by Eve Redmayne
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Are you saying my wooing feels rehearsed, my lady?” His lips teased as they headed downward. His tongue brushed the edge of a quivering breast, and before she could stop herself, she moaned.
Demanding submission, his lips jumped to hers. No more gentle coaxing. He would take what he wanted. His tongue swept inside and flicked against her own.
With his neck clasped in her hands, she tilted closer. The rigid press of him pushed firm against her, despite the layers of cloth between them. And while she’d had her share of boyfriends, none had made her feel like this. His very touch was intoxicating.
The ground seemed to sway, and she gasped for air. The stays were too tight, his mouth too demanding, and because every nerve in her body screamed for him, she almost wept with pleasure when his hands inched upwards.
“I don’t know what’s happening. Perhaps you’ve bespelled me, but I can’t resist you.” He sounded dazed as his fingers just brushed the edge of her décolletage. “But if you have bewitched me, I wouldn’t stop it, even if I could.”
Her eyelids fluttered as dark hands rounded the sides of her breasts, as though in worship. Funny, she’d thought it the other way around; that he’d bewitched her. She hardly knew this man—the man who had forced her to come here and be his bride—and yet here she was, rendered powerless by his touch.
Suddenly, his mouth was on hers again and both his hands grasped her tightly. The strings of her stays seemed to loosen as his thumbs found her nipples. Surprised by his boldness, she gasped, but arched, giving him more access. The rational part of her brain screamed to stop, but she wasn’t listening.
She craved more, needed more, but couldn’t find the words to tell him, a stranger, what she wanted. Motions brusk, he rubbed against the inflamed buds. Oh, yes.
“Perfection,” he breathed before leaning forward to kiss across her cleavage, now straining the edge of the gown.
This was getting out of hand, letting this man she didn’t know make love to her in a garden where anybody could see. He needed to stop but instead of turning him away, a breathy sigh escaped her lips, encouraging him on.
With an almost-smile, he dipped low and ran his tongue across the swells of her breasts, sucking, laving, giving her what she couldn’t ask for. His tongue and teeth worked in concert against her heated skin, and she eagerly watched. Fevered, she urged him closer, but instead of appeasing her, he pulled back, leaving her bereft until he once more found her lips.
With every deep pull, the delicious pressure increased between her thighs. And she almost lost it when he reached up to finger a nipple while playing her with his mouth.
He pulled away, and the sight of that nub between long fingers drew her back upright. I’m not that kind of woman! Her thoughts screamed. But as he continued to move against her, the ache between her thighs grew.
His golden eyes roved over her breasts, heaving with desire and glowing pink from his touch. “I must have you.” He grabbed her bottom boldly with both hands, pressed her back against the wall, and thrust against her. Though layers of fabric separated them, she pressed back, urging him on with wordless pleas.
His hands skimmed down her skirt, slipped under the hem, and trailed over her calves towards her thighs. The calloused touch, such a contrast to her own soft skin, brought her to a fever-pitch. When he found her silken drawers, his forearm flexed to rip them from her body. But he stopped short when she shook her head.
“Not here,” she managed, her voice unrecognizable. Somehow reason prevailed through the manic passion.
“Gods yes, here! I need to be inside you,” he growled and thrust against her, big and insistent. Her undergarments barely dulled the intimacy of the touch.
She wanted him, just under different circumstances. This had to stop. If they were to have a relationship going forward she needed to get to know this man.
His eyes narrowed when she shook her head. “I won’t force you. Though, I can see you’re far from unwilling.” Her underthings slipped from his fingers, but he dipped for one more taste of her lips.
Lord, did he know how he made her feel? She shivered as need bristled through her while eying him from behind hooded eyelids.
“Sire?” a voice whispered from around the corner.
Jessica shrank back, eyes frantic. They’d been caught!
“What is it?” he growled.
“It’s time to make your way to the hall. The meeting is to begin shortly.”
“Leave!” he raged as Jessica struggled to find her feet. With his hand still firmly pressed against her soft folds, he snarled against her ear, “This isn’t finished. You want me.”
He backed up, palming the front of his pants, his erection visibly straining the fabric. Before he left, he gave her one final, fierce look.
As his footsteps crunched against the gravel walk, she shuddered. The same man she’d seen with Wycliffe yesterday considered her for a moment then turned to follow his prince.
Breathless, Jessica sank back against the cool wall and looked down at herself, breasts heaving, nipples engorged and trembling. Never in her life had she felt such intense and immediate desire for a man. Never had she come so close to having casual sex. But today all that had flown out the window.
With a shiver, she adjusted her gown. Hopