Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  “Fine,” I answer before Pegeen can. “It’s beautiful, by the way.” I give Barlonda a big hug and a peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Barlonda. It’ll be the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever worn in my entire life. I really, really appreciate you making it for me.”

  Barlonda smiles and blushes. “Don’t thank me, dear. Thank Syr Phillip. After all, he paid for it.”

  “Well, I’m thanking you anyway,” I say. “Let’s go inside.”

  The three of us pile into the crowded hotel lobby, where scores of SCA types are already milling about. Some are already in full garb, but most are still in modern dress and pulling luggage carts and suitcases laden with armor, garb, feastgear, archery equipment, and other medieval oddities—including something that looks very similar to a cast-iron Spanish Inquisition torture rack. Barlonda clucks as a stout, elderly bald man in monk’s attire drags the strange device past us on a metal dolly truck from U-Haul.

  “My goodness, Master Julius Blackfriar has really outdone himself this year,” Barlonda twitters. “He always comes up with the strangest contraptions for the Crown arts and sciences competitions. I thought he’d never top what he entered last year, but I guess not.”

  “What did he enter last year?” Pegeen asks.

  Barlonda clucks. “A catapult. Complete with buckets of boiling oil. But it got disqualified for safety reasons. I guess Master Julius is trying again this year with that—thing, but he’ll probably get disqualified anyway.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “The SCA doesn’t allow potentially hazardous weapons in the arts and science competitions,” Pegeen explains as we duck into the ladies room, where at least twenty women are already crammed into stalls as they put on their event garb.

  “Are these arts-and-science competitions a big deal?” I inquire, feeling more ignorant than usual.

  “Yes, dear,” Barlonda says, patting me on the shoulder. “The Crown tournament isn’t the only competition here today.”

  “I don’t mean to rain on your parade, ladies,” Pegeen cuts in. “But we need to find a better place to get Lisa into her gown. I don’t have enough room to work in here.” Pegeen wrinkles her nose and storms out, dragging our garment bags behind her.

  I suppose Pegeen is probably the only woman on earth who could do a diva turn as a lady-in-waiting.

  Barlonda and I both laugh together and follow Pegeen down the bustling corridor. A large wooden sign carved with the Middle Kingdom’s royal insignia—a red-and-white shield decorated with a gold crown and a reclining dragon—points the way towards the Drawbridge Inn’s Canterbury Hall conference wing. I pick up a hotel brochure from a heavily carved wooden side table and read that all the rooms in this section of the conference center are named after characters in The Canterbury Tales. The corridors are paneled in dark, heavy oak, interspersed with stained-glass windows containing quaint images of lords and ladies on horseback. Once we enter Canterbury Hall’s main foyer, Pegeen ducks into the first empty conference room she sees. A sign with Gothic lettering and the image of a medieval farmer outside the door proclaims an otherwise ordinary meeting space as the Ploughman’s Room. I think back to my college English literature courses trying to recall what exactly the Ploughman character did in the Canterbury Tales, but I can’t recall anything other than the fact I had to use the Cliff’s Notes to help me understand all the weird Middle English spellings in Chaucer.

  Pegeen spreads the garment bags and her own knapsack on the main conference table. “Ahh, that’s better. Plenty of room to lay out all your things, Lees. I just wish there were a mirror in here.” She pulls an invisible thread from my gown’s hem and tosses it aside. “We need to get Lisa garbed and ready to go. And remember, from now on today you will need to address me as Pegonia, the Royal Lady’s Maid.”

  “I’m not royal yet,” I protest.

  “But you will be soon, dear,” Barlonda coos, plucking a magnificent blue-and-gold Italian Renaissance headdress out of her shoulder bag, along with a pair of pearl-encrusted satin slippers. “Here, try these on, Lisa. I finished them up on the drive over this morning.”

  ****

  Fifteen minutes later, I emerge from the Ploughman’s Room a new woman. Even though I haven’t had the chance to look at myself in the mirror yet, I already know that I look stunning. The open-mouth stares and gasps emitting from everyone I pass in the hallway are proof enough of that.

  I duck into the first bathroom I see. There is a full-length mirror on the back wall across from the toilet stalls. I nearly faint when I catch sight of myself in the glass.

  Barlonda pinned my hair into a simple chignon at the nape of my neck before she fitted the netted headdress to the crown of my head; a hair “snood” of gold wire covers my hair, and a padded, double-wrapped velvet roll in the shape of a wishbone holds it in place. Although I have no idea what to call the elaborate, twisted contraption that adorns my hair, I do know it creates the same stunning profile Sophie Marceau sported in Braveheart. The gown is even more stunning on my body than it is on the hanger—if I do say so myself. The combined opalescence of purple-blue velvet brocade, red satin, and thousands of pearls have turned my eyes into deep blue starbursts and my complexion into red-kissed virgin snow. My chest also has more cleavage than I ever thought possible in my flat-chested lifetime. If my gown doesn’t win Baroness Barlonda a Laurel in Costuming, I will personally take it upon myself to make sure she wins one during my reign as Queen.

  That’s assuming, of course, that Syr Phillip wins the tournament.

  And why wouldn’t he? After all, everyone says he will.

  Everyone, that is, except Syr Phillip. The last time we spoke, he was full of sadness, anger, and doubt. I give my cheeks a healthy, ladylike pinch and go off in search of my lord and favored knight.

  I enter the Canterbury Hall oblivious to the gasps, stares, whispers, and pointing fingers that fly my way at every turn. “That’s Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar’s lady,” I hear a middle-aged blonde woman in sixth-century Irish costume whisper to her stout, Norman-garbed husband as I pass her. “She’s going to be Queen, you know.”

  A familiar, hissing voice hits my back like a thrown dagger. “Not if I can help it.” I turn and find Lady Ramona of North Fields just a few steps behind me. I can smell her menthol cigarettes, along with the slightest whiff of mothballs—both scents appear to be wafting from her gown, which resembles a gaudy 1960s sofa made over into a bad imitation of English Tudor.

  “Hello, Lady Ramona,” I coo as sweetly as possible. I give her a deep curtsey. “That’s a very. . . interesting gown you have on.” I try my best not to wrinkle my nose as I say it, but the mothball stench is getting hard to avoid.

  Lady Ramona scoffs. “Well, maybe it isn’t as nice and expensive as yours obviously is, Lisa. But you might have heard that my house burned down recently. I lost all my good garb in the fire. I had to borrow this from the Ohio State Theater Department after I got out of jail.”

  “Uh huh,” I say, trying to edge away from her.

  “It’s your boyfriend’s fault my house burned down, you know,” Lady Ramona growls, leaning so close to me that I can smell the eighty-seven Kools she’s probably smoked so far this morning on her breath. “And Master Melphus and I do intend to get some major payback today. So I suggest you tell your lord to watch out.”

  “Right, sure, whatever,” I say, scooting away from the mousy-haired menthol monstrosity that is Lady Ramona. “Umm, good luck and everything!” I step away from her too quickly and trip over the train of my gown—knocking over someone in heavy polished steel plate mail.

  “Oh, excuse me—“ I blurt as I topple to the red fleur-de-lis carpeting. But before I can finish, my mouth is enveloped in the most passionate kiss I’ve ever experienced.

  It’s Syr Phillip.

  My lord and knight sweeps me up from the carpet and carries me to the wings of the great hall, where a red velvet overstuffed chaise lounge is waiting beside a pile of Syr Phill
ip’s armor, spare gambesons, and rattan weaponry.

  “And how is my most favored lady this fine morning?” he asks, giving me another open-mouthed kiss just as several young male fighters in various states of armoring start to catcall.

  “Syr Phillip, people are making fun of us.”

  “Let them,” he replies with a smile as he sets me gently down on the velvet seat. “I think they deserve to know just how special you are to me.”

  I blush as red as the trim on my gown. “Everyone has been staring and pointing at me ever since I got here. I guess I’m just not used to drawing that much attention.”

  “Well, you might want to start getting used to it, milady,” Syr Phillip sighs, lightly caressing the side of my neck with his still-ungloved sword hand. “After all, you are the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. And when you become Queen, you’ll be the most recognized one, too.”

  “So you really think you’re going to win today?”

