there, you’d be in danger. Grave danger.” “There is no one else to send,” Gaspar complained, running tense fingers through his hair. Smoothing down the cowlicks he’d raised, Aida said, “No one else you’d trust, you mean.” “Except for Farid, there’s no one I would trust.” “But Farid… The bastard would recognize Farid immediately, putting him in danger.” “Aye, Farid is unique but…William believes Kerrie and Farid are lovers.” “So?” “Might he also believe Kerrie banished our Nubian friend when she took Brecc to her bed, then married him?” “You have a deliciously devious mind, Gaspar. Moreover, if Kerrie banishes him, he has good reason for having his men with him. But,” she sighed then bit her lips, “can we afford the delay in his return to us? He must seem to leave Serenity for some foreign land or other.” “And William would have him followed until Farid sailed away. We’d never know what happened there or how Brecc escaped. Except…” His eyes twinkling, his lips pursed as if holding back the most secret of secrets. Aida pinched both his earlobes. “Except what?” “Ouch!” “Except what?” “He has a pair of what he calls homing pigeons. He says he can attach messages to their legs and they will wing their way here.” Aida pinched his earlobes again. “You discussed this with Farid before you talked with me?” Anger and hurt replaced affection in her eyes. His own temper flared but he quelled it. Taking her hands in his, he kissed her tense fingers and felt them relax. “Farid came to me, Aida. He saw immediately the attraction between Kerrie and Brecc. He also, somehow, divined that Brecc dislikes anything or anyone who reminds Kerrie of Alexandre.” “’Twas not difficult to divine, Gaspar. Brecc treated—nay, he ignored Farid altogether.” She sighed. “Kerrie will not like Farid’s leaving her.” “If she wants a happy marriage with Brecc, she’ll let Farid go. Besides, Kerrie is his friend, not his queen. He may leave or stay as he pleases.” “So he will abandon her.”

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Gaspar tilted Aida’s chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “He will tell her he goes to add to their wealth. To ensure she has the funds she needs to raise her army. To ensure she can defend Marchonland. She may not like his leaving but she will allow it.” “For Marchonland.” “Come to bed, Aida. We can do nothing more tonight.” They did not make love, only held each other, taking comfort in each other’s warmth.

***** The next morning a flurry of activity drew Aida and Gaspar from the great hall into the bailey. There they found Kerrie and Brecc watching Farid and his men preparing to leave. Kerrie looked grim. Brecc’s expression revealed quiet satisfaction. “Make sure that cage is secure,” Farid called out. “That cage,” Brecc muttered, “is more suited for a nightingale than those pigeons.” Made of iron forged into whimsical bars covered in gold and encrusted with gems, the cage was indeed suited for more majestic tenants. “Aye, m’lord,” Kerrie agreed lightly, “but ’tis too small to hold you. And the two of us would never fit.” Her banter teased a smile from Brecc, who twined his fingers through hers. That he took her hand just as Farid approached did not sit well with Kerrie but she allowed it. She had a lifetime to teach Brecc he needn’t be jealous of any man. No need to make a fuss now, not when her heart threatened to break. Not when she felt she was losing Alexandre all over again. Farid swept her a low bow and ignored the man at her side. Brecc’s fingers tightened on her hand but he released her when she slanted him a warning look. He might rule her in bed. Here, with her people gathered around her, she ruled. She stepped forward. Farid, as if to prove himself the better man, wore pantaloons and boots. He’d oiled his naked chest and arms. Every muscle gleamed in the bright sun of this mild April morning. “I wish,” Kerrie began in a low voice. “If wishes were horses, all beggars would still walk. I must leave, my queen.” “Were I truly your queen I would command you to stay.” “You are my queen. That is why you will let me go. Because you are also their queen. All these people look to you.” “Aye.” Hearing the bitterness in her own voice, she squared her shoulders. “Godspeed, my friend.”

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“Stay safe,” he said. He touched his chest above his heart, then his forehead and finally his lips. Without another word, he strode to his horse, mounted, then rode away. He did not turn back. From the battlements came a wail of despair, an echo of the despair in Kerrie’s heart. Gathering her skirts, she raced toward the great hall. “Where are you going?” Brecc shouted after her. Gaspar caught his arm. “She goes to Yvonne, just as she will go to your child when needed. Do not try to come between them for there is no stronger bond than that between a mother and her child.” Yvonne, Brecc thought, rage rising in his heart. He’d thought himself free of reminders of the Frenchman. Farid’s abrupt but timely departure had eased Brecc’s anger. But now…now the Frenchman’s brat had reminded him in the cruelest way that Kerrie’s first husband lived on in her. In Yvonne, the chit who’d called Brecc papa. He tried to jerk his arm from Gaspar’s grasp. Mustering a sheepish smile, he said, “Kerrie’s heart is large. There is room in it for all of us.” “There is, aye. Make sure you remember that.” Gaspar released him then strode to Aida’s side. “How could I forget?” Brecc muttered to himself. “Oh she is the mirror of her mother. Except for her eyes. Her damnable green eyes.” Rubbing his chin, lost in thought, he wandered back to the great hall. As he saw it he had two choices. He could eliminate Yvonne—making Kerrie hate him even if she held him blameless for the girl’s death. Or he could make the child love him, thereby replacing the Frenchman in both his women’s hearts. Aye, Brecc liked the second choice far better. After all, he was a lord, a duke, who prided himself in treating everyone with equal kindness. With equal justice. And as revenge against William? What could be more perfect than Brecc marrying his stepdaughter to William’s half-brother? Garr’s legitimate heir. Only one thing seemed more perfect, more fitting. Marrying Brecc’s own daughter, should he have one, to Garr’s son. “I have changed my mind,” Gaspar fumed to Aida. “I do not like that man. Moreover, were it in my power, I would forbid Kerrie to marry him. He is too sly by half.” Knowing she could needle Gaspar into a fine frenzy, Aida refrained from doing so. For one thing, she feared for his health. Red as blood was his face. His fists clenched in a murderous rage. Sweat beaded his brow. For another, she agreed with him. Something about Brecc did not ring true. But, unfortunately, there was naught either of them could do. Kerrie had made her choice. Now she must live with it. “Come to my solar. Whilst you sip a tankard of ale, we’ll ponder this dilemma. Between the two of us we’ll think of something.”

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“I could slit his throat tonight,” Gaspar growled. “And Kerrie would hang you in the morning. Nay, I’ll not allow it. Besides, for the child’s sake, we must let Brecc live.” “’Tis Yvonne I worry about most.” “Not Yvonne, my love. The child Kerrie carries in her womb.” “Brecc’s child!” Gaspar spat the words. “Kerrie’s child,” Aida corrected. “But, aye, Brecc’s child as well.”

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Chapter Eight

The Princess Tower Brecc found Kerrie in the nursery, in the tower the servants called The Little Princess’. Two heads of auburn curls rested on the furs someone, Kerrie no doubt, had thrown on the floor. Two pairs of eyes—one gray, one green, both red from crying— looked up at him. Kerrie attempted to smile. Yvonne continued to stare at him, her round cheeks streaked with tears, her mouth turned down at the corners, the perfect picture of perfect grief. “Am I intruding?” Brecc congratulated himself for his restraint. He wanted to pull Yvonne from Kerrie’s arms then…do something violent. That his women—his—should grieve Farid’s departure… “Pray do come in, Lord Brecc.” Rising with the toddler in her arms, Kerrie put Yvonne on her feet then paced to the window seat. “We are about to have sweets and milk. Will you join us?” He despised milk, disliked sweets but nodded. From the corner of his eye he watched Yvonne watch him as he went to Kerrie. Yvonne turned her head, following his progress until she overbalanced, righted herself, then turned her entire body. With her auburn curls disheveled, her green eyes solemn, her rosebud lips pursed, she looked quite fetching. “Lord Brecc, Duke of Serenity, my daughter Yvonne, Princess of Marchonland.” When the two only stared at one another, Kerrie whispered, “She will not curtsey until you bow.” “Why is that?” he whispered back, making a deep obeisance and receiving a curtsey in return. True, Yvonne wobbled a bit but she showed him due respect. “My abigail has visions of Yvonne becoming a great lady. One who, unlike her hoyden mother, will always behave with perfect decorum.” “At all times?” Brecc queried, pleased that Kerrie’s mood seemed to have lightened with their easy banter. “Oh yes, at all times. One would think, having raised Aida and me, she would have learned but…” Kerrie shrugged. “You may have noticed, Lord Brecc, that we at Marchon Castle tend toward informality.” Yvonne mounted a set of steps at the base of the window seat then sat next to her mother. Yet she kept her damnable green eyes focused on him. “Does she talk?”

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Kerrie’s laugh brought her daughter’s gaze to her. “Once she starts to talk, you’ll wish her quiet. I only understand a word here and there but Aida and Gaspar swear she makes perfect sense to them.” Yvonne climbed over her mother’s lap then balanced on her feet. Standing between them, she searched his face then touched his cheek. “Papa?” she said. “Papa,” Brecc replied. The girl smiled and Brecc lost his heart. Kerrie felt grief stab her breast. She had lost Alexandre to death but she still held him in her heart. Because of Brecc’s jealousy, Yvonne might never even hear her father’s name. Alexandre. Love. What have I done?

***** “I now understand why your maid calls you a hoyden,” Brecc said, looking Kerrie up and down. He had stared at her for some time and still had not decided how he felt about her clothing, her man’s breeks and tunic. He liked the way the breeks clung to her long legs and her firm ass well enough. Whether he liked the idea of every man on Marchonland seeing her thus was another matter entirely. “If you intend to object to my attire, Lord Brecc, keep your tongue between your teeth. Otherwise I’ll have Gaspar and Big John put you in skirts and tie you to your horse. Then we’ll see how much you enjoy riding for hours in women’s clothes.” He preferred this pugnacious Kerrie to the morose one he’d seen—nay, suffered— yesterday. Yesterday, after they’d left Yvonne asleep in the nursery, Kerrie had seemed moody and distracted. Now she seemed completely focused on him. Two grooms wrestled a huge, coal black stallion to the mounting block. Kerrie produced an apple from somewhere in her tunic and offered it to the horse. Brecc started to pull her away from the beast but Gaspar held him back. “’Tis Kerrie’s horse. He’ll do her no harm—so long as we stand clear.” The beast snorted then bared its enormous teeth. Kerrie laughed. “Oh Satan, you do enjoy your treats, my lad.” To Brecc the horse looked dangerous, fractiously prancing this way and that. As if dancing, Kerrie moved her feet just when Brecc thought the stallion would step on her. Crush her. “She’s left him in the pasture two days now. He wants a good, hard run. Come, m’lord, we’ll take this opportunity to hunt.” “She rides the beast every day?” “Aye, even when the weather’s foul. Truth be told, foul weather rides seem to please them most.”

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“Without a saddle?” “Satan… Aye, without a saddle.” It seemed Gaspar had intended to say something else. Brecc sensed Kerrie’s steward had had this conversation with someone else. Her late husband perhaps? Brecc shrugged off his jealous emotions. After all, he’d had a life before he met Kerrie. He should not resent her having one as well. Yet he did resent the years she’d spent with another man, the hours they’d spent in her bed, the plans they’d made. “You do hunt, Lord Brecc?” “Yes, of course. And my own destrier could use a hard run as well.” “Good.” Clasping his arm in a firm grip, Gaspar led him from the stable. “We’ll ride to the hunting lodge, spend a day or two there to provision the wedding feast, then return in time for your nuptials.” “I thought we’d agreed the day would be a quiet one.” “Quiet enough, m’lord. Still, we must eat. Why not dine well with her people— your people too, come the wedding day—all around you.” Brecc could offer no argument against the outing. In fact, the journey would allow him to assess her lands. His lands come the wedding day. He might also devise a plan to protect Marchonland. And that would put him high in Kerrie’s favor, earn him her respect, make him rich in knowledge if not in coin. Damn William! Damn the treacherous bastard to eternal hell! “If we want to reach the lodge before sunset, we’d best leave now.” Brecc nodded, then went to say goodbye to Kerrie.

***** Aida found her sister in Kerrie’s solar, precious parchment wadded into balls around her feet. “What are you doing?” Aida inquired, bending to retrieve the maimed paper. They’d do nicely when Yvonne practiced writing her letters. Looking up, Kerrie sighed. “I am struggling to write an agreement. I want Brecc to have a stipend—one generous enough so he won’t feel like a pauper. “Damn his pride! This would be so much easier if his damnable pride were less prickly.” “Or if you were only a noblewoman rather than a queen.” For a moment they merely stared at each other, then burst out laughing. “Aida, you are the most devious person I know.” “I am. I am also adept at mimicking Audra’s—may she rest in peace—signature. Well, not to brag too much, I can pen her hand in every way.” “My very own forger.”

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“We’ll need different paper. This is too fine, even for a queen of Audra’s age.” “I never thought of that. And…do you think Father might have signed the document, as well? Me being his firstborn and all. I think they—Mother and Father— might even have been getting along.” Aida snorted. “Perhaps. But would Mother even have asked him to approve your dowry?” “Probably not. But would she have even thought to dower a future queen?” “Hmmm. Probably not.” Aida rubbed her chin and paced. “But she might have set aside an amount, a goodly sum, for her heir’s husband.” Kerrie brightened, then looked discouraged once again. “She did not do so for Alexandre.” “Alexandre had no need for your wealth, Kerrie. He had enough and more of his own. Besides, who’s to know? You can always claim ’tis what’s left from Audra’s bequest to Alexandre.” “Oh and won’t that sit well with Brecc?” Kerrie said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Since Audra had no way of knowing who you would marry, she might have simply written…oh, my daughter’s husband.” For a moment Kerrie looked thoughtful. Then her smile widened. “Yes! That will work. I’m certain it will. Fetch her parchment, Aida and we’ll do the deed. Brecc shall have his goodly sum and be none the wiser of its origin.” “Not so goodly he can raise an army to go after William,” Aida cautioned. “I have already buried one husband, Aida. Pray God I shall not bury another for eons to come.” “Amen,” Aida said, leaving to find Audra’s parchment and wondering yet again about Kerrie’s impending marriage.

***** Five days later, Brecc strode into Kerrie’s solar and found her sitting in the window seat. When she saw him a smile of joy and welcome curved her lips and lit her eyes. “Good hunting, m’lord?” She did not rise and fling herself into his arms as he had hoped she would. Perhaps she was less pleased to have him back than he was to have returned. Shaking off his doubts, he strode across the solar took her hands, then bestowed a kiss on each. “The best hunting, my queen. Three bucks with racks this large,” he opened his arms wide, making Kerrie laugh at the fib, “and two boars with razor-sharp tusks. Quail, a brace or two, all bled out, dressed and ready for the spit.” “A veritable feast, m’lord. As you are for my eyes.” “Ah, Kerrie, I have missed you.” Intending to kiss her, he drew her up and into his arms.

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She put a hand over his lips, leaned back away from him. “We’ve but two days until our wedding, Brecc. I hope you will understand that I wish to come to you that night as if…as if we had never made love.” They had rutted like animals. Love or lovemaking had had little to do with their feverish joining. But…well, he felt glad that she wanted their first time as man and wife to be as if it were their first time. Pretense? Aye, ’twas. But if she could stand the waiting, he would, even though his cock demanded satisfaction here and now. It knew, just as he could tell from the glances she darted at his groin, she’d be easy to take. Aye, she wanted fucking as much as he did. He could prove it. He drew her closer, allowing her to feel firsthand how much he needed her. “Please, Brecc. Consider it a wedding present we give each other.” Realizing he had no other gift to give her, he sighed. “If that is what you want.” “It is. Not that I don’t want you, Brecc. You’ve but to look at my nipples to know how much I’ve missed you, how much I want you. I ask you to consider how much greater the wanting, the needing will be if we only wait a little longer.” “There are ways other than tupping that we can use. Our fingers, our tongues and lips.” She laughed, a breathy sound that told how deeply she wanted him. “And those other ways would lead to tupping. You know they would. Two days, Brecc. Only two days. I promise the wait will make our joining all the sweeter. “Besides,” she met his eyes, challenge in hers, “if I can bear it? Are you a lesser man for waiting?” Resigned, he shook his head. “If you wish two days more, after five days of unnatural abstinence, you shall have them. But be warned, lady. I shall hold you to your promise. You will make our wedding night memorable.” “As will you, m’lord. As will you.”

***** The quiet ceremony went exactly as planned. When they returned to the great hall, Kerrie announced she had married Lord Brecc, that her people were now his as well, that they must treat him with the same love and fealty they gave her. A rousing cheer resounded. Her smile fading, Kerrie explained why they had kept their celebration so modest. She said only that William had attacked Serenity the very day of another wedding, that Marchon must guard itself against such treachery. Unsaid but understood by everyone present, was that they must remain wary of strangers. The warning would spread to the kitchens, to the stables and guardroom, to the crofters’ village. Alerted to danger, they would stay alert.

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Maids moved among the tables, filling heretofore empty tankards with ale. Aida and Gaspar rose and, together with the knights and men-at-arms, they toasted their queen and her consort. While they ate the bounty Brecc and Gaspar had provided, Kerrie nibbled and Brecc picked. Every time they looked at each other, inadvertently touched, the men below the high table nudged each other knowingly. At last Aida whispered to Kerrie, “You may as well retire. They expect it, will enjoy out-jesting each other with ribald remarks. Once you and Brecc leave, they can celebrate.” “Just make sure they all don’t drink themselves under the table.” “As if they would. You are their heart, they will not risk endangering you.” Nodding, Kerrie turned to Brecc. Without a word, he took her hand then escorted her to her stairs. Their people cheered them but before they had rounded the first corner, the ribald jests rang out. Brecc bristled. Kerrie laughed. “’Twill be their sole vice this night. Pray allow it, m’lord.” “As you wish, my lady.” “Your lady. I like the sound of that.” “Then I shall say it often, my lady.” Arriving at the solar door, he swept her into his arms. “Unlatch the door, my lady.” Laughing, she did as he bade and, when he put her down, she barred that door. “That will only slow them down,” Brecc observed. “If they truly want to see us in bed, they’ll break down the door.” Looking up from untying her laces, he noted Kerrie’s expression. Was the anger directed at him or at those below? “Did your people not come visiting the night you married the Frenchman?” “Of course not! And if you know he was French then you must also know his name.” “I do not, nor do I wish to hear his name on your lips. On anyone’s lips. You are mine now. Mine!” “I belong to myself, Brecc, just as you belong to yourself. We are not sheep or cattle but people. People are free.” “Your serfs aren’t free. They belong to…us.” “Any man, woman or child on Marchon lands is free to leave whenever they wish. That they stay is their choice—not yours or mine.” “Have I the same choice, Kerrie? Now that we are wed, may I leave?” “If you wish to leave you may, Brecc.” She retrieved a parchment package with a wax seal that held it closed. “You now have the means to do so.”

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She flung the packet at him then strode to her bedchamber. Brecc expected her to slam the door, to bar it against him. She left it open and he could hear her low voice, calm and cool, instructing her abigail what to lay out for her to wear come morning. He had planned to keep her in bed for a day or two but with this…argument, he doubted he’d find Kerrie amenable. He turned his attention to the parchment in his hands. The seal, green wax, carried the image of Marchon Castle, its four towers clearly outlined. For some reason, he felt unwilling to break that seal, reluctant to read the contents of it pages. No coward, he broke the seal and, sitting on the window seat, read the remarkable document. Dearest Kerrie, As always I have left this too long. I am dying and feel an overwhelming need to ensure your happiness. A tardy undertaking, as I did little to make you happy during your childhood. (Aida, bless her, made her own happiness, fortunate to have found the one person who could increase it early in her life. She and Gaspar will bump along together—peas in a pod—for a long, long time.) Brecc had never met Audra. Yet it seemed she sat at Kerrie’s table, quill in hand, looking thoughtful and a little sad. You, dear child, have a more difficult path ahead. You will find love, lose it and find it again. Beyond that, I cannot see, so I have set aside a dowry—not for you, who will have no need for it—but for a husband who may come to you, his pockets vacant. I know how much you want—need—to control your life and those in it. This stipend I give to your husband will ensure he has the freedom to argue with you—you need to argue whether you admit it or not—to leave you for a time and not have to forfeit his pride. Ah, yes. Brecc knew about pride, had a surplus of it. He’d often wished he could leave Serenity, travel from place to place like a wandering troubadour. A sense of duty—yes! and pride—had kept him tied there. Trust him, Kerrie. Trust yourself. He may leave you for a time—not a bad thing if it gives you both time and space to think clearly—but he will come back to you. Speaking of time and space…I must share with you a little secret. Your father and I were never estranged. He moved to the Consort’s Tower—the tower you now occupy—so that, when needed, we could have time alone. Truth be told, separate quarters, seemingly separate lives, added spice to our lovemaking. I never knew what little game your father might devise for us to play when I visited him there. And I like to think I gave as much as I got when he came to me in the Queen’s Tower. You are a woman now and, hopefully, have learned much about pleasure. I love you, child. Audra, Regina Looking up, Brecc saw Kerrie standing in the doorway between the rooms. She took his breath away. Dressed in a gown so sheer it revealed as much as it concealed, her

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auburn curls cascading like a waterfall over her breasts, she seemed temptation incarnate. He wanted to apologize for picking a fight but pride—his damnable pride—held him in place. Besides, he reasoned like a petulant child, she bore equal blame. Just how he could blame her, he hadn’t decided. But this…argument was Kerrie’s fault. Audra had said Kerrie needed to argue, hence she had picked the fight with him. “This letter,” he said, his voice calm and reasonable, “is addressed to you. Did you read it?” “Audra wrote two letters. Mine—I assume a copy of the one you read—instructed me to give the second missive to you.” “Me specifically? Or to the husband who came to you, his pockets vacant?” Blinking, she laughed, then walked slowly, regally to him. Her sheer gown seemed to float around her, taunting him with momentary glimpses of her mons, her legs. The tight bodice clung to her furled nipples. His cock throbbed, painfully reminding him how long he’d been without her. “Your pockets are no longer vacant, m’lord. Do you wish your stipend in gold—a weighty amount—or shall I sew precious gems into your hems and seams?” “There’s no need to rush. Is there?” “Not as far as I am concerned. As I told you earlier, you are free to stay or leave as you wish.” “I wish to stay. After all, you promised me a memorable wedding night. I intend to hold you to that promise.” “Good!” She stared at him for a long moment then said, “Do you want me to undress you, m’lord?” Seeing her gaze drift to his crotch, feeling his cock thicken and grow longer, even more rigid, his breath hissed out. “Yessss.” She loosened his doublet, eased it off him. Her fingers trailing over his shoulders and chest ignited little fires on his skin. Fires only her flesh—her naked flesh—against his could extinguish. He reached for her. She leaned away. “There are rules to this game, m’lord.” “Game?” he groaned. “Rules?” “The first rule is you may not touch me until I give you leave.” “But you may touch me…will touch me.” “Oh yes. I will touch you. Everywhere,” she whispered, easing his pantaloons and hose down his legs, taking far longer than necessary. Her magical fingers glided down his body, grazed his eager shaft, then moved over his naked thighs. “Your thighs and calves are well-formed, m’lord. Signs of a man who has ridden long and hard.” “As I shall ride again.”

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“Aye. When I give you leave.” Kneeling between his widespread legs, she kissed her way up his body to kiss his lips. He wanted to ruck up her gown and plow her quim, let her ride him long and hard. “No,” she commanded. His hands dropped to his sides, his fingers curled into fists, wanting to grab her hair and bring her lips to his. Through half-closed eyes he watched her separate her hair into two thick strands. Her eyes filled with mischief, she stroked his nipples with them. They puckered just like hers did when he touched them. His cock twitched against her belly. She hummed low in her throat, a sound that drove him to the edge of sanity. “Be careful, my lady. I shall repay you in kind. Sweet torture for every torment you inflict.” Her laughter vibrated along his ribs, down his belly. Sweet Jesus, will she never tire of looking at my cock? Apparently she had. She kissed its tip, lapped its sides, licked her way around its head. Jealousy raged through him but lust overrode it. It no longer mattered that the Frenchman had taught her this whore’s trick. What mattered now was the way his shaft loved her loving tongue, her nipping teeth, her sucking lips. He spewed in her mouth. His cum seeped out the corners of it. She wiped it away then, unfastening her gown, spread it over her peaking nipples. “Come, m’lord. Taste your cum on my lips, on my breasts.” He ravished her nipples, sucking savagely, biting viciously. Then he plundered her mouth. She sobbed, moaned, pressed her body to his as if she would crawl beneath his skin. Heedless of the hard floor, he tumbled her to it like he had the first night he fucked her. His cock barely in her, he said, “Beg me, Kerrie. Beg me like you did that first time.” Her head stopped its wild tossing. She looked up into his eyes, her gaze unwavering. “Fuck. Me. Brecc. Fuck me.” He drove into her time and again. Through the frenzy ringing in his ears he heard her whispered command, her shout and his own of release. Withdrawing, he slung her over his shoulder and tipped her butt higher to hold in his seed. He would plant his child in her tonight. Tonight he’d give her a son. Or die trying. “What are you doing, m’lord?” He dumped her on the bed then climbed up beside her. “I believe I’ve made another place to taste my cum. Spread your legs, Kerrie. Wider. Yessss,” he hissed then plunged his tongue deep within her cunt. “You are a feast I will devour.” “Feast, m’lord. Eat…me.”

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Chapter Nine “Congratulations, Lord Brecc. You have a healthy baby—” Brecc stopped his restless pacing and looked hopefully at Aida. “Boy. Tell me I have a son, Aida. Make me the happiest of men.” “Perhaps next time, m’lord.” She beamed at him, looking as if she herself had produced this miracle child. “For now you have a girl. A beautiful, healthy girl.” Another girl. Kerrie, like her mother before her—like countless other Marchon queens—had birthed another female child. No one, he thought, his heart, his very soul bitter. No son to wage war on William should Brecc die before he regained Serenity. No son. “Yet,” he added aloud. “Kerrie wishes to see you. And for you to see your daughter, of course.” “Of course,” he repeated, vitriol in his voice. “The queen wishes to see her king. But there is no king here, is there? Only a consort too frail to give her a son.” Aida growled at him. Shocked, gape-mouthed, he could only stare at her. “Marchonland has always been ruled by its queen. Kerrie has fulfilled her obligation to her land, to her people, by giving them an heir and a spare. Now she is free of duty she may give you sons.” Drawing a deep breath, apparently recovering her normal aplomb, she said, “Shall I tell Kerrie you are unavailable, Lord Brecc?” Said sweetly, acid lay beneath the words. “Nay. I’ll see her now…and the babe.” Muttering to himself, “A girl, another girl.” He urged his reluctant feet to move. “’Twas an easy labor, sir, but it has left Kerrie drained of energy. She soon will fall asleep.” “I’ll hurry. I am hurrying.” Somehow he managed to move his feet. Soon—too soon—he entered their bedchamber and saw Kerrie propped against her pillows. Their babe suckled at her breast. “Do come closer, Brecc. See how perfect, how beautiful she is.” He did not want to go closer, did not wish to see this disappointment where his son should nurse. But his feet—those heretofore malingering appendages—rushed him to the bed. As if she sensed his presence, the babe stopped nursing. Kerrie cupped the infant’s small head then held her up for Brecc’s inspection. He heard himself muttering expected praises—what mother did not see her infants as handsome or beautiful?— when the baby opened her eyes and seemed to look directly at him.

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Though he’d had little experience with newborns, he recognized his baby’s eyes were a different color. Other newborns’ eyes tended toward bluish-gray. Hers were the same color as his—a clear, water-swimming blue. What had Kerrie called it? he wondered, stroking the babe’s soft cheek. “Turquoise. Her eyes are turquoise.” “Like yours, Brecc. Exactly like yours. I fear her hair will grow to match the color of mine but…” She sighed, then smiled as she returned the baby to her breast. “Will you name her, husband?” “Willa. In Anglo-Saxon it means desired.” “And in English it means resolute. Oh dear. She will grow up beautiful and stubborn!” “Exactly like her mother,” he observed, sitting on the bed and watching the little rosebud mouth release her mother’s nipple. “You too are stubborn, m’lord.” “Am I? I hadn’t noticed that particular flaw in my sterling character.” Kerrie laughed, startling the drowsing baby. Willa blinked, then drifted into deeper slumber. “We must keep her here, near us.” “For a time, yes. I’ll need to nurse her every few hours.” “No. I mean we’ll keep her near even after she feeds from her wet nurse.” “Very well, m’lord. In the morning I shall have the maids move Yvonne and her belongings to the floor below. That way, we shall all be together and Yvonne can visit Willa every day.” He started to bellow. He refused to share Willa with anyone, especially the Frenchman’s spawn. Kerrie’s eyes drifted closed and her deep, regular breathing told him she slept. Instead of arguing—a futile effort since Kerrie won most of the time anyway—he kissed his wife’ brow, then kissed his daughter’s. Serenity. He would give Willa Serenity. That happy thought died aborning, replaced by acrimony so filled with rage he nearly choked on it. Serenity was no longer his. Not yet. But soon—if his loyal knights and men-at-arms continued to desert the bastard as they had for the last six months—soon he could mount an army. Soon he would avenge Amelie’s murder and take back what William had stolen from him. He would regain Serenity and give it to his daughter. And if anything happened to Yvonne, Willa would be queen of both lands. Chuckling softly, amazed that such a tiny creature had captured his heart so easily, he tiptoed out. And gently closed the door behind him.

***** A year later all of Marchonland celebrated the princesses’ birthdays. Born two years and two days apart, Yvonne turned three, Willa one year old.

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Since William had made no move to attack them, Kerrie allowed her people a little more ale, hard cider or wine. Yet, knowing how foolish it would be to allow them limitless drink, she posted guards everywhere. Many were Brecc’s men her gold— Alexandre’s coin—had brought to his side. It saddened her that she had lied to Brecc but his damnable pride disallowed any other course. The merriment drifting upward from the great hall had faded. The princesses slept soundly in their beds, a floor below hers and Brecc’s quarters. Brecc’s gentle snores droned softly, steadily through the open door between the solar and bedchamber. Kerrie, her thoughts drifting between giddy joy—after all, she had a virile, handsome husband and two beautiful, healthy daughters—and lingering, seemingly endless grief over Audra’s and Alexandre’s deaths, sat at her solar table. She could see the pregnant moon growing dimmer in the light of awakening dawn. How often had she sat in the window seat, her head resting against Alexandre’s chest and listening to his steady heartbeat? How many tales had he told her about his journeys with and without Farid? Sweet Jesus, would she always miss them, forever listen for their voices, endlessly await the sound of their booted feet on her tower stairs? Mayhap, had she forced herself to talk about them, to share them with Brecc, her anguish would have eased. Yet she had failed time and time again to summon the courage to say their names, whether Brecc wished to hear those names or not. So Alexandre and Farid resided in her mind, in her heart. Tonight she could feel them drawing nearer. Tonight her sadness seemed bittersweet. Tonight… Brushing impatiently at her tears, she focused on her will. She refused to leave it, as Audra had, to the last minute. When Willa and Yvonne reach maturity, Yvonne will marry the Puttupon heir and Willa will marry as my husband and I determine. Brecc’s only stipulation is that our daughter’s husband be of noble birth. “Come to bed, dearling, or I’ll start without you,” Brecc called from the adjoining chamber. “Only a moment longer, sweet Brecc. I must check on our daughter.” Kerrie retreated to the nursery and bestowed a kiss on each of her daughters’ brows. Brecc had wanted to move Yvonne back to her own tower but Kerrie had insisted the girls remain where they were. She wanted—deeply needed—to keep them close. Returning to her bedchamber, she skimmed off her night rail and eased beneath the covers. “Poor Brecc. Did you miss me so much you grew cold from waiting?” She kissed his cheek and ran her hand down his chest to the juncture of his thighs. There, his cock was limp, his cum still warm upon the cold hand that gripped it.

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A cloud-covered sun attempted to warm the snow-clad ground. Kerrie asked her abigail to bring Aida and Gaspar to her. She offered no explanation to her aging companion. She knew her eyes glowed red from crying and her hair hung like a shroud around her shoulders from her hands tearing at it. She looked like death, knew it, accepted it. Death had visited her before, had lingered like fish left too long in the sun, their odor a stench in the air, their flesh rotten poison. Yet she could not say its name, could not bear to hear its finality clanging like a funeral knell. Instead of saying “Lord Brecc is dead”, she said, “Bring my sister and my steward here.” Sitting in the window seat, her arms crossed over her chest for comfort, she rocked back and forth. She choked on her tears, swallowed them, refused to allow them to destroy her. She had wept when Audra died. She’d wailed with grief and rage at Alexandre when he abandoned her. She’d sobbed the short, too long night away. She had no more tears left to shed. No matter that they burned her eyes and fisted in her throat. She heard feet rushing up her solar stairs. Gaspar’s boots sounded like he bounded upward, two steps at a time. Aida’s clogs beat “Death.” “Death.” “Death.” Kerrie clamped her hands over her ears but could not deafen them to the hated words. Gaspar bolted into her solar, took one look at her, then rushed into her bedchamber. Just inside the solar door, Aida skidded on the rushes, righted herself, then came to Kerrie and embraced her. “Shhh,” Aida crooned though Kerrie remained silent, tears and words locked securely behind her clenched teeth. “’Twill be all right.” Those simple words, meant to soothe and comfort, burst through the damn Kerrie had built around her emotions. “’Tisn’t! It will never be all right. Audra’s dead. Alexandre’s dead. N-now Brecc has died. I am cursed. I might as well die too.” “You cannot die yet, Kerrie.” Aida held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes, her own eyes stern. Merciless. “You have two daughters who need you. No, Kerrie, you will not die.” Kerrie’s laugh echoed, a hysterical bray. “I am cursed, Aida! I must die, lest I bring God’s wrath down on my children. They are innocent. Alexandre was an innocent. Brecc… Although his heart was filled with hatred and jealousy… in his way he too was innocent. Yet God punished both my husbands when He should have punished me.” “I refuse to argue with you, Kerrie.” Her eyes and voice calm, Aida turned toward the solar door. Her steady hand beckoned Yvonne forward. Without the aid of steps, the child settled in Kerrie’s lap. Her child-size yet oddly mature hands stroked Kerrie’s hair, her tear-ravished cheeks. A long moment later, Yvonne ducked her head and blinked into Kerrie’s eyes. Alexandre seemed to peer up at her but asked in Yvonne’s sweet voice, “Now may we talk about Papa? Not Papa Brecc but about my papa?”

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A commotion in the bailey found its way through Kerrie’s closed casement window. Big John’s shout followed from the great hall two floors below. “Farid! Farid’s come home!” Her indrawn breath shuddering into her lungs, Kerrie folded her arms around her firstborn daughter. A curious relief reigned over grief. “Aye, Yvonne, now we shall talk about your father. Farid—you remember Farid?— will tell tales about your papa and I’ll contribute my meager knowledge of him as well.” When Willa was older, Kerrie vowed, she would share her meager knowledge of Brecc. Willa would not suffer the malaise Kerrie had suffered during her too brief marriage. Kerrie and Farid would share their memories of Alexandre with both girls. Yvonne would add her recollections of Alexandre—if she had any of her own—to her tales about Brecc. Aye, her daughters would know their fathers. “I have returned,” a long-missed yet still beloved voice boomed from the solar stairs. A body quickly followed. A large hand swept a fur-lined, flowing cape off broad shoulders and revealed a muscular chest covered solely with dark skin. “Farid!” Yvonne scrambled from Kerrie’s lap then raced to fling her arms around his tree-like thighs. “You remember me, eh, poppet?” Lifting her, laughing with her, he said, “You have grown, Princess. When I left, you barely could touch my knees. Now, see, you have grown so tall you reach my shoulders.” He moved those wide shoulders so that she sat on them. Her small hands gripped his ears as if she sought balance. Gaspar emerged from Kerrie’s bedchamber. Smiling a joyful greeting to Farid, he said, “I’ll take her if you wish.” “Mayhap,” the Nubian replied, his lips twitching, “‘twould be best. For now.” Had his instinctive use of Kerrie’s favorite hedge word summoned that smile, Gaspar wondered. “At last,” Aida said, acid fairly dripping from her tongue, “our friend has decided to return to us. Will you abide some time, m’sieur, or will you hare off again, once you have sold your treasures?” “Princess Aida, your kind words give welcome to a weary traveler. He—I shall abide until Fortune takes me elsewhere.” Turning to Kerrie, his eyes losing their teasing light, he added, “When this sad time has passed… Only then, my queen, shall I leave you.” “Then we are doomed to remain together for a long, long time.” Rising, Kerrie held out her hands to Farid. He grasped them over his heart, saying, “I shall endeavor to cheer you, Majesty. Even though I know you to be unreasonably stubborn.” Aida snorted. Gaspar smothered a laugh. Solemn, Kerrie stuck out her tongue, then laughed as fresh tears welled in her eyes. 87

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“I’ll see to Brecc,” said Gaspar. “Bring him to the kitchens. I’ll tend to his bathing then dress him.” At the solar door Aida turned back. “When you have a moment, Farid, come by the nursery. Yvonne will give you bread and milk and present you to her baby sister Willa.” Nodding, he turned back to Kerrie and broke the silence. “So, Majesty, an heir and a spare. You have reached your goal.” “Yes,” she said bitterly, “but at great cost. Two healthy daughters, two dead husbands.” “Would you trade, Kerrie? Exchange Yvonne’s life for Alexandre’s, Willa’s life for Brecc’s?” “No!” she whispered vehemently. “Never! Both my husbands died too soon…” She shook her head as if throwing off a burden of enormous weight. “No, I would not barter Yvonne’s and Willa’s lives for theirs.” “The pigeons returned to Marchon Castle?” Farid’s abrupt change of topic made Kerrie dizzy. For several long minutes, while Gaspar oversaw Brecc’s removal, she braced her body against a chair. “Aye,” she murmured when the servants left, “like you, the pigeons came home.” Farid nodded, apparently pleased that he had trained them well. “Then you know that Brecc’s mother helped him escape from William.” “And that William raped then murdered her, as well. Just like he raped and murdered Amelie.” Spreading her fingers, a helpless gesture, she whispered, “I did not tell Brecc. He…he already held rage and hatred in his heart. I could not—would not— permit him to risk his life for vengeance.” “But he died anyway.” “Yes! He died! Died—peacefully, I pray—in his bed. In our bed. Just as Alexandre died. In his sleep. Why?” she wailed, pounding her fists against Farid’s ungiving chest. She beat at him until her legs refused to support her weight. Collapsing in her chair, she simply stared up at him. “What,” he began, a challenge in his voice, in his eyes, “do you intend to do about William? Wait for him to overrun you and Marchonland? Wait for him to rape your lands? Your women? Your daughters? Will you, like a cowardly cur, creep away with your tail between your legs?” Kerrie spat in Farid’s face. Phlegm slid down his cheek unheeded. His resolute gaze fastened on hers, his lips curved in a smile. “I thought not.” “Yet you had to test me. On the very day Brecc died—” “Be quiet, Kerrie!” Farid snapped. “You never loved that vainglorious popinjay. Oh I’ve little doubt of his prowess in bed. Even less doubt that he took every opportunity to prove his skill to you.” Farid’s powerful shoulders slumped, his fists opened, his fierce frown melted from his brow.

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“But did he ever talk with you, Kerrie? Ever listen to your cares? Ease your grief over Alexandre’s death by hearing you talk about his rival?” “Rival? Alexandre died more than a year before Brecc appeared here. How—” “How could he consider Alexandre a rival?” Farid finished when Kerrie’s voice failed her. “He could see his failure in your eyes. Mayhap you can lie to others, even lie to yourself, but your eyes betray you. They whisper secrets, the foremost being you will never love another man the way you loved Alexandre.” Covering her eyes with her hands, she cried out, “You are right! Damn you, Farid, you are right.” When her tears ceased she told him everything about the loneliness, about not being able to speak about Alexandre and the life they’d shared. At last, she raised her gaze to Farid’s. “You have a plan? A way to best Garr’s bastard?” His bright white teeth flashed when he grinned but it quickly disappeared. “Aye, Majesty. If you’ve the belly for it, I have a plan.”

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Entr’Acte—The Bastard

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Chapter Ten William’s steward crept toward him. From his throne on Serenity’s high dais, William watched the craven creature sidle the length of the great hall. Bowing so low he resembled an enormous turtle, the steward held up a sealed parchment. His fingers shook so hard he almost dropped it in the foul-smelling rushes beneath his feet. “What does it say?” William shouted, pleased that the steward’s knees rattled. “William, er, Your Grace,” his ersatz friend Sir Graham muttered, “he cannot read.” “Oh?” William drawled. “Very well, bring it here, you oaf. Graham here will read it for—to me. To us all.” Waving his hand, he included his sullen troops. At William’s nod, Graham descended the dais, then quickly returned to stand behind William’s right shoulder. One day, William knew, Graham would slit his throat and proclaim himself Lord Graham, Duke of Serenity. The attempt could not come soon enough for William. He would welcome the act, the excuse it would offer to gut the handsome would-be ruler. “Well? Open the damn thing. Read it to me. To all of us.” “’Tis solemn news, Your Grace. Sad news, sire.” “Hellfire and damnation. Read the fucking message!” “Your father…King Garr,” Graham added, like William was too drunk too stupid to know who had sired him. Garr had bred him, raised him like a son—his heir!—then he’d married some duchess, a titled whore who’d died in childbirth. Having done her duty to king and crown by pushing Gareth from her whore’s cunt, the first whore had bled to death. But two sons were not enough for Garr. He’d married a scant year later, bred a third son, buried a second wife. Then he’d repeated the process again. With legitimate sons at hand, Garr had tried to fob off that whore-queen Kerrie on William. “King Garr is dead, William.” Graham’s careful voice interrupted the glorious flow of rage coursing through William’s body. “Huzza, huzza, huzza,” William shouted, waving his arms, encouraging his troops to share his glee. Steadying himself on the arms of his throne, he staggered to his feet, slopping potent brandy over his food-stained doublet. “The king is dead. Long live the king. Me,” he added, giggling, thumb to his chest. A few desultory voices echoed his words. He didn’t care that his men didn’t care. Soon he, William, would march his sorry troops—his depleted troops, thanks to whore-queen Kerrie and her fucking merchant husband’s gold. Swaying, William realized he’d lost his train of thought and plopped down on his throne. 91

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Ah yes, he remembered now. Soon he’d march on Raven’s Keep…or was it the Eyrie? No matter. He’d march somewhere, slaughter—draw and quarter, then bury their heads on pikes—his…his what? His half-brother, that’s what. “That’s who,” he corrected aloud. “Who what, sire?” He narrowed a crafty look into Graham’s concerned face. “You don’ need to know who what. All you need to know… Prepare the men to march at first light.” “March where, sire?” “Amn’t your sire. Am your king. Goin’ ta be your fuckin’ king. Soon. As you,” he poked Graham’s chest, a hard poke that should have sent short, squat Graham sprawling but hadn’t, “you don’ need ta know who what or where. Jus’ have the men ready at…at… I already told you at.” “At first light, sire.” “Tha’s right. First light. Ha, ha, ha, I made a rhyme.” Belching loudly, his farts stinging Graham’s eyes and nose, the would-be King of Puttupon fell into drunken slumber.

***** The next morning, William woke slowly, his nose filled with the stench of vomit, his breeks oozing shit. Both his own, he realized, blinking his watery eyes against midafternoon glare. Hellfire and damnation! He’d told Graham to roust the men, have them ready to march at first light! “Graham,” he bellowed. The empty great hall threw his voice back at him, beat at his eardrums mercilessly, making him hear words he swore he’d not heard. Kill him now. Slit his throat and we’ll dump him in the river. Let the fishes dine on his putrid flesh. “Fuckin’ whoresons! Craven curs. Come out! Face me like the men you pretend to be.” Pushing to his feet, he reached for his sword. Shit! The cocksucking, arse-fucking whoresons had taken his sword. His gem-covered scabbard, even his blade-sinister with its huge ruby heart stone were gone, as well. He shouted another string of curses, then paused, his heart thumping wildly, his ears striving to hear… Graham’s soft, sly voice. A whisper reached William. “Let him live, for now at least. Gareth may be too young to rule but I doubt he or his uncles would pardon the murder of Garr’s bastard. Aye, let him live. The French pox will kill him soon enough.” “Not too soon,” William’s oafish steward whispered back, his voice strong with hatred. “He deserves every ache, every agony, for what he did to poor, sweet Amelie.” “Aye, let him suffer,” came at William in a hundred—a thousand—different voices.

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Clasping his hands over his ears, he ran from the hall, taking the stench of sweat, vomit and shit with him. He’d track them down, one by one, until he found all forty of those fuckin’ whoresons. He’d share his affliction, his French pox, with them. Then, a miracle having cured him—God would bless William for punishing those who’d stood, drooling yet silent, when William raped poor, sweet Amelie—then he’d watch them die. Watch them suffer the agony they’d wished upon him. But first, he would find Kerrie, Queen Whore. He’d return the pox her merchant husband must have given her. How else had William contracted the French pox she’d given him? He’d fucked her, hadn’t he? No matter. Once he had fucked her, he’d fuck her sister…Aida, Kerrie called her. Then, while they watched, helpless to free themselves from horror, he’d fuck that precious daughter. And watch them all die horrific deaths. The men who’d deserted him, cursed him to an early death, could wait. They were all fairly young, disgustingly healthy. Except that stinking steward. He was old and frail. If William did not hurry to catch him, the oaf would escape his punishment. Reaching the stables at a dead run, William slid to a halt. The stables were empty. Those maggot-infested whoresons had stolen all his horses! Howling at the dying sun, William fell to his knees. And vomited into the sweetsmelling hay.

***** Kerrie stood on her battlements, Gaspar and Farid at her side. The wind felt brisk this September morning. A hint of fall was in the air as it ruffled the hair at Kerrie’s brow, the edges of her tabard. “Storm’s coming,” Gaspar said, his gaze firmly focused on the horizon. “Aye and an early winter too. Mayhap we should bring the crofters into the castle. I’ll not have them freezing to death.” “Mayhap,” said Farid, his voice laced with wry humor, “you should provide them sturdier, warmer cottages.” Matching his tone, Kerrie said, “Mayhap I should.” She clenched her hands. “Where are the girls? Where is Aida?” “May I remind you, Majesty, that you have asked that question a dozen times? “May I remind you, Gaspar, that treachery incarnated now walks Marchon lands?” “None of us need reminding of that, Majesty,” Farid said. For an instant his dark hand hovered over her pale one, his heat lending warmth and succor. “The girls and Aida are playing games in the nursery. Twenty men-at-arms are posted the length of the stairs. Two score more patrol the grounds surrounding the castle. They, we, are as safe as can be.”

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“From your lips to God’s ear,” Kerrie murmured. If God even was listening, which she doubted. They stood in silence. Kerrie felt the stones beneath her feet tremble, as if the very foundation of the castle was being shaken by a giant hand. “St. Christopher on a crutch!” Kerrie swore. “What… Who is that?” A rag-covered figure burst from the shelter of the orchard and sped toward the closed portcullis. Behind it came a phalanx of mounted knights. They seemed to be herding the ragged figure, taking pleasure when it stumbled and almost fell. “Look,” Farid said, pointing toward the fields of wheat and barley, the barren peggings for the hops. “The king,” Gaspar muttered. “See his banner?” “I see it,” Kerrie growled, beating the stone balustrade with her naked fist. “But which king is it—Garr or his bastard?” “Garr is dead, Kerrie. Sir Graham told us so.” “You accept the word of a deserter, Gaspar?” “We accept the word of a knight, Majesty.” But Farid’s black eyes remained on the running figure. As it neared the portcullis, they could see that a man approached. They could hear his hoarse cries. “Sanctuary. Grant me sanctuary.” A separate group of mounted figures, one bearing the king’s standard, rode through Marchon’s fields. Kerrie ground her teeth and growled, “‘Tis fortunate we have already harvested our crops. Even a king must bear punishment for destroying food. “Sound the alarm, Gaspar. I’ll not risk letting an intruder, a pretender, into Marchon Castle.” “I’ll sound the alarm, Maman. I can reach the rope now.” “Bartholomew’s balls! Yvonne, get back to your aunt and sister.” Seeing a tantrum brewing in her daughter’s eyes, noting her pugnacious chin jutting out along with her lower lip, Kerrie softened her voice. “Go to your rooms, Yvonne.” “B-but I brought my bow. See?” She held up her small bow, her quiver of blunttipped arrows. Squatting to look into Yvonne’s swimming green eyes at the girl’s level, Kerrie said gently, “I need you to protect Willa and Aida. There are arrow slits in your walls. You can use your bow there.” “Cannot see, Maman. I am tall enough to ring the bell but I cannot reach the arrow slits.” “I shall hold you up then,” Farid offered. Yvonne giggled but said, “You will interfere with my shot.” Kerrie, preparing to voice a stern command, bit her tongue.

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“I shall bring you a chair to stand on,” Farid countered, lifting the child into his arms. Expecting an outburst of epic proportions, Kerrie braced for it. Instead of screams of protest, she heard Yvonne say, “Will you stay with me? With us? S-sometimes my arms sag and my aim goes to hell in a basket.” Kerrie shot Gaspar a fulminating look at Yvonne’s language. Gaspar returned a sheepish grin and shrugged. Farid said, “Of course I shall stay with you. So long as I don’t interfere with your aim.” Yvonne nodded solemnly then began to chatter. Farid waved over his shoulder and carried the child inside, to safety. Kerrie heaved a sigh of relief. Returning her attention to the chaos outside her walls, Kerrie recognized the filthy, skeletal figure as William, Garr’s bastard son. As if he sensed her presence, he looked up, directly into her eyes. Or so it seemed to her. When he grinned, she was certain he had recognized her. “Ah, the Queen Whore herself, come to witness my murder by these whoreson knights.” He spat. “These men are jackals, imposters, whoresons. Will you have my blood, the blood of kings, on your hands? Will you allow my blood, my pox-riddled blood, the French pox that you gave me—” “Lying dog!” Gaspar shouted. “He is mad,” Kerrie whispered, aghast at William’s words, at the implications he hurled like curses. “Remember all the nights we fucked? All the times you screamed my name and shouted I was the best fuck you’d ever had? Lie with me once more, Queen of Whores. Cure me of the pox your French merchant whoreson husband gave you—the pox you so generously passed on to me. Take it back, you fucking bitch!” “Enough!” a young, clear voice demanded. Commanded. Surprising Kerrie, the bastard quieted. But his eyes, those pale, sun-hazed eyes she’d found so disconcerting glared up at her. The hatred in them made her skin crawl. She shivered uncontrollably. “Come away, William.” The young voice rose to the battlements on a sudden sharp gust of wind. “We’ll go home, go to Puttupon where I can have you cared for properly.” “So says my half-brother, the whoreson pretender who will take me home, then slit my throat as I sleep. Oh he would not deign to spill my blood himself. Even though he covets my crown, he is too cowardly to do the deed. He’ll order it done. His hands will remain unsullied but his soul—his not-so-innocent soul—will burn in hell. “Ah, here is my whoreson uncle.” The bastard held out his knobby wrists. “Dare you manacle me, your rightful king? Dare you lay your hands upon me, whoreson of a whoreson, son of a titled whore?”

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“Your pardon, Gareth,” said his uncle, “and yours as well, Queen Kerrie.” With that he smashed his sword hilt on William’s skull-like head. William’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground. Five mounted knights dismounted. Two men-at-arms carried a long pole, a third brought manacles and rope. Using manacles, chains and rope, they suspended William’s body between two drays. Gareth, boy king and Yvonne’s betrothed, removed his feathered cap then sketched a bow. “My apologies, Queen Kerrie, to you and yours.” Looking down into his clear brown eyes, she nodded. Her smile showed all the relief, all the gratitude she felt in her heart. In part, she was relieved at his timely intervention with William. Another part thanked the heavens that Gareth looked nothing like either Garr or William. Praying to sweet heaven that their brutality had left Gareth untainted, she invited the young king into Marchon Castle. His sudden smile wiped years off his solemn face. How old was he now? Yvonne was nearing five, Willa two, which made Gareth what? Twelve? Thirteen at most. “Thank you for your kindness, Majesty. Another time, eh? Not that I mistrust your hospitality,” he added, irony heavy in his voice, “but I think it best to leave Marchon lands post haste.” For the first time, Kerrie realized her archers ringed the battlements, their bows aimed at the troops below, arrows nocked. “I see your point, King Gareth.” The boy almost preened at his title but held perfectly still. Garr would have strutted like the peacocks Alexandre had given her. The young eyes took on a warrior’s focus. Narrowed against the sinking sun, his eyes seemed to approve her continuing vigilance. “By your leave, Queen Kerrie.” Without waiting, he paced away. The discourtesy nettled her but she made allowances for his age and waved at his departing back. An arrow pierced the ground, barely missing his booted foot. Whirling, his gaze homed unerringly to Kerrie’s tower. His sword cleared its scabbard. He, apparently, could see what Kerrie could only imagine. Waving, a wide smile curving his lips, he called out, “Tell the moppet I’ll see her in a decade or so. Tell her, if she improves her aim, I just might knight her.” Laughing, he strode to his destrier, mounted it with an easy vaulting motion, then signaled his men to ride out. His uncle, Henry if Kerrie remembered correctly, lagged behind while his knights escorted gagged William’s drays. “Now,” Gaspar muttered for her ears only, “there’s a man worthy of a queen’s bed.” Kerrie snorted. “He serves a nobler purpose, Gaspar. He raises a king, Yvonne’s future husband. Now hush. I would hear Henry’s parting salvo.” Which came as soon as she looked down at him. “If we have damaged your fields, send word to us.” 96


“Us, m’lord protector? Do you sit upon Garr’s throne, replace his rightful heir?” He scowled, a mirror of his nephew. “Nay! If you deem it necessary or wiser, address your missive to Gareth. He—” “Will share it with you anyway,” she hazarded. “Aye.” He chuckled. “We—Gareth, myself, all of Puttupon—will send replacement seeds.” “Though I doubt the necessity, Prince Henry, I thank you on behalf of both my moppets, myself and all of Marchonland.” He snapped a smart salute, then, laughing, rode away. Hearing a chuckle near her left ear, Kerrie startled. “Farid, you…” “Frightened you?” “As if,” she scoffed, pleased to see half a dozen archers still paced the battlements, bows and arrows held loosely but readily at hand. “I have brought you a present, my queen.” Arching her eyebrows in disapproval, she glared at her Nubian friend. “So you disobeyed my orders, breeched Marchon security and brought this present within Marchon Castle. I should have you hanged.” “Mayhap,” he countered lightly, “but you shan’t. This per—this present is the best gift you have ever, will ever receive.” “Aye? Better than my daughters?” His triumphant grin slid off his lips. “Mayhap not better than Yvonne and Willa but equal. In a different way, equal.” Taking her arm, he led her to the nursery.

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Act III—The Artists

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Chapter Eleven Kerrie halted in the doorway, forcing Farid to stop, as well. “You never did tell me your plan for besting William.” That barely discernable blush stole over Farid’s visage. “Would you believe I lied about having one?” Nothing in his eyes hinted at his thoughts. Yet something in his voice made her study him for a long moment. “Over the years we have known one another, I’ve learned one—nay, two—things about you. First, you are an honest man. Mayhap you’ve employed a bit of misdirection or have omitted details you believe my ears too delicate to hear but you’ve not lied. Second, you are a cautious man. You had a plan and you shall tell me what it was. You’ll tell me, Farid, because I may have need of such a plan in the future.” Farid glanced around the battlements. When he seemed satisfied the archers could not hear them, he said, “Had Gareth not appeared, I would have suggested you bring the foul-mouthed bastard within Marchon’s castle.” She narrowed a glare at him. “Bring him within? Have you forgotten that the troops once loyal to him outnumber my own? That, having deserted him, they could change allegiances just as easily back to him?” “I forgot nothing, Majesty. I did, however, have a piece of information you lacked.” Prepared to give him a tongue-lashing he’d not soon forget, she sputtered. His raised finger forestalled her. “Two pieces of information,” he corrected. “One, William had not paid his mercenaries. Only the promise of gold and riches beyond their imaginations kept them with him all this time. When I am king became a fool’s dream. They would have deserted him sooner or later anyway.” “My gold brought them sooner. Yet it too could have been a fool’s dream.” “Except for the second bit of information, yes.” He fell silent. Kerrie felt her temper rise and raised her hand to pinch his ear. “They hated William for what he did—to Brecc, the rightful sovereign of Serenity. To Amelie. True, a few among them—the first to desert him by the way—wished he had avoided killing her. They took solace by raping the maids and the Dowager Duchess and her ladies.” Kerrie’s gorge filled her throat. Swallowing hard, she said, “Your plan was to invite William in and let his own men murder him?” Farid’s silence gave her his answer.

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“Tell me the rest of your plan. Come now, you’ve omitted something critical. You challenged me—if you’ve the belly for it, you said. Yet I sense you never intended to go so far or would allow William’s blood to taint Marchon’s stones.” A smile flashed across Farid’s lips. “You have the right of it, Majesty. I could not— would not—allow King Gareth to hold you responsible for his half-brother’s murder.” “So you invited him to aid in William’s capture.” She bit her tongue but temper overpowered restraint. “You brought pestilence to Marchon Castle. Would have brought it inside to infect my daughters!” “Unlike plague, the French pox—” “You brought the threat of war to Marchonland! Blood is blood, Farid! Gareth—” “Is betrothed to Yvonne. I doubt he would wage war on his fiancée’s mother.” “Prince Henry would—” “Henry is even less likely than Gareth to fight over William. After all, in order to seize Puttupon’s throne, William would have to eliminate Henry, his brother James, then Gareth and his brothers.” Drained of energizing vitriol, Kerrie slumped. “Once, just once, I’d like to see you lose your temper.” “Would it help, Majesty, for us both to lose our tempers? Say hateful things we might forgive but never forget? Behave like siblings or, worse, husband and wife?” “St. Christopher on a crutch!” Kerrie swore through a laugh. “Those were low blows, Farid. Especially the one about—” “Husband and wife?” “Nay, forgive not forget.” “Did you fight with Alexandre?” “Loud and often. Yet we always forgave and forgot. Mayhap because we left out the hateful things.” “And did you fight with Lord Brecc?” “Not often.” Most often she fought with herself, resentful she could not share with Brecc any memories, whether they were about Alexandre or about her life before him. Heaving a sigh, she stood straighter and looked directly into Farid’s dark eyes. “I would see this present, Farid. But I warn you. I rule Marchonland. You shall obey me or…partner or not, friend or not, I’ll banish you.” He gave a curt nod then held out his hand. Silent, they descended the stairs.

***** The first thing Kerrie noticed upon entering the nursery was a stranger with Yvonne in her arms. Stranger or not, Yvonne chattered on and on, her voice too soft for Kerrie to hear, her gestures pantomiming her escapades with bow and arrow.

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“Long.” Yvonne grasped a handful of the stranger’s hair then pulled it up and up and up. “Long as Maman’s.” Longer, Kerrie thought, envious of its length. She also envied its color. In the torchlight it gleamed like molten gold underlain with shiny copper strands and sunlit wheat. “Tell me again where the arrow landed, Princess Yvonne,” the stranger said in a deep baritone. Kerrie’s brows shot upward. Yvonne squirmed and the man set her down. “Right here!” She patted beside a booted foot. From a chair in the corner, Aida said, “It gets closer with every telling.” “Believe me,” Kerrie said, her voice caustic, “the arrow flew far too close for comfort. Mine as well as the king’s.” The stranger—the man—turned to regard her from eyes of golden brown. In her mind, Kerrie heard Alexandre describing a lion he’d seen in Nubia. She had no direct experience of the animal but she quickly attributed those lion eyes to this man. And his golden mane only added to his lion-like appearance. “Majesty, allow me to present Cesare of Venice, an artist beyond compare.” “I paint only incomparable subjects, Majesty, hence my reputation.” His quaintly accented voice flowed over her like silk. “You are the Divine Incomparable.” Kerrie laughed. “What brings you to Marchonland, signore?” “Farid sent his pigeons to summon me here, Divine One. He lured me here with promises of three, no four, lovely women,” he nodded at Aida, Willa on her lap, “who would steal my breath. “I sent refusal after refusal but he persisted. How could I continue when he sent his magnificent ship, The Dragon, to bring me?” “Ten men-at-arms might have encouraged your wise decision.” “Pfft! I would have come anyway. Perhaps not this soon…” “Do you paint landscapes as well as portraits, Signore Cesare?” Aida asked, putting Willa on the floor. The toddler toddled to Farid then raised her arms. “Up. Up.” “What do you say, Willa?” “Up, please.” The adults laughed. Yvonne, not to be outdone, climbed on the chair near the arrow slit and began the tale of shooting at the king. Cesare turned toward the child but said, “If I find the view interesting, I might paint it. I prefer to paint faces and figures.” Those tawny eyes focused now on Kerrie. Reading a far-from-innocent intent in them, Kerrie looked at Farid. 101

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“Aye, Majesty, Cesare also paints nudes.” Gaspar strode into the room. “Not of Aida.” “Certainly not!” Aida agreed, her eyes wistful. “Perhaps, Gaspar, Signore Cesare will paint a nude of you. Yes. I’ll hang it where I can see it from my bed and remember how we used to—” Gaspar clamped his hand over Aida’s mouth. “Not in front of the children.” He gave her a stern look then said, “Our meal awaits. The men… Well, I promised them more ale than they’ve had these last few months.” “They deserve it. But not too much more, Gaspar. We must maintain our vigilance until the king’s troops are leagues beyond our borders.” “Come, my pets,” said the princesses’ nanny. “’Tis time for sweets and milk.” Willa held out her arms and went willingly from Farid to Bess. Yvonne clung to Cesare’s long hair. As if he sensed a storm brewing in her small body, he whispered something in her ear. “Truly?” she said, green eyes wide. “Truly.” Cesare set her on the floor, then swept her a low bow. His elegant hands— large hands, Kerrie noted, her stomach fluttering—executed flourishes in the air. “Then we shall break our fast together,” Yvonne said, sounding so much like Kerrie, the adults hid their laughs. “Not so early as that, Princess. A genius needs his sleep. May I join you for luncheon?” “Oh very well. Attend me then.” With that regal salvo, she swept from the room, Bess and Willa in her wake. “I have created a monster,” Kerrie muttered. “No, Divine One, you have created a queen.” Cesare offered his arm. Kerrie took it and they all went down to the great hall.

***** Genii, Kerrie decided several months later, needed more than sleep. They also required copious amounts of food, hours of play that demanded she participate, afternoons of naps coupled with late nights of dancing or simply listening to music. Her particular genius, Cesare, refused to draw if the light—the very sun—neglected to shine at the precise angle he required. Since foul winter weather kept them inside, they lacked access to outside light. But, somehow, Cesare made time fly. He had Timms, Marchon’s carpenter, fashion tops for Yvonne and Willa, carve them deer and rabbits out of wood scraps. He also talked incessantly of warm Venice and bemoaned the frigid climate of Marchonland. Only Kerrie’s beauty, he claimed, kept him within the castle’s walls.

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Spring finally arrived in mid-March. Though the ground stayed too muddy to plant the fields, the bailey was a hive of activity. Everyone wanted and claimed time in the sun. Men-at-arms worked with household servants, stuffing mattresses, beating tapestries, cleaning chimneys. When the scent of apple blossoms wafted through Kerrie’s solar, it also brought Cesare. “’Tis time, Divine Incomparable. I have decided to paint Yvonne with her bow and quiver, Willa surrounded by her flowers, Aida with her chatelaine’s keys. I may even paint Gaspar hovering over her shoulder lest I tempt her out of her clothes. “With what object shall I paint you, Divine One?” “Only one object, signore? Surely a queen may have more.” “You wish to wear your crown? Hold your scepter? You would mar my painting with those…those unnecessary symbols of your power?” “What, then, do you suggest?” Kerrie said, striving unsuccessfully to squelch her amusement. She apparently asked the right question for Cesare’s eyes brightened. Beaming at her, he said, “I would like to paint you with only a few treasures about you. Nothing should—or could—detract from you. Yet those objects must mean a great deal to you.” “I see.” Unconscious of her action, she twisted the emerald ring she’d put on when Brecc died, the ring Alexandre had given her on their wedding day. “That ring,” Cesare pointed to her hand, “ is precious to you.” “Aye. My husband—my first husband—gave it to me to remind me always of his eyes.” “Yvonne’s eyes. Have you anything else from him? Something you value equally?” Smiling, Kerrie stood then retrieved the music box from her bedchamber. “This. Alexandre gave it to my mother knowing, he told me after she died, that it would come to me.” Cesare’s fingers shook when he touched the jeweled lid. “It is…magnificent.” Kerrie, watching his eyes, turned the key, then opened the box. Music drifted through the room. Cesare’s mouth worked but no words came out. Finally, his gaze fixed on the box, he said, “May I hold it?” He gently took it from her hands and, carrying it as if it might dissolve or shatter, went to her casement window. He muttered to himself in a language Kerrie didn’t understand. Looking up at last, he held it out to her. “While I paint you, you must tell me about this magical box and the remarkable man who gave it to you. Now,” he stood, yet his gaze remained fixed on the box where she had placed it on her table, “have you something from your second husband?” “Nothing so grand as this box.” She touched it briefly. “Brecc came to Marchonland, his pockets filled…” A helpless shrug lifted her shoulders.

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“With a surfeit of moths?” Cesare suggested. Laughing, Kerrie nodded. “We married in—soon after we met. Yet Brecc had lace made for my bridal bouquet. He picked the flowers himself.” She realized she had buried that sweet memory along with many others about Brecc. “Then this bouquet also has value. If not valuable monetarily, it holds fond memories.” Greeted by silence, Cesare went on. “Tomorrow, after I have seen Yvonne, I will come to you here. We shall begin tomorrow.” “Before or after your nap, signore?” “At nuncheon, if you permit. I would come sooner but I promised Yvonne I would paint…” “Paint her first. Now I know how you dissuaded her tantrum all those months ago. What else have you promised her, signore, to keep her on her good behavior?” Cesare lowered his head then, a sheepish smile curving his lips, met Kerrie’s gaze. “Only that I would teach her to draw. Have I o’erstepped my station, Divine One?” “No. But I would have a promise from you, Cesare. Call me Kerrie, or if my title suits you better, Majesty. Divine One and Divine Incomparable displease me. Greatly.” “As you wish, Di—Kerrie. Until tomorrow.” He flourished his way out, his large feet the last part of him she saw.

***** “No. No. No, no, no.” Cesare sat on Kerrie’s bed and rejected every gown she pulled from her chests. He sprang up, forced her to sit, then proceeded to—maul was the only word that came to mind—through the rest of her clothing. The gray silk Alexandre had insisted chafed her delicate skin gave Cesare pause. He draped it over a chair and continued his search. “So many wonderful fabrics, so many beautiful colors. You should have them made into gowns, Divine—Kerrie. If not for yourself, then for the princesses.” “Mayhap when they are older and no longer outgrow their clothes ’twixt one day and the next. Besides, I think they would rather choose the fabrics and colors for themselves.” “You are wiser than I credited you. These greens are perfect for Yvonne, yet would eclipse the blue of Willa’s eyes. The blues would look lovely on Willa but would make Yvonne look sallow.” Kerrie heard Cesare’s breath catch, almost felt it on her brow when he exhaled. Dread made her heart pound and its rapid beat filled her ears. “No,” she said before he could draw the gossamer silk from the depths of the chest. She had put it at the very bottom, hidden it beneath fabrics and gowns, buried it. Just as she had buried Alexandre. Forcing humor into her voice, she said, “I’ll not wear a

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nightrail for you, Cesare. ’Twould be too easy for you to convince me to take…it… Never mind.” He eyed her as he had the day they met. Yet something new came into his lion’s eyes. That first day he’d seemed to consider her only as a subject he might deign to paint. During the intervening months he’d looked at her often with his artist’s eye. She could almost feel his fingers tilting her chin, arranging her gown until every pleat, every ribbon fell in perfect accord with his vision of her. Now… Now he looked at her the way he sometimes gazed at Aida. With overt lust. But when he looked at Aida, flirtation and lighthearted teasing shone from that tawny gaze. And, Kerrie suspected, Cesare’s act was mostly to needle Gaspar. His gaze now had no flirtation in it. Here, standing across the room, was the untamed lion of Alexandre’s story. Intense, powerful, utterly still. He had sighted his prey, could bring her down swiftly and without mercy destroy her. “This,” he said at last, “is the most valuable thing Alexandre ever gave you.” He caressed the sheer garment, held it up to the natural light then laid it on her bed. “You shall wear it for me, Kerrie. But I will never make love to you when you do. I will not sully you or your memories of him.” He wiggled his shoulders and, grinning, added, “We’ll make our own memories, Kerrie. I promise.” A firm knock on her solar door rescued her from response. “Nuncheon,” Aida announced loudly. “Kindly hurry, Majesty,” came Gaspar’s voice. “We’re hungry as spring bees.” “So am I,” Cesare whispered, for the first time raising her hand to his lips. “So am I.”

***** Kerrie studied her reflection in the priceless full-length mirror then sighed. Much as she hated to admit it, the gown looked right. Felt right. True, it fit more snugly across her breasts than it had but that only made her feel… No! She refused to think about anything or anyone. She would pretend Cesare was painting her garbed in her finest court gown. Mayhap one day he would and that second portrait would hang in the great hall. “If you continue to dawdle, Divine One, I’ll lose the light. We’ll have to go to the battlements. You’ll suffer the leers and bawdy comments of your men. I’ll be forced to paint you red-faced.” “You take fiendish pleasure in destroying a woman’s vanity,” Kerrie complained, entering her solar on a laugh, stopping mid-stride. Cesare had filled her window seat with pillows. The very pillows Alexandre had had on his window seat the first night she’d worn this gown. Tears welled but she choked them back, saying, “Where did you find them?” 105

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Waving a negligent hand, Cesare said, “Oh somewhere or other. The Princess Tower is a veritable warehouse of goods. Farid has promised I can help him take inventory. Stored goods earn you nothing. You know that, Kerrie.” A gentle scold but a scold nonetheless. “Sit, sit, sit,” he commanded, waving her toward the window seat then frowning at her stiff posture. “Is that how you sat when you were with him? In private?” “You say the most outrageous things, signore. Things for which I could have you hanged.” “Majesty.” Placing a hand over his heart, he bowed low then popped up like her jester. “I am too good a friend for you to hang. Moreover, I am very discreet. What we say in these rooms, do in these rooms, will remain here. “Now tell me about the pillows.” As a distraction it worked to perfection. In her memory she returned to that night— the first magical night with Alexandre. She could even smell him—a hint of male musk, of his unique scent, of sandalwood. “I did not like him, yet I wanted him, sexually, the moment I saw him. I’d never experienced lust but it leapt between us like lightning seeking ground. He was older than I, nearly forty to my five-and-twenty. Yet he looked so virile, so handsome, I knew I had to have him. But he was a merchant, a man so far beneath my rank I never should have considered him. “Audra, my mother, was queen then. I expected her to forbid anything more than casual contact between us. She did, making our time together all the sweeter.” Kerrie laughed softly. “After we married, Alexandre admitted he and Audra had conspired against me.” “Your smile tells me you accepted her interference.” “I was so happy with Alexandre I thanked her for it.” “I’ve heard the marriage bed is very comfortable but man needs more…mental stimulation.” “So, signore, do women,” she retorted, asperity in her voice. “In exchange for tales of his adventures, I shared my meager knowledge of the land, my land and its people. Alexandre had traveled most of his life, yet he seemed content to stay with me on Marchon land.” Cesare stilled then said, “I cannot fault his choice.” Kerrie snorted. “Would you stay, Cesare? Through spring rains, summer heat, winter snow? Would you give up your Venetian canals and gentle warm breezes?” “You could come to Venice with me,” he muttered softly. He looked into her eyes then smiled. They both knew she would never leave Marchonland. Like a captain going down with his ship, Kerrie would tie herself to the mast of her land and its people.

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Chapter Twelve Several weeks later illness overtook the inhabitants of Marchon Castle and spread quickly to the peasants. When it struck the princesses, rumor spread as rapidly as the malady itself. Willa, being the youngest, seemed to suffer the most. Tongues waged that Kerrie’s lover had infected them all, even the queen herself. And who knew what that strange man did all day when he visited the princesses in their quarters? Kerrie spent long hours in the nursery, exchanging warm cloths for cool, hauling water from the kitchens when all the maids took to their beds, keeping the nursery fires burning day and night. Steam seemed to help them all breathe more easily. Yet Willa still suffered greatly. The malaise settled in the toddler’s chest. Coughs and sneezes wracked her little body. Helpless to ease her child’s pain, Kerrie rocked and soothed as best she could. And cried while her daughters slept, feverish and restless in their beds. Then, when it seemed no one would survive, the illness left. Yvonne complained of boredom. Not to be outdone by her older sister, Willa insisted she too wanted to be outside. She had to tend her garden, Yvonne needed to practice with her sword. Farid and Cesare went to begin inventorying the Princess Tower. Gaspar, perpetually mistrustful of foxes in the hen house, went with them. Aida and Kerrie took the children to the stream for nuncheon. Aida, sitting on a blanket, her skirts spread around her, sighed. “This weeping willow holds many happy memories for Gaspar and me.” With the children within sight but beyond hearing range, Kerrie said, “I am deaf. If you intend to regale me with tales of you and Gaspar tupping—” “’Twas here, beneath these very branches, he took my virginity.” Kerrie covered her ears but Aida tugged one hand away. “’Twas here he made love to me for the first time. “No, they were not the same occasion. When he took my virginity… Well, there was little pleasure in it for me. Weeks later we came back and he taught me everything about a woman’s pleasure. My pleasure.” “Is there is a point to these ramblings?” “Yes. Yvonne’s and Willa’s illness should have warned you, Kerrie. Life is fragile. As you know too well, it can also be too short.” “Meaning?” Kerrie asked, a mere formality. She sensed where Aida intended to lead her and despised the direction. “Should anything happen to Yvonne and Willa—God forbid!—you’ll need to replace her. Them.”

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“As if I could replace them!” Kerrie sprang to her feet. She’d run away before she listened to this…this horror spewing from Aida’s mouth. “I misspoke. I only meant you should consider having another child. Perhaps you could think about going about having her in the normal fashion.” Sounding huffy, Kerrie said, “Neither Yvonne nor Willa was conceived in an abnormal fashion. I met their fathers, we tupped and I birthed them. Bartholomew’s balls! What is abnormal about all that?” Aida’s laughter piqued Kerrie’s temper. She bit her tongue and kept it from spilling recriminations. She’d promised Audra she would never tell Aida she was barren. Yet she yearned to shout at her sister, say something hateful like, Were it not for your barrenness… “I only meant you might consider marrying before you tup.” Righteous anger hissed out of Kerrie like a pig’s bladder filled with air then let loose to fart its way willy-nilly. “I assume you have a candidate in mind.” “I do. And were you honest with yourself you would name him, here and now.” Receiving no answer, Aida gazed out over the stream and spotted her nieces on the other side. “Those little vixens! Barely out of the sickroom and already into mischief.” “Don’t yell at them,” Kerrie cautioned, drawing up her skirts and stuffing them into her waist ties. “I don’t want them trying to come back the way they went.” “The stream runs high this year. I’m surprised they could even see the stones beneath the water.” “Pray we can see as well. ’Tis still too cold to swim should we slip.” Aida chuckled. “As children you and I prayed to slip. Too bad we were so surefooted.” “Not when you pushed me in!” “I pushed? You pushed me in! ’Twas months before Audra let us come here alone.” When they climbed up on the opposite bank, the girls ran away, shrieking and giggling. Their mother and aunt raced after them. Catching up, the women swept up one child each and tickled her. Farid’s voice drifted up from his perch on a log. “About time you noticed the girls were missing.” “We were growing tired of waiting for you. Had you arrived any later you would go without a meal,” Gaspar announced, his bright blue eyes filled with merriment. “I could eat every morsel myself, I am that hungry,” Cesare said, reaching for a piece of cheese. “You, signore, are always hungry,” Kerrie said lightly as she sank to her knees beside him. Realizing her skirts were still rucked up around her waist, she hastened to pull them down.

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Cesare’s expression of admiration metamorphosed into thoughtfulness. “One day… Soon, Divine Incomparable, I shall paint you thus,” he murmured in her ear. “Better still I shall paint you wearing nothing at all.” “In your dreams, signore.” “Nay, Majesty, in yours.

***** Aida’s seed took root. Despite Kerrie’s efforts to yank it out of her mind like an unwanted weed, the thought of marrying Cesare grew and grew. She caught herself staring at him, mentally stripping off his clothes, wondering how his skin would feel against her own. How his cock would feel buried deep inside her. It amazed her that something so similar in size and shape and purpose could feel so different. Alexandre made gentle love with her, her satisfaction seeming foremost in his mind, his cock a symbol of his love for her. Brecc took her hard and fast, anxious it seemed to her, to cross the finish line, to begin the race again. And again. He used his cock like a sword, piercing her time after time. For her the end results—exquisite pleasure—were the same but getting there took very different paths. Had she and Alexandre met when he was younger, might he have taken her like Brecc? Would an older Brecc have considered her needs before his own? How would Cesare make love? she wondered, staring at him yet again, speculating about him yet again. “If you continue to stare at me like that, Majesty, I may break my promise.” “How do I stare at you, Cesare?” “As if I am the last sweetmeat on the tray. As if someone might come along and snatch me away. As if your life depends upon my making love to you. With you.” For the first time in months, Kerrie felt a blush flood her face. “Assuming I felt all those things, how,” she moistened her dry lips, saw his tawny gaze dart to her tongue, “how would you respond?” “Are you asking me to make love with you?” “I am asking you to marry me,” she blurted out before caution, before sense o’ertook her tongue. As if someone had pounded on his back, laughter poured out of him. “A queen marry a common painter?” Taking umbrage, she sprang to her feet. “This queen married a merchant. Do you think yourself too high to follow Alexandre in my bed, incomparable painter of incomparable subjects? Or are you more like a snake? Do you slither from bed to bed on your belly? Only stand upright when you move on?” “Did you loosen that tongue on Brecc?” Cesare’s voice vibrated with restrained merriment.

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“Brecc knew no difference between anger and rage. So, no, I held my tongue. Alexandre knew better ways than a fist to silence me.” “Tell me, Majesty, what you truly want. If all you expect is my body in your bed,” he shrugged, “I am more than willing. I discern that it is not the entire tale, however. I would have the rest of it.” Kerrie sank back on the window seat. Retrieving a velvet pillow, she held it to her nose and inhaled Alexandre’s lingering scent. She missed him still, would always miss him. He’d seduced her body with her own lust. Seduced her mind with its thirst for knowledge of the world beyond Marchonland. Seduced her soul when he stayed with her rather than travel with Farid. She sighed and set the pillow aside. Just as she had set aside Alexandre for Brecc. She’d told herself she needed another heir and that was true. As far as it went. Yet she knew she shared Brecc’s rage that death had put its hands on a loved one too soon. He had wanted to punish William. Rightly so. She, she admitted now, wanted to punish Alexandre for dying. So she’d packed him away in the depths of her mind. Just as she had packed away this nightrail. “This illness,” she began slowly, choosing her words carefully. She knew enough about Cesare to know he would not judge her words. But he was a man and, no matter how he might deny it, she could hurt him. Not his feelings, mayhap but his pride. “This illness could have taken my daughters from me.” She looked up at him. For someone who existed in a world of constant motion, he could remain remarkably still. It seemed he listened with his entire body. She liked that about him. “I am growing old, Cesare. At least too old to bear more children should the n-need arise in the distant future. I must do it soon, now. And my daughter must be legitimate. You must realize that at least.” He nodded. “When Brecc and I married…’twas a private ceremony with only a toast to celebrate the occasion. My people deserve a feast, drunken brawls if they wish. Joy and laughter and bawdy songs.” “So do you,” Cesare said, his voice soft. “Aye,” she admitted. “I know you dislike our climate, that Marchonland lacks the incomparable faces and places you require. You need not remain forever. Just until…” “You are with child.” “Well, I would prefer you stay until her birth.” She could read little from his expression but sensed she had hurt him. “I would have you stay for as long as you wish to remain.” He said nothing.

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“Yvonne had little time to know her own father. She and Brecc disliked one another instantly. Although they came to deal with each other pleasantly, Brecc retained his jealousy of her. She sensed that, I think, and always regarded him with suspicion. “She took to you immediately.” “After she had studied me thoroughly,” Cesare said, a smile creasing his face. “And Willa adores you.” “Pfft. Willa likes me because I flirt with Aida and needle Gaspar. And, I suspect, because I let her play with my paints. Perhaps she should join Yvonne in her drawing lessons.” “If Yvonne will allow it and if you agree you can bear the two of them together.” He laughed. “Ah, sibling rivalry. How I miss it—not. But do not worry, Divine One, Yvonne merely tolerates the lessons so as to keep me from Willa. She—Yvonne, that is—will welcome the excuse to go outside with Gaspar or rummage through the warehouse with Farid.” “And you, signore? What will you welcome?” “For now, a kiss from my betrothed. And a month from now a memorable wedding night.”

***** On the eve of Kerrie’s wedding, Aida found her sister racing between her garderobe, her bedchamber and her solar. Clothes were strewn over every piece of furniture. “I should have started sooner, had the seamstresses make a new gown. Bartholomew’s balls! There’s enough fabric here to clothe all of Marchonland!” “For your wedding day, at least. One day in the fields, of doing chores about the castle, none would survive intact. Food stains, cow dung, twigs and brambles that poke and tear.” “Not to mention spilled ale, cider and wine,” Kerrie added crossly. Then she laughed, long and heartily. “St. Christopher on a crutch! I’m as nervous as I was when I married Alexandre.” “Perhaps even more nervous, since you and Cesare have remained chaste.” “He’s taken me to the edge of bliss, then left me hanging. Aye, we stayed chaste. If you count abstaining from tupping while indulging in everything else as chastity.” Aida tried to hold back but curiosity caught her tongue. “How does Cesare’s co— does he measure up to Alexandre and Brecc?” “Aida!” “Well, does he?”

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“’Tis different I think with each man. I have come to believe a woman’s satisfaction is independent of the size of a man’s cock. Rather, her satisfaction lies in how he uses it. And that is all I intend to say on the matter.” “Then let us select your gown. The day after your wedding, however, I expect to hear how Cesare measures up…in the use of his cock if not its size.” “Incorrigible!” “I am but living vicariously,” Aida corrected. “Mayhap you should consider infidelity, since your curiosity runs rampant.” “Would you? Had Alexandre lived would you have lain with Brecc?” “No!” “Well, there it is then. Infidelity is not part of our nature. Unlike Audra.” Recalling Audra’s letter—which, it turned out, Audra had written—Kerrie bit her tongue. Her mother’s secrets would remain Audra’s secrets. “Not the cream satin, Aida. I wore that when I married Brecc.” “Hmmm. I thought you wore that gown as…I don’t know, a tribute to Alexandre.” “No. ’Twas more a tribute to Brecc. A way of showing him I was proud to become his wife. With him also wearing satin…” She shrugged. “You showed us all that you were equals. So what is appropriate garb for the Divine Incomparable marrying the incomparable artiste?” Kerrie laughed. “Dare she—auburn-haired—wear red?” “Why not?” Leaving the red velvet gown on Kerrie’s bed, Aida began to fold the other items. “Is this new?” She held up a nightrail fashioned from dark brown silk shot with gold. “Yes. It…it seems to match Cesare’s eyes.” They worked in tandem and companionable silence until they put away the last garment—the nightrail Alexandre had given her. Kerrie prevented Aida’s closing the chest. “Would you like to have this?” She lifted the sheer silk, held it out. “Yes but no. Put it away, Kerrie. Save it for Yvonne. I think she would like to know its history, to learn how very much her father loved her mother.” “Pfft.” “Pfft? What does pfft mean?” “I have no idea. Cesare used it the other day and it made sense at the time.” “Ask him. Once he lets you up for air, ask him.”

***** “Are you trying to drive me insane? ’Tis our wedding night. Night, Cesare! There is insufficient light, we—” 112


“The torches, the candles are sufficient.” “Should be abed. Creating our child.” “And shall be as soon as you give me what I want.” “Are you like every other man, Cesare? Do you only want what you want, when you want it? Do you—” “Want you to look at me the way you looked at Alexandre? Aye! At least I shall recognize it as your love for him. Brecc, poor fool—” “Hoped I loved him. I did love him.” “In your fashion. But not as much as you loved Alexandre.” “’Twas different!” Kerrie cried the protest, spread her hands in frustration. Striving for a reasonable tone, she said, “They were different from one another. Yes, in my fashion, I loved them differently. Brecc…Brecc refused to tup me unless I denied my love for Alexandre. You seek a different answer, yet you want the same answer. I loved them both. I love you.” “In my fashion I love you too, Kerrie. Does that surprise you? Yes, I can see it in your eyes.” He put aside his brushes, his pallet, then paced to her side. “Divine Incomparable.” He knelt at her feet, kissed her fingers. “I am not like your dead husbands. I…I seek a woman’s love for a man, for me, in her words, in her eyes. When I need…physical release—when I feel lust—I am less likely to seek it from you than I am to find it with…another of my own sex.” Kerrie shut her gaping mouth. A long moment later she asked, “Do you refuse to lie with me, to give me a child, to…make love?” “Nay, Divine One. I made you a promise—one I intend to keep. I can make love to a woman. Specifically, I can make love to and with you. But, like you, I may imagine myself with Gaspar or Farid.” “I do not imagine making love with my sister’s mate. Nor do I think of my husband’s partner and friend—my partner and friend—in sexual terms.” “Kerrie, pray do not play naïve with me. I used their names as illustration. I used their names lest I insult my bride by inferring she thinks—imagines—she makes love only with her first husband.” “Why? Why did you delay telling me until now? Until after we married?” “’Struth? I never intended to tell you at all.” Kerrie knew her head might explode at any moment. “Then why did you?” As if he also felt his head might explode, Cesare rubbed his temples. “For some unfathomable reason I felt compelled.” Slanting an assessing look in her direction, he began to pace, his tawny eyes never leaving her face. “I should have told you, Kerrie. I would have told you before except—” “Pfft!”

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A quizzical look flitted over his face but he pressed on. “Except I hoped to see your love for Alexandre reflected in your eyes. For me. Strange, isn’t it? Given my sexual preference? Yet, like Brecc, I wanted to see—to know—the love in your eyes is for me. Now… Well, I realized that will never happen.” Thought—orderly, rational thought—fled, replaced by what if. What if they could both have what they wanted? She wanted the child Cesare had promised her. He wanted her love. What if? “Cesare… Let us go to bed, hold each other while we sleep. Tomorrow we shall think of a way to compromise.” Feeling suddenly shy, she turned her back and began to pull at her laces. His hand over hers stilled her fingers. “We are husband and wife, Kerrie. I have a husband’s right to see you naked. To make you naked with my own hands. Will you deny me my rights? Deny your husband?” She faced him as he untied her laces. With his gaze focused on her eyes, he eased her bodice off, untied her skirts and let them fall to her feet. He had seen her breasts often during the month between her proposal and tonight. Yet when his gaze shifted to them, it seemed he had never seen them—or any woman’s breasts—before. Mimicking his gentle touch, she unfastened his doublet, his breeks. His cock sprang free, drawing her gaze to the nest of golden hair surrounding it. His chest was hairless, his underarms were hairless. His nest and his head were covered with bountiful, beautiful masses of silky hair. “I claim equal rights to your body, Cesare.” She reached up, untied the ribbon he’d used to bind his hair away from his face. “I have wondered all these months how your hair would feel when I ran my fingers through it. How it would feel against my breasts when we tupped, when you wrapped me in it while we slept.” “I have wondered about you as well, Kerrie. Seeing you completely naked makes me realize my imagination failed me. You are even more magnificent than I imagined.” Taking her hand, he led her to the bed. “Cesare,” she began. “Hush, wife.” He blew out the candles then eased them both onto the mattress. “We will lie together for a time, await what happens. In the dark we can dream of anyone without fear of recrimination. Or regret. If we fail to please each other,” she felt his shrug, “we can blame the figment, that dream.” “We have pleasured each other before, Cesare, without any problem. How is tonight different? Is it tupping you dislike? Or is tupping me the problem?” “Did you ever make love with your husbands in the dark?” “Of course but usually ’twas after we had loved in the light, when we could see each other’s faces, each other’s eyes. Would it…make you uncomfortable to love me in daylight?”

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“No. But tonight, our wedding night, I will love you in the dark.” He sighed. “I want to give you pleasure, Kerrie, not disappoint you.” He sounded very young, very vulnerable. “Then let us lie together. See—or not—what happens.” “Sit up.” “Why?” “Sit up and I’ll show you why.” She did as he asked, felt him moving, arranging something around her hips. At last he said, “Lie back.” Obeying, she could smell his soap and feel his glorious hair against her back. “Thank you, Cesare.” “Pfft,” he muttered, somehow making the word sound happy. He turned. She turned so they lay like spoons. As he stroked her nipples into aching peaks, she felt his cock between the cheeks of her buttocks. It grew, warm and wanting, then slid inside her. Her climax ascended gently, silently, as did his. Pleased with this peaceful joining, she fell asleep in his arms, his beautiful hair her blanket.

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Chapter Thirteen One year later Kerrie affixed her seal to her amended will then signed it. When Pippa reaches maturity, she, Willa and Yvonne will marry according to my previous instructions. Cesare, Pippa’s father, asks only that she find passion before she weds so that she will know the happiness Cesare and I have shared. So I wish for all my daughters. “Cesare, sweeting, wrap me in your hair and warm me.” “Mount me, Kerrie. Take my bacamarte into you and milk me.” She did and their soft cries of completion mingled. She collapsed against his crest and wept when he sighed her name then breathed no more.

***** The day after Cesare’s funeral, Aida found Kerrie on her window seat, Pippa at her breast. Kerrie’s gaze shifted between the suckling babe and her own portrait hanging over her fireplace. “Pippa will have her father’s eyes. Already they change from blue to brown.” Aida thought ’twas Kerrie’s imagination, her grief, that made her think the threemonth-old’s eyes would change so soon. Yet she had borne two daughters who each had her father’s eyes. Except for that singular trait, Yvonne and Willa’s faces were mirror images of their mother’s. “Your portrait is magnificent,” Aida said, noting Kerrie’s gaze had shifted to it again. “Cesare supervising its hanging the day b-before… ’Twas as if he knew he would die, he was that frantic to see it in place.” “Do you like it?” “Like it? ’Tis a painting, Aida. What is there to like or dislike? He…Cesare made me beautiful.” “You are beautiful.” “Looking at that portrait is like looking at a stranger.” Looking down, Kerrie stroked Pippa’s cheek. “I need you to promise me something, Aida. When I die—” Aida’s gasp brought Kerrie’s gaze to her face. “You need not worry, sister. I have no intention of dying soon. It seems only the good die too young. We wickeds will live long, wicked lives. I digress. “When I die, you must have this painting hung in Pippa’s tower. Not as a reminder of me—hopefully my vanity is less than that—but so Pippa will know her father was indeed an incomparable artist. Promise.” 116


“I promise.” “Good. Now, Willa… You should give Willa my wedding bouquet. Share with her its history—how you made the lace and Brecc picked the roses. With her love of flowers she will appreciate it, give it and Brecc substance they might otherwise lack.” “I promise,” Aida said without Kerrie’s prompting. “Yvonne, of course, must have the ring Alexandre gave me.” “Of course.” “And I believe you’ll find fabrics to fashion gowns for them their entire lives. Let them choose for themselves without letting Yvonne horde them.” “Kerrie, please! You sound like you may die tomorrow.” Kerrie offered a wan smile, her gaze shifting once more to her portrait. A secretive look came over her face. Playing on Kerrie’s obvious need to talk, Aida said, “You must have loved him very much. It shows in your eyes.” “Cesare? I was not…” “Not what? Today seems a day for confessions. If you refuse to tell me, I shall pester you until you do.” “You would, wouldn’t you?” Kerrie laughed softly. “I remember how you constantly harangued me about Alexandre. But you were wrong, Aida. It did not hurt the first time.” “Oh! Well… I have heard that women who ride like men—astride I mean—may have weakened that doorway to their wombs.” “You refuse to admit Alexandre’s skills as a lover exceed Gaspar’s.” “While you evade my question.” “Question? What question?” “Kerrie!” “Oh very well, I shall tell you but… ’Tis a secret between Cesare and me. You may not share it with anyone, especially not Gaspar.” Aida stuck out her chin. “Gaspar is as good at keeping secrets as I am.” “Which means not at all,” Kerrie muttered under her breath, making Aida quiver with indignation. “You still evade the question.” “What you see on that face, in those eyes—” “Your face, your eyes,” Aida insisted, wondering at Kerrie’s reluctance to own her own portrait. “I was thinking of Alexandre. He—Cesare—insisted, refused to paint the face…my face, until I showed him my love for Alexandre.” “Bartholomew’s balls,” Aida whispered.

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Kerrie chuckled. “Aye. ’Twas a promise we made on our wedding night. He promised me Pippa, I promised him… Alexandre. Through my thoughts, on my face, in my eyes—heart and soul—everything I felt for Alexandre.” They lapsed into silence. At length Aida said, “How did Cesare know?” Kerrie’s shrug seemed stiff. “His artist’s eye, mayhap? His soul? I only know he sensed I needed to talk about Alexandre. Cesare insisted I talk about my first husband, my first love. We both were parched—Cesare wanting to see into my soul, I desperate to hear, to say Alexandre’s name.” “Perhaps he heard the resentment in your voice when you spoke of Brecc.” Kerrie started but said, “Mayhap he did.” “Brecc was…reluctant to speak about Alexandre?” “Brecc pretended Alexandre and I had never met, that Yvonne was a figment I had conjured to become Marchonland’s queen.” “In his own way, Brecc realized he would always come second in your heart.” “My heart had nothing to do with Brecc’s coming.” The bawdy comment had them both laughing so hard they wakened Pippa. Her tiny hands seized Kerrie’s hair then pulled. “Ouch!” Tickling the infant under her chin, Kerrie cooed, “Poor Pippa. I fear you have inherited my auburn curls. Oh? You don’t mind? You’ll enjoy looking like me, your sisters, your aunt? Very well then, I’ll not wish it otherwise.” You would if you could, Aida thought. Cesare meant more to you than you know, dear sister. If nothing else, you loved his hair.

***** “Ah, Farid, how good of you to attend me so promptly.” “In truth, Majesty, I hastened to see how much Pippa has grown since I last saw her.” Scooping the one-year-old off her mother’s lap, he set Pippa on her feet then held her fingertips while he shuffled backward. “Steadier today than yesterday?” Kerrie’s expression looked solemn but merriment lit her eyes. “Far steadier, Majesty, and yet…” Farid released Pippa’s hands. The princess immediately plopped to her bottom on the blanket-strewn floor. “Just as I suspected. She’ll sit a horse before she’ll walk.” “You place too much importance on her name, Farid.” “Do I? Does Yvonne shun her archer’s bow? Is Willa always obedient? Will Pippa ignore her stables?” “As you know, Farid, Yvonne sleeps with her bow. Willa is stubborn—”

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“Resolute, Majesty, as are you.” “Were it up to you and Cesare, Pippa will tend her horses. What man will want them? Any of them?” “One for each I hope—for the man’s sake. Three of them together would test even my metal.” A light rap on her solar door saved her from responding to Farid’s kind expression. “Come in, Bess. Pippa is anxious to see her sisters, aren’t you, moppet? Time for milk and sweets, sweeting.” “And a nice bath for all of you afterward,” Bess said, cuddling Pippa to her chest. “Does little good to wash you beforehand. You all dribble all over yourselves and…” Closing the door behind her made Bess’s prattle indiscernible. “Please sit down, Farid, before I get a crick in my neck from looking up at you.” “How may I be of service?” “Beyond the obvious way?” she teased then sighed. “I have decided to take a lover. That is, a series of lovers. One at a time, I mean.” Nerves had her repeating the information while Farid continued to stare at her. Biting her tongue, she subsided into silence. His expression blank, Farid finally said, “I assume you have assessed the potential problem?” “Pregnancy? Aye. I am beyond my childbearing years.” “Determining parentage,” he corrected, “should your assessment prove fallacious.” Her quirked brow wrested a small, grim smile from him. “Oh I see. Your being queen has made you omnipotent.” “You try my patience, Nubian.” “No less than you try mine, my queen. However, assuming you have developed criteria, I shall do my best to meet them.” “How gracious of you.” Shaking her head, she added, “I am determined to have my way in this, Farid, so…” “As you always do, Majesty.” “No lectures. First, the men must hail from somewhere beyond Marchonland or any of our surrounding lands.” “How would I acquire them? I assume you want absolute discretion.” “Send for them as you sent for Cesare. If your pigeons can fly so far as Venice, surely they can reach…Greece, for example.” “I shall ask the pigeons if they can undertake so arduous a journey.” Both Kerrie’s brows arched toward her hairline. “In addition to discretion they—the men, not the pigeons—must be skilled at pleasing a woman. Do not laugh at me, Farid. Simply ask them. It will need little effort to expose the lie, if they lie.” “Is there more?” 119

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“Aye. They must be well endowed. Have the pigeons ask them!” “And?” He ignored the acid in her voice. “Young. No younger than twenty, no older than thirty.” He simply waited. When she waited with him, silent yet returning his bland expression, he said, “I have it now, Majesty. Stallions are what you want. Human stallions.” Kerrie sputtered then guffawed and slapped her knees. “Exactly! Human stallions.” Laughter fading, she added, “They must arrive separately, say nine months apart.” Expecting another salvo regarding her fallacious omnipotence, she looked sharply at Farid. He refused to acknowledge the time’s significance. “I imagine they will expect remuneration for their servi—for their efforts on my behalf. The cost of their travel, both here and home, their food and clothing, I shall bear. Have I left out anything, Farid? Excluding pregnancy and,” she shivered, “marriage?” “Nothing that comes readily to mind, Majesty.” He stood. “I would like a day or two to think about it. Moreover, your…guest may need months to reach Marchonland.” “Which depends on how far he must travel. How long, Farid? Assume winter delays his arrival.” “Six months. You must bear the delay in discretion’s favor.” Nodding, she dismissed him.

***** Greetings, Medora-Filomena, ruler and lover of men, I have a boon to ask of you. Writing in Arabic lest his message fell into unfriendly hands, Farid listed Kerrie’s requirements. Then, hoping without hope that Medora would not find anyone suitable, he set his pigeons winging. Their journey required they fly between isolated cottages and castles, the next leg taken up by their well-rested brethren until, at last, the ones that flew away would return to him. He had patience enough to endure the wait. Did Kerrie?

***** Greetings F, my one-of-a-kind in every way, Farid laughed aloud. The stable lads shot curious glances his way then went on mucking out stalls. He reread the greeting and laughed again—softly—as he headed toward his quarters in the Princess Tower. I fail to understand why you don’t service K yourself. You were, are still, the most magnificent lover I’ve had the pleasure of pleasuring me. Since you seem determined to remain with K, I am amenable to granting your boon. With the stipulation—you knew I’d have at least one—that you return to me sometime (Soon!). 120


Doran, whose name means gift, is en route. I give him to your K as a gift. She need only feed him and, if he pleases her as much as he has pleased me, allow him to keep a token of her esteem. A small token only. Doran is in fact gifted. A sculptor, he is massive in all aspects, most especially in that particular area of interest. What is more, he is highly skilled in its applications and uses his hands and educated tongue in ways K will welcome. If he has a single flaw it is his possessive nature. You or K must make it clear, clear, clear that his tenure is for a specific length of time and that he can expect nothing more than pleasure to come of his liaison with K. If K wishes to keep him…send him away. Immediately. Otherwise you will have to bury him. Oh! Send him anywhere but do not, under any circumstances, return him to me. M-F

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Chapter Fourteen Standing stark naked in the middle of her solar was the most impressive specimen of male virility and beauty Kerrie had ever seen. Since all her husbands had been virile, handsome and well endowed, she felt confident in her assessment of Doran. Dark brown hair curled around his ears and high forehead. Liquid brown eyes followed her as she paced before him and touched him. His skin, nut brown all over, shone with good health. And his cock! Only semi-erect it seemed the largest cock—her bull and stallion aside—she had ever coveted. Unable to resist, she took it in her hand. It grew, lengthening, thickening until her juices gushed. His eyes darkened. His nostrils flared. He sniffed the air, gauging her readiness. “Yes,” she breathed, untying the ribbons that held her nightrail closed. His gaze followed it from her shoulders to the floor, then focused on her breasts. Her nipples rose. Her breasts ached. Pulling gently on his engorged shaft, she led him to the window seat. “Here. Now. Quickly, Doran, or I shall explode from wanting you inside me.” Stretching out, she spread her legs. He lunged, filling her completely. “Tight,” he muttered, his gaze intent upon her face. “Tight and hot. Wet.” “Fuck me, Doran. Yessss.” Her fingers digging into his muscled buttocks, she pushed him deeper, ever deeper until it felt like his cock touched the base of her throat. Her climax struck her like a giant fist. She writhed, seeking more of him, wanting his seed as much as she wanted her own continuing release. Nipping her nipple, he withdrew then plunged. “You like that? I can give you hours of bliss, Kerrie.” “I did not give you,” her voice rose on the crest of another climax, “leave to use… Doran, Doran. Yessss, fuck me! My given name. Give me your seed, Doran. Oh! Ooooh, yessss!” “I will give you my seed, Kerrie, when I am certain I have given you pleasure in every way possible. In ways no other man has given you pleasure.” “I have buried three husbands. My people…say…I fucked them all…to death.” “I, Doran of Constantinople, will survive, Kerrie.” Withdrawing, he knelt between her thighs. Parting her nether curls, her nether lips, he buried his nose in her folds. “Did your husbands sip the nectar from your quim, Kerrie? Watch these lips beg for their kisses?” “Y-yes.” “Did you taste your cum on their lips, their tongues, their cocks?”

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“Yes! Doran… Fuck me with your lips, your tongue. Please!” He kissed her nub, teased it with his tongue, tormented her with her own pleas. Made her climax so many times she lost count. She had gone deaf and dumb to everything but the pleasure that also blinded her. “Now, Kerrie, I will fuck you with my shaft. If you are sweet and as responsive as you have been these few hours, I will give you my seed.” Uncertain of her voice, Kerrie nodded. “Touch me, Kerrie. Guide my shaft into you. Come for me again.” As he sank slowly into her, her spasms began again. And continued until he spilled his seed deep inside her womb.

***** Kerrie awoke to the sound of water spilling into an empty tub, to the scent of sex on her bedding, on her body. Opening one eye cautiously, she found Doran lying next to her, nose-to-nose and cross-eyed. Laughing with joy, she ruffled his rumpled curls then tried to rise. “Do you always bathe with your men about?” He pulled her down, trapped her body with his powerful leg. Tempted to tease, to give him a flippant “Always”, she realized he was serious. “My maids attend me once the men have left.” “Good. Good. We shall bathe each other, feed each other, then…” Those liquid brown eyes promised delights beyond her knowledge. Sore as she was, her body quickened. Doran pressed his cock against her thigh. Covering her mouth with his large hand, he whispered, “We’ll fuck now while the water cools and your people leave.” Lightening the pressure on her lips, he nodded once. “Dismiss the maids and try not to scream your delight at having me buried in you.” “Leave me,” she called out as Doran spread her legs then guided the tip of his rigid shaft into her. “Majesty, I—” “Leave me. Now!” She shifted, trying to bring him fully into her body. “Beg me, Kerrie.” He sounded like Brecc but she could not withhold her pleas. Resenting him, his mastery over her body, she pleaded, whispered, “Swive me, Doran. Tup me. Take me. Fuck…me.” “Majesty?” “Bartholomew’s balls! Get the hell out!” Looking into Doran’s eyes, she screamed his name as wave after wave after wave crashed over her. She touched his balls, squeezed them until his eyes filled with pain. And pleasure.

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Muttering imprecations to his control—his nonexistent control—his cock spewed its seed into her still spasming cunt. “You are the most responsive woman I’ve ever fucked.” Through a yawn she said, “How many have you…had?” “The queen has returned, eh? So be it. Her Majesty may share my bath. If she proves an adequate serving wench I may take her back to bed.” “After those other serving wenches have replaced the linens on that very bed.” “Why replace them? We’ll only—” “Make them smell again?” She wrinkled her nose. “Worse, make them stink like the pigsty again?” Laughing, he tugged her to her feet then slung her over his wide and muscular shoulder. “When we have finished eating,” she said, straddling him where he lay in her large bathtub, “we’ll check on the broodmares. Several are near their birthings and may need my attention.” “You watch?” he said, his voice mildly curious. “And assist when needed.” His expression disbelieved her. Challenged, she added, “Sometimes I even help the stallion mate with the mares. I take the stallion’s cock in my hand…” She moistened her lips. Concentrating on matching words to action, the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips, she grasped Doran’s cock. “Then, when the mare flips her tail and sort of…wiggles her hind quarters…like this,” her own wiggle took Doran’s tip into her, “I guide the stallion into her as I have guided you.” He groaned, bucked, seeking deeper penetration. But in this position she had control. “Tell me what you want, Doran,” she murmured, looking down into his lust-filled eyes. “Once…you have guided the stallion…what then?” “I step away, out of harm’s way.” She eased her body down until she’d taken all of him to his balls. “And then I let them ride.” Water spilled over the edge of the tub. Kerrie rode Doran until he cried out then let her own release drown her. When they recovered their breath she said, “We’ll have to make do with this water, Doran. Later, mayhap, we can bathe in the stream. If you don’t mind that the water is cold.” “I think I know a way to keep us warm.” He grinned up at her. “I’ll wager you do.”

***** Four months later, Kerrie lay in Doran’s arms, her head on his shoulder. Running her fingers lightly up and down his muscular chest and firm belly, she felt his cock 124


twitch. Laughing softly, she said, “You are even more ever-ready than my second husband.” “Did he also simply hold you like this?” “Not often but sometimes. Brecc,” had a rage in him that disallowed moments like these, “was energetic and always needed to move.” “What did he do? That is when he wasn’t tupping you?” Doran sounded droll. “He trained with our men, rode with our knights, hunted.” She shrugged. “I think the only time he stilled completely was when he slept.” “Our men, our knights. Did he also rule with you? Was Marchonland your shared kingdom?” Ignoring the jealousy in Doran’s voice, Kerrie said, “No man has ever ruled Marchonland. Our queens breed only princesses who become queens who breed more princesses.” “What would you do if you bred a son? Would he rule Marchonland?” “Only if my daughters die.” Kerrie could almost hear his thoughts racing through his mind. For the first time since his arrival at Marchon Castle she felt afraid of him. Then the tension left his body. His hands stroked her breasts then one hand soothed down to her mons. “No more, Doran. You are so large…so wonderfully energetic…I am very sore there.” His hand stilled. “Do you have more of that scented oil we rubbed all over our bodies the other night? It felt so good to have our flesh slip then slide over each other.” “I am too tender to tup again this night.” Irritation crept into her voice and she tried to push him away. “I only meant to put it on your body, Kerrie. I know ways to ease the tension in your muscles. You will sleep as you have never slept before.” “Oh very well. The oil is on the table in my garderobe. You may use a little—very little, since it is nearly gone—on my body.” “Majesty,” he said, his voice reflecting his displeasure. “Your wish is my command.” Liking his soothing tone far better, she smiled at him. He turned his back then strode away. She thought she heard him growl deep in his throat but ignored it. Men! They must always test a woman’s words! At least Alexandre had been direct with his quizzing. “What do you mean?” he would have said. What did I say? “I heard what you said, Kerrie, but what did you mean?”

