by Erica Ridley
“These are books?” Marigold gripped his arm hard enough to bruise. “Entire manuscripts? A whole library, stored on one little device?”
He grinned. “Yep. Wanna read a book?”
She snatched the phone from his hand and shot him a look that promised a trip to the gallows for having wasted her time with Candy Crush: Warlock Edition.
While she read, he wandered back to the kitchen for more bread and stew. There was no way they were even going to put a dent into all this food. Not that he was complaining. He’d much rather be trapped with too much food than imprisoned without any at all.
And if he had to be trapped, he was glad it was with Princess Marigold. She was amazing. Everything about her earned his respect. It would take a lot of guts and inner fortitude to survive a curse like this. Lance probably wouldn’t have lasted a month. He was already going stir-crazy.
When he went back to check on her, she didn’t even register his presence, so he slipped back out in search of the medieval equivalent of a shower.
And searched.
And searched.
Showers turned out to be basins of water in artful containers. Lance was less artful about the actual act of bathing via basin, but he managed to get the job done. He grinned to himself. Marigold was going to lose her mind when she got to experience modern plumbing for the first time. Hosing off after a weekend of fieldwork was heavenly enough. Multi-jets and proper water pressure would be mind-blowing after six centuries of bathing out of a bucket.
He took one of the chamber torches with him as he headed back to the feast room to check on Marigold. The smartphone screen was bright enough to read comfortably in any lighting, but night was falling outside, which meant the interior ambient lighting was waning proportionately.
When he arrived, she was just setting down the phone with a blissful little sigh.
“Which one did you read?” he asked. “Wuthering Heights? I’m pretty sure there’s some Jane Austen on there, too. With and without zombies.”
“I read the one with the hit man,” she said with a grin. “He keeps a disembodied head in his wardrobe.”
Lance blinked. “You read Sandman Slim? And did the happy sigh? Then it’s official. I can’t wait to tell Sancho how I met my soulmate.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. He offered her his arm and led her back to the main corridor. The room next to hers had been a sitting room of some kind. More importantly, it boasted a fireplace. They were much better off hanging out in front of the warm orange glow than in the dark, cavernous feast room.
Before they left the corridor, he opened the music app on his smartphone and queued his classical music playlist. It was usually his emergency zen music for whenever he was caught in a tide of people flooding the concrete streets like locusts. Fugue in C Minor was a little after Marigold’s time, but it was probably the closest thing he owned to music she might actually recognize.
He handed back the phone.
When the opening notes began to play, she gasped and squeezed his arm even tighter. Tears glistened in her eyes as she clasped the smartphone to her ear. She didn’t speak a single word between the feast room and the sitting room.
He placed the torch into its nook on the wall, then settled next to her on a cushioned dais before the fire. Something about her relaxed him. When was the last time he’d done nothing? Just enjoyed the moment? It had been too long. The moment was finally right. He settled his good arm around her shoulders as she snuggled into his embrace to listen to the music.
“These are the minstrels of your time?” she asked in awe, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Not quite. Bach’s primarily the early-to-mid 1700s. I’ve got plenty of newer artists on there, though, if you want me to spin you a sampler platter. Beyoncé, Reggaetón, K-Pop…”
“What are the steps?” she asked. “Is there a carol round or a court dance that goes with this melody?”
He blinked. “Is a ‘carol round’ the dancing of your time?”
“You carry about all these books and music, yet you haven’t any familiarity with carol rounds?” she asked in surprise.
“None at all,” he agreed cheerfully. “But I am fairly competent in the dance crazes of the most recent two hundred years. I can waltz, tango, moonwalk… Anything but twerk.”
Her eyes widened. “What is twerk?”
He grinned and shook his head. “It’s better for everyone if I refrain from demonstrating.”
Bach ended and Brahms began. She set down the smartphone and nestled even closer.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Happy holidays, Princess. Cheer up. It’s Yule.”
“It’s always Yule,” she murmured back, her tone wistful. “The longest midwinter of my life.”
“Tomorrow,” he promised. “Tomorrow we’re getting out of here. Our New Years resolution can be ‘never again get stuck inside an enchanted castle.’”
She stared at the fire without answering.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The heat of the fire and the soft warmth of her body were even more comfortable than the royal cushions upon which they reclined. Everything was peaceful.
He was a deep breath or two away from drifting off into sleep when he felt her lips brush his neck, at the pulse point just beneath his earlobe. He might have assumed it to be an accident of changing positions, had she not touched the tip of her tongue to the very same spot and then kissed it again.
Suddenly, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.
He reached for her and she climbed into his lap. With her back to the fire, her face was bathed in shadow. The flames lit her golden hair like a halo. Fitting, since she was an innocent. As much as he enjoyed her company—and as arousing as he found her body—he would not push for more.
She lowered her mouth to his. For several long minutes, he lost himself to the sweetness of her kisses and the warm pressure of her thighs atop his. She cradled his face with her hands as if afraid he might reject her, but right then he could think of no better way to spend a winter’s night than kissing Marigold before a fire.