  Syr Phillip adjusts his steel breastplate so he can sit down beside me. “I think I have as good a chance as any. And if by chance I do lose this Crown, I can always fight in the next one. And I swear to you, milady, that I will keep fighting in Crown Tournament as long as it takes to win the title for you. Your honor is worth every bruise and blow that my opponents land on me.”

  Syr Phillip bends to kiss my hand, and the familiar electricity jolts through my body. But considering I haven’t seen—or touched—my favored knight in almost two weeks, that jolt is very nearly enough to make me swoon.

  In fact, I do swoon.

  I come to a moment later lying on the floor, with Pegeen holding a damp cloth to my forehead and Barlonda standing over me, fanning the air with a Middle Kingdom Champions’ List program. Syr Phillip is at my side, stroking my palm.

  “My dear lady Lisa, I really can’t have you fainting on me like this all day long,” Syr Phillip chuckles, giving me a peck on the forehead. “I need you to be strong and steady for me. There are still twelve rounds between me and the Crown, you know.”

  “Is your corset too tight, dear?” Barlonda asks, anxious. “That can make you faint. If it’s too tight, I can alter it—it’ll just take a few minutes.”

  I sit up quickly. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine, really. I’m just—I’m just a little overwhelmed, is all.”

  “Here, drink this,” Pegeen—aka Pegonia the Royal Lady’s Maid—says, handing me a wooden goblet filled with a bubbly brown liquid. I guzzle it down in one drop and almost gag from its syrupy sweetness.

  “Ewww. What the hell is that?”

  Pegeen/Pegonia smiles. “Jolt Cola. I brought a supply of it in my super-secret lady-in-waiting kit for use in case of fainting emergency.”

  Super-secret lady-in waiting kit? Only Pegeen could come up with something like that. I love my goofy best friend.

  Syr Phillip stands up. “I’m sorry to leave you so soon, my beloved,” he croons in his sexiest baritone. “But I’m due to report in to the Earl Marshal with the rest of the belted fighters in five minutes. And you appear to be in good hands.”

  “We’ll take good care of her for you, Phil, don’t worry,” Barlonda promises. With that, Syr Phillip gathers up his sword, shield, helm, and spare gambeson and disappears from the tournament hall.

  As soon as he’s gone, Barlonda sits down beside me and takes my hand. “Syr Phillip’s right, you know. You’re in for a very long day, and if you think you’re overwhelmed now, just wait until you’re Queen. You need to buck up, hon. Find your center of strength and stay there.”

  “Relax, Barlonda,” Pegeen/Pegonia sighs. “Lisa will be fine. She’s just a little horny right now, that’s all.”

  I feel my cheeks go hot as griddle cakes. There are times I wish Pegeen didn’t know me quite as well as she does. Right now is one of them.

  Chapter 21

  The fighting has been going on for over three hours. Syr Phillip beat his first two opponents—both unbelted ordinary fighters, not knights—easily. He’s drawn a bye for the third and fourth rounds, so he and I are taking advantage of the break for a stroll around the extensive Drawbridge Inn grounds, which are surprisingly lush for an aging hotel just off an interstate— an interstate so close that I feel the ground rumble underneath my flimsy satin slippers every time a semi truck rolls by. Given the delicacy of my footwear, we stick to the paved path leading through a small wooded area just to the left of the hotel pool.

  “Barlonda certainly did a fantastic job on your gown,” Syr Phillip gushes. “I think I got more than my money’s worth.”

  I finger the dangling fabric of one of my elaborate sleeves thoughtfully. The pearls and golden embroidery flash in the late morning sunshine. “You didn’t have to spend that kind of money on me, you know. I could have just worn something simple, or the blue dress I already had. I don’t have to have something this—regal,” I stammer. “Although I do appreciate it.”

  Syr Phillip goes to stand in the shade of an ancient-looking oak tree whose branches are draped with grapevines and Spanish moss. He’s taken off his armor for our walk and is wearing only the sweatstained padded gambeson and loose-fitting flannel fight pants he wears underneath his armor, although he’s made sure to keep on his white knight’s belt and golden spurs. “On the contrary, Lisa. If you’re going to be my Princess and Queen, you deserve to be attired in a manner appropriate for your station. Although I wasn’t exactly expecting Barlonda to make you garb that would make you worthy of ruling over heaven itself, even for six thousand dollars. I look forward to seeing her finish the next three gowns she owes me, but I’m not sure how they could top this one.” Syr Phillip pulls me close to him, and I smell his masculine scent—a mixture of sweat, armor grease, and musk. “Although you could easily rule the kingdom of my heart wearing nothing at all.” My lord and knight kisses me, open-mouthed, with more passion that I’ve ever felt from him before. A hot prickly sensation travels up and down my body in waves, and I feel like I just might swoon again, although I know that even if I do, Syr Phillip’s strong arms will hold me up this time.