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“Bartholomew’s balls,” she muttered now. “Sore means tupping hurts.” “I know you are sore there, Kerrie,” Doran said, returning to her side. In his large hand he cupped a cobalt blue glass vial of exquisite delicacy. “Please be careful with that,” she said. “I know, Majesty. ’Tis the last of the oil. The glass is costly. ’Tis—” “’Tis the last gift my first husband gave me.” “For a queen you are very sentimental.” “I value things, aye. Even things—especially things that are thoughtful or take time to make. More, I value people.” She wanted to pout, thrust out her lower lip as Yvonne did when thwarted. Stick out her tongue as Willa did when vexed. Shout as Pippa did simply to hear her own voice. Instead, smiling, she tugged on Doran’s hand. “Is there a name for this easing of tension?” “Massage. In Constantinople there is an enormous edifice dedicated to bathing and massage. There, men drink wine and talk of things women do not—cannot— understand.” “Such as?” “Manly things. Battles, wars, politics.” She might have needled him about manly things but sensed he would resent her mocking him. “And the women? Do they bathe with the men?” He snorted. “No! They have special days, special occasions like wedding days, when they come to the baths. I have walked by the bathhouse on such days. The chatter was so loud I ran to get away.” “What do the women talk about?” “How should I know? I suppose they speak of womanly things. Weddings, babies…menses. Women’s things.” The disgust in his voice made Kerrie want to laugh. Recognizing how easily she could hurt his pride, she stretched out. “Do you wish to start on my front side or my back?” “Since I admire both equally ’tis a difficult decision. But I believe I shall begin with your…” She laughed. “Front side.” A thought flashed in his eyes but disappeared so quickly she failed to read his intent. But even that failure made her muscles tense. Stilling his hand on her belly, gazing deeply into his eyes, she said, “Promise you shan’t touch my sex.” “You have my word, Majesty. What more do you require?”

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That fleeting, measuring look again. “Your touch coupled with the oil are enough,” she said lightly, arching her back. Her breasts told where first she wanted him to touch her. “Are you aware, Doran, that you only call me majesty when I irritate you? Aye, I can see that you are aware. Do you also realize that, on occasion, I have been irritated by you? Nay? You think me too dull-witted to see your resentment, think me blind to it. “I am a queen, Queen of Marchonland. I know men’s thoughts about women— queens or peasants. Women are stupid, good only for fucking—for breeding more men who will fuck us and produce yet more brutes to repeat the brutality. Men like you would drown my daughters so that your son may carry on your cycle of fucking, breeding, drowning. “I alone have saved Marchonland from battles. From wars. Politics? Pfft! Men know nothing about negotiation, compromise…settling for what will save their people from death, their lands from devastation. Surrender men find unthinkable. You’d all rather die than admit you were too stupid to negotiate peace. “’Tis men who are unfit to rule. He who can piss the farthest, fuck the most women, breed the most sons, has the largest cock—he is king! “I, Kerrie, am Queen of Marchonland. I rule here. My daughters shall rule here! No man shall ever rule—!” Doran struck her. His fist rocked her head back, made black spots spin before her red-hazed eyes. He could kill her easily. She no longer cared. Aida—sister, woman, new caretaker of Marchonland—would avenge Kerrie and see Kerrie’s daughters in their rightful place. “I’ll kill you, whore.” His breath wheezing, chest falling and rising as if his heart might break his ribs, Doran fastened his hands around her throat. “But first I’ll fuck your sagging ass. Then I’ll rape your daughters, your sister. Last, I’ll castrate that black bastard you treat better than you treat me.” Before he could render her unconscious or trap her arms, Kerrie gripped his testicles and squeezed. Doran screamed. She held on, squeezed harder, locked her legs around his hips so he could not escape. He was a strong man yet, at this moment, her own breath oozing out of her lungs, her vision dimming—she would prevail. Her legs were jerked apart and suddenly she no longer felt the weight of Doran’s body, his hands at her neck. The sounds of another struggle joined the roaring in her ears. Gasping for air, she opened her eyes. Farid and Gaspar held Doran captive. “Majesty!” Doran cried. “Beloved Kerrie, I want you to be my wife. Raise our son with you. I can see you carry our son in your womb. Your belly swells, your menses have stopped. Everything about your body tells me you are pregnant with my son.” “Send him away, Farid.” Kerrie croaked the command though her throat hurt. “Gaspar, set guards around my daughters. Have other men take this creature from Marchonland. Get him out of my sight!” 127

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Men-at-arms surrounded Doran and led him away. Gaspar followed, leaving Kerrie alone with Farid.

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Chapter Fifteen Farid poured water into a goblet then handed it to her. “Other than your throat, did he hurt you?” “No. I expect I’ll have a few bruises elsewhere but not from this assault. Hand me my robe, please.” He did. Then he turned his back, allowing her the illusion of privacy. “I meant what I said, Farid. I want Doran gone.” “I know. There is a problem, however, with his leaving immediately.” “Put another log on the fire. I am suddenly very cold.” He also pulled two chairs closer to the flames. When she sat, he sat as well, without her leave. She shot him a disapproving look, then stared into the fire. When the interminable silence threatened to last an eternity, Farid cleared his throat. “Oh get on with it! You are all aquiver to lecture me, so do it! Tell me how stupid I was to bring Doran here. How stupid I was to let him stay when I could see his possessiveness growing by the hour. How stupid—” “I was to give in to your scheme in the first place.” That brought her assessing gaze to him for a brief moment. Lowering her head, she seemed to study her hands. “You are not my whipping boy, Farid. If I am proud of one thing in my life it is that I accept responsibility for my own actions. Not all of them have become debacles.” “Tell me about your symptoms, Kerrie.” “What symptoms? I am not pregnant!” “I believe you. Your…illness may rise from other sources.” “Nor am I ill.” “You are. Your skin is sallow. You have lost weight. Your eyes reveal you suffer constant pain.” “Not constant. I have hours at a time when I feel no pain at all.” “But the pain returns, doesn’t it? And the hours of respite shorten.” Her fingers clenched the arms of her chair. When they loosened, she exhaled a slow, soft breath. “I am dying, aren’t I?” “All of us are dying, Kerrie. From the moment of our birth we head toward death’s implacable, inevitable grasp.” He sighed. “Yet it is still possible you are pregnant. And that possibility decrees Doran must remain for—what?—another four or five months.”

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“I will not see him!” “You do not have to see him, Kerrie.” “He threatened my daughters, my sister. You. Aye, he even threatened you. He knows I lo—value you.” “As I value you. How long, Kerrie? How long since your menses stopped?” “Three months.” She whispered the words. Staring once more into the fire, she said, “So, it is possible I am pregnant. That this misery is more than what women suffer when they age.” “Yes.” “That is why I cannot hang him or, better yet, have him drawn and quartered.” “Not yet at any rate.” The humor in his voice made Kerrie chuckle. It hurt her throat. She took the water Farid handed her and, even though it made her throat ache, she swallowed it gratefully. “Shut him away somewhere he cannot escape. On the off chance I am pregnant… I suppose, for the child’s sake, I must marry him. Before I have him drawn and quartered.” Farid’s laughter echoed off her walls. For the first time in months her heart felt light.

***** The end of Doran’s incarceration neared. Kerrie sat at her solar table, quill, ink and parchment at hand. Pain had become her constant companion. Her belly had swelled, yet she felt no quickening, no poking fingers, knees, elbows or toes. Whatever grew within her… Death grew within her. She could feel it in her belly, on her dry hair and skin, in her pain-filled eyes. She tried her best to hide the pain from everyone but she knew they knew. She could see it in Aida’s calm gray gaze, in her daughters’ fractiousness, in Gaspar’s reluctance to look at her. As far as her family knew—or most of her people knew—Doran had contracted an unknown illness. Since Kerrie had been exposed already, she tended him in her own quarters. Her family came to visit once a day and stood in the hallway outside her solar door. The time they spent together grew shorter as did her respite from pain. She desperately needed to hold her daughters, have Aida brush her hair one last time. One last time before that final brushing. Before they sewed her into her funeral shroud and her appearance no longer mattered to anyone—least of all Kerrie, dead Queen of Marchonland. Now, her will complete, she had one final letter to write. One last lie to tell. Only God knew how many she’d told over the years. That she, a queen, could love—had

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loved—Alexandre, a merchant? Oh yes! He was her soul, the better part—nay the best part of her. That she, a widow, could have, had loved Brecc? Ah, therein lay the first lie of her adult life. Fibs—a child’s prevarications—did not count in this ultimate log of her life. She and Brecc had shared rage and fury…and lust. Over the years she’d realized lust was just another form of rage. Yet, in his jealous, obsessive way, Brecc had loved her. A wry, pained smile pulled at her lips. Brecc had loved her but had she loved him? He whose jealousy forbade her mentioning Alexandre? If Brecc could have done so, he would have cut Alexandre from her brain. Kerrie knew what Brecc did not. He might slaughter Alexandre, excise him from her thoughts, yet she and her body remembered Alexandre. Would always remember him. Truth or lie? Her conscience demanded an answer. Did she or did she not love Brecc? No. Did she love the tangible result of Brecc’s loving her? Willa? Aye! Not as her own spare heir but for Willa herself. Here, in Willa’s small frame was the daughter who would hold Marchonland, feed her people and nourish their souls. Willa’s calm acceptance of her fate made Kerrie proud. Get on with it. Cesare. Her lion. Love him? Yes or no? Yes but not as a wife should love her husband. Nor had he loved her in the ways a husband should love his wife. They were friends. They felt comfortable together, like a pair of well-worn slippers. And Pippa, so different from her father. Neither was she much like Kerrie. She was simply herself and only God could say how she would turn out. God and Aida. Kerrie’s thoughts came full circle, to Alexandre and Yvonne. Kerrie’s firstborn had Alexandre’s restless spirit. Yet Kerrie knew this child would grow into a woman who would keep her people, her lands safe. Kerrie hoped Yvonne would be happy with Gareth and would learn to love him. And that he could love her as well. Marchonland’s continued safety lay in Yvonne’s alliance with the Puttupon heir. Hopefully she would not send an arrow through his heart! Get on with it. Taking up her quill, Kerrie wrote. Aida—Dearest Sister, Today D asked me to marry him. He wants to give me sons—sons!—to rule Marchonland. I haven’t told him that not only will a man never rule my country but that I can no longer give any man a child. D thinks my lack of menses these last few months is because I already am breeding, carrying his babe—his son! I know I am young, yet I also know I shall never bear another child. Nor shall I marry again. 131

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Take care of my (here she struck through my) our daughters. Tell them every day how much I love them. She added a postscript beneath her signature. And if their husbands die before they do, advise them not to marry again. No one should have to bury the love of her life more than once. Her solar door crashed against the wall. “Doran, what are you doing here? How dare you enter my rooms without permission!” “Whose son do you carry in your womb?” Shaking her, he repeated the question, spat it in her face. As he had the last time she had seen him, he wrapped his fingers around her throat. Too weak to fight, she welcomed her own death. Farid would see to Doran’s.

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Finale

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The Legend Farid took up the quill Kerrie had used to write her final letter. It seemed fitting somehow that he should transcribe her last words with that quill. And when he finished writing he would give the feather to Aida as a symbol of the passing of power. That lady would not claim Marchon’s throne or Kerrie’s crown and power. She would hold these for Kerrie’s girls. Hers and Gaspar’s girls now. Inking the quill, he hesitated for a moment. His hand shook and his fingers wanted to write the word Epithet. In the broadest sense it was as good a word as any other but he wanted to curse Kerrie’s death and the way she had died. So Epithet was his word not hers. At last he wrote her words and his. My girls! What will become of my daughters? “They are in good hands, Kerrie. You’ve left them to Aida and you know she loves them—if not in the same way you love them, just as much. They are the children she and Gaspar never had. They are the children of their hearts.” Kerrie sighed. Audra knew. She knew she would die young, that Alexandre would die even younger. I wonder if she knew I also would die too soon? That Aida—barren—would raise my girls as her own. Not knowing what to say, Farid kept silent but he took her hand—wasted and fragile but still elegant. Cesare. I can see Cesare. He is untying his glorious hair, smiling and opening his arms. She sobbed. All this but not for me. “Then he is a fool still. Always searching for the perfect face and form when he’d already found them in you and in Pippa.” Kerrie opened her eyes, calm now. Liar. I do not blame him for running from me. I am hideous. Farid kissed her hand. “Never hideous, Majesty. Beautiful always.” Sweet. You are a sweet man, Farid, but a lying one. They lapsed into silence, that same companionable silence that had sustained their friendship through the years. Brecc. Poor Brecc, always wanting to be first. Even though he married a widow, he pretended Alexandre and Yvonne did not exist. I think—had Alexandre lived—Brecc would have killed him. And Yvonne.

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“Jealousy is a terrible emotion. It destroyed Brecc. Yet I truly believe he came to love Yvonne. Not as much as he loved Willa, not as much as he loved you. But he loved Yvonne too.” In his own cruel way. Her chuckle ended on a racking cough. Farid eased her into his arms then held a cup of water to her dry, cracked lips. Smiling weakly, she rested her head against his chest. Your heart beats strong and true. In that it is much like you. “A rhyme, Majesty?” Aye. A poem just for you. She licked her lips. What does your name mean, Farid? “Why do you ask?” Names seem to influence us. Yvonne sleeps with the little bow Gaspar had made for her. Willa is always digging in the dirt and planting things. Pippa rode a horse before she learned to walk. I suspect your name suits you as well as my daughters’ names suit them. “One of a kind,” he mumbled, hoping her illness and Doran’s attack had dulled her hearing. Of course, she said softly. Do you ever regret we did not become lovers, One of a Kind? “We are lovers, Kerrie. Our souls, our hearts have touched.” Evasive man. Sweet liar, strong and true. And now evasive. But I know your secret, Farid. The secret of your heart. The one word that is your lodestar. “Do you?” he teased, uncomfortable and praying she did not know his heart too well. Aye. ’Tis loyalty. Loyalty to me and mine. But first, foremost, loyalty to Alexandre. Oh love! she cried, reaching out to a vision only she could see. Alexandre is smiling at me, Farid. Alexandre is smiling and opening his arms. To me. Only to me. “Then you must go to him, Majesty. For once in your life you must do as you are bid.” With her last bit of strength, Kerrie pulled Farid’s face level with hers and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. Alexandre, she sighed, my love. For a long moment Farid simply held her in his arms. He knew she was gone. Gone to the one man she had always loved most. “Alexandre,” he said into the quiet room. “Take care of her or I shall find you and wreak havoc on your immortal soul.” With that he placed a tender kiss on Kerrie’s brow. Then he lifted Doran’s stiffening body and pulled aside the tapestry hiding the secret passage to her rooms. As his last act of fealty Farid would take Doran away, far away where she would never have to see him again. But Kerrie’s legend would live on. In the stables the grooms would still claim she rode all her lovers to their deaths. In the guardroom, the knights would still avow she made her lovers spear her so often

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their seed spilled like blood. And in the kitchens the cooks would still gossip that she kept her lovers on the boil so long they expired from the heat. Farid could almost see Alexandre’s frown, the intended menace spoiled by the merriment in his eyes and the grin that twitched the corners of his mouth. And he could hear Kerrie’s laughter, that wondrous sound that filled the air and touched the hearts of all who listened. Yes, the legend still lived.

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About the Author Dee believes she was born with a pen in one hand and a writing tablet in the other. Determined not to work in an office, this wannabe actress never learned to type well; she still composes with pen and pad, then transcribes her manuscripts onto her PC. Sometimes Dee and her dictation program are best friends; more often they are mortal enemies. Dee lives in northern California with her inspiration, best friend, and husband. She loves to read and, of course, write. Passion’s Four Towers is her first published novel. Dee welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

Tell Us What You Think We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at [email protected].

Also by Dee Brice Passion’s Four Towers

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