He couldn’t think of a better way to spend any evening.
She slid her hands into his hair. He did the same, spilling her golden curls down her back and over his shoulders. Each curl was feather-soft and scented with rosewater, intoxicating his sense of smell just as much as her tongue bewitched his. Her touch was more confident now, surer of him and of herself and her effect on him. Her legs tightened around him in rhythm with her open-mouth kisses, teasing him with the promise of untold desires.
He had to stop her. Had to stop himself, before they went too far. But her hands… her hips… her mouth…
“Make love to me,” she whispered against his lips.
He wrenched her away by the upper arms and stared at her in shock. “What did you say?”
“Make love to me,” she repeated, her voice trembling. “I pray thee.”
He could hear the blush in her words even if he could not discern it on her face. Yet her gaze held firm. He would have to be stronger.
“Absolutely not.” He realized he was gripping her shoulders far too tightly and forced his fingers to loosen. There was no chance of the rest of him relaxing. He took a deep breath and looked her dead in the eyes, so she would see the sincerity in his next words. “You’ve been alone for six hundred years. We’ve known each other for one day. I refuse to take advantage of you or your loneliness. I am no hero, but I will not be the villain.”
She bit her lower lip. “Might I take advantage of you instead?”
Chapter 6
Marigold held her breath as she awaited Lance’s reply. Never had she been so bold with a man.
Never before had she wished to.
’Twas not for lack of strapping young men, for the castle had once brimmed with the valiant, battle-proven knights who served her father’s kingdom. Sultans, sheikhs, and grand dukes had regularly begged for the privilege of her hand, virtually from t
he moment of her conception.
And whatever Lance might think, ’twas not mere lonesomeness driving her to surrender the virginity she’d guarded for over six hundred years, simply because he’d strode through the bailey door with a broadsword and a swagger. He was not the first adventure-seeker to entangle himself in the castle’s cursed web, nor would he be the last.
He was the first to treat her as a person in her own right. Not some temporary object of lustful desire, nor some royal pawn to wed in order to fuel a political agenda.
Few of the dignitaries seeking matrimony had even set eyes on her. For ’twas her bloodline, not her person, which they found attractive. During the long centuries of occasional wayward travelers, few had bothered to sit for so much as a conversation, for nothing between her ears had been of any interest. Either they sought to take advantage of a maiden alone—the secret chamber had been her solace in more ways than one—or they ignored her completely in their panic-fueled quest for escape.
Lance, on the other hand, had switched from “I” to “we” from the moment he’d recognized their shared plight. Not only did all his plans for escape involve the two of them, his artless words revealed his intention to play a role in her future as well. We’ll take the playing cards with us, he had said, without expectation of anything more than continued friendship.
No one had ever done that before. In her entire life. Not her many suitors, or even the army of princesses that made up her circle of friends. They liked her, of course, but Marigold was first and foremost a stepping-stone to greater heights.
Perhaps that was why she’d been so attached to her childhood home. It was the only thing in her life that didn’t expect her to bend to its will. She’d been terrified of leaving it to wed a stranger, with no assurance of being treated with kindness or respect. Even more laughable was the idea of someday finding love.
Yet, today she’d had fun. She had met a man who could easily ensnare a woman’s heart. He’d made her laugh, given her a new perspective. And his kisses… Marigold swallowed. Come midnight, she was going to be heartbroken when the castle took him. Few hours yet remained.
She’d be damned if she wasted a single minute.
She twined her arms about his neck and lowered her mouth to the line of his jaw. She dragged her lips along the slight stubble. When he did not stop her, she curved her row of kisses slowly upward until she reached his mouth. His lips parted. She swept her tongue inside, reveling in the shared heat of their open mouths, the coiled strength of his body, the sensation of her thighs spread atop his hard muscles.
Her entire body wanted him. Craved him. Contrary to what he might think, Marigold knew precisely what she was asking. She might be a virgin, but she was no innocent. She’d spent centuries devouring a library in which many of the illuminated manuscripts were very illuminating. And she could think of no better man with whom to bring those fantasies to life than the one whose kisses stoked a fire all the way down to her soul.
Without lifting her mouth from his, she widened her legs and wriggled tighter against him. Her garters kept her hose snug to her lower thighs, but the only barrier separating her body from his was the sturdy material comprising his trousers. Though the fabric was fine and strong, it could not mask the evidence of his arousal. She wriggled again, this time moving her hips more slowly, deliberately, ensuring friction against every inch of that hard, promising ridge.
Before she could even gasp, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her against the cushions. His mouth was hot against hers, his powerful body deliciously heavy. She slid her fingers between them to fumble at her bosom. He lifted his chest as if he feared he were crushing her.
She tugged loose the ribbons crisscrossing her bodice and the halves fell free. The thin, wide material of her petticoat and tunic gapped without the harnessing support of her bodice, exposing her naked breasts to the night air. Her nipples hardened further beneath the heat of his gaze.
He trapped her wrists to the cushion above her head. She arched her back, pushing her nipples dangerously close to his mouth. He lowered his lips to just above her breast.
What was he waiting for? She strained against his grip on her wrists, the weight of his thighs atop hers, desperately trying to force her spine high enough to close the distance between them. He met her gaze and a slow, wicked smile curved his lips.
Her nipples tightened. He knew he was driving her mad, damn him. It made her want him all the more. Without breaking eye contact, he dipped his head until her left nipple caught against his lower lip. A shiver unlike any other raced along her skin and a moist heat began to spread between her legs. She could barely breathe. Just that slight sensation had been magic. She wanted—she wanted—
His mouth closed around her breast and her thighs clenched in desire. His tongue laved the sensitive bud, suckling, teasing. His dark eyes never left her face. Her shallow breaths only made his gaze more heated, his ministrations more deliberate. The pressure building between her legs swelled with every lick, every pull.
He cupped her other breast with his free hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the taut nipple. Her toes curled, her legs straining beneath him. She had never imagined being touched could feel like this. So decadent, so wanton, so… addictive. She would die if he stopped. She wanted more. She wanted everything. Every touch was perfection, every lick a promise of pleasures to come.
He slid his hand from her breast to her ribs. Before she could cry out her disappointment, he applied his talented mouth to the abandoned nipple and her body flooded with sensation once more.
His free hand slid down to her waist, down to her thigh, hiking up her tunic and petticoat until the thin material bunched around her hip. He cupped his fingers beneath her thigh and pulled up, bending her now-bare leg at the knee. With his tongue still teasing her nipple, he positioned himself to one side. Without his body to warm her, the night air was cool against the heat of her exposed skin.
Gently, he pressed her bent knee outward. Her thighs splayed for him. She could barely even think, from the rush of desire and anticipation. His hand coasted down her inner thigh toward the throbbing at her core. When he rubbed his knuckle against her moist heat, she nearly flew off the cushions. A pleasure more intense than any she’d ever known shot through her body like lightning. Her legs trembled.
His mouth closed around her breast as his knuckle continued its lazy pattern of delicious, torturous circles. His fingers were slick with her wetness, and the very idea of it only served to excite her further.
When she was certain her body could take no more of the pressure unfurling within her, he eased one of his strong fingers directly into the maelstrom. She gasped in ecstasy. Her hips rose to greet him. His thumb resumed its slick little circles as his index finger penetrated her deeper and deeper. Her inner muscles clamped around him, increasing her pleasure and his rhythm. A second finger joined the first. Her hips began to tilt in time with his thrusts, her breath uneven.
Something was happening, something was about to happen, something big and fast and strong and—
Waves of white-hot pleasure shot through her body, every limb galvanized. As the spasms took her, she threw her head back in rapture. His thumb and his fingers did not relent until the last of the tremors was gone, her muscles spent. The pleasure was beyond all reckoning. He was more than she could have ever dreamed.
He released her wrists, then smoothed her petticoat and tunic back down over her legs. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was fairly confident she was dead. She was certainly in heaven. She had never felt more sated in her life. More than she had imagined possible.
After he relaced her bodice, he lay back down beside her upon the cushioned dais. He pulled her into his arms. She went willingly. There was nowhere in the world she’d rather be. No one with whom she’d rather be.
She nestled her cheek against his chest. His heart beat loud beneath his tunic. Loud enough to lift some of the fog of ecstasy and remind her that she had offere
d nothing in reciprocation for the bliss he had shown her. Startled, she lifted her head. His eyes were not accusing, but rather contented… and more than a little arrogant. He knew exactly what he had given her, and was feeling very pleased with himself for having done so.
He had every right to be.
He had bestowed unimaginable pleasure upon her, and now she wished to do the same.
“Lance,” she stammered, suddenly self-conscious. A blush began to creep up her neck. “I could… Do you not wish to try…”
He grinned and pulled her back into his embrace. “I want you like crazy, Princess. You can’t even imagine the triple-x goodness going through my brain. I’m kind of shocking myself right now. But tonight isn’t about me. It’s about you. I come later.”
She frowned into his tunic. She wasn’t completely sure what most of that meant, other than he’d pleasured her because he wished to, not because he sought like recompense in return.
Grief flooded her. ’Twas not fair that Lance be taken from her after such a short window together.
It had taken centuries to find a man such as this, and the thought of losing him so soon was more than she could bear. She clung to him, and forced herself not to cry. She would not ruin these last moments by having him think her tears were due to unhappiness with him, when in fact the opposite was true. Her eyes stung because he was perfect. And soon he would be gone.
Her throat clenched. She didn’t know how many minutes remained until the bell tolled midnight, but she intended to hold him close for every last one of them.
It would be the closest she would ever again come to feeling loved.
Chapter 7
Marigold’s eyes flew open in horror. She’d fallen asleep. She’d fallen asleep. Her heart thundered. How could she have let such a thing happen? She reached out her arm. The fire was long dead, but even without the aid of firelight, she knew what she would find.