  Syr Phillip runs his hands up and down the sides of my gown, assessing its construction. “You know Lisa, when I placed the order for this gown with Barlonda, I made a couple of special requests about how it was to be made. Do you know what they were?”

  “No,” I reply, giggling. Although judging by Syr Phillip’s roving hands, I’m starting to get a bit of an idea.

  “The first request was that the gown be high-waisted, with a very full skirt.”

  “Uh huh,” I say. “But aren’t all Italian Renaissance gowns styled that way?”

  “I believe so,” he grins. “But they don’t generally have built-in corsets or attached underskirts, like I specifically asked Barlonda to make sure yours had. Because that way, it would be a lot easier for you to get on. And off.”

  I think I know where this is going.

  Syr Phillip’s arms are almost crushing me now. “I want you right now, Lisa. Please. I don’t think I can fight another round today until I do.”

  I can feel my lord and knight’s urgency even though his heavy padded gambeson. I lift up the hem of the quilted garment and reach under the drawstring waist of his leggings to stroke his burning need.

  “Oh, yes—“ Syr Phillip moans in my ear, his breath hot and fast. He reaches into my gown’s plunging neckline to cup my left breast, and expertly pops it out of my bodice. He goes to suck on my nipple, biting around its tip gently with dozens of tiny nibbles that send me reeling.

  “Phillip,—oh!” I yelp as I feel my lord hitch up my skirts with one hand and rearrange his own waistband to reveal his throbbing member, which presses itself against my quickly dampening thigh. “Are you sure?” I breathe. “Won’t someone see us?”

  “Lisa—please—I can’t take it much longer. If someone sees us—let them watch. I don’t care.” Syr Phillip’s fingers are fumbling with my panties, which, ironically, are getting tangled up with his quivering erection. “Help m
e,” he begs.

  I do. In a lilting moment, I tear my panties off so fast the seams rip wide open, and in an instant, my lord and knight’s blazing sword has found its home. Syr Phillip grabs my legs and wraps them around his waist, holding me up with both his firm hands squarely clutching my buttocks. We settle into a perfect rhythm against the trunk of the ancient oak. The tree trunk is split into two backward-curving stems right at my waist level, and Syr Phillip and I recline back into the old oak’s folds as we move faster and faster, then slower and deeper together, as if the tree has grown this way for a hundred years just so it could support the moment of our passionate embrace.

  Syr Phillip’s grasp on my buttocks grows tighter and tighter, while his thrusts grow stronger, so deep and hard that despite all my efforts to keep our tryst quiet and discreet, I cry out my joy in a voice that shakes the old oak to its roots.

  “Oh, God!” I cry. “Yes! Oh—oh, you’re so, you’re so—“ I put my wrist in my mouth and bite down on it to contain my screams.

  “Lisa—oh, Lisa, I love you—“

  Even in the heat of our embrace, I can hardly believe what I’ve just heard. The thought of Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar—or even just plain old Phil Dawson—really, truly loving me brings me to the brink of the most incredible release I’ve ever experienced. The slick lips of my need start to quiver, first at their tips, then deeper and deeper until my entire being ripples in longer and longer cycles of vibration. The tremors pulsating throughout my body jolt me into pleasurable exhaustion. Syr Phillip’s own moment of delight just follows my own, and I feel his essence burst inside me in dozens of tiny, rapid explosions. All too soon it’s over, and we collapse against each other, damp with sweat and heady with pleasure.

  After we bask in the afterglow for a moment or two, Syr Phillip turns my head to face his and kisses me tenderly. “My love, my rose, my Queen,” he whispers. “I will fight to make you Queen today, but even if I lose, you will always be the queen of my heart, Lisa Marie Smith. I love you, darling. I mean it. I do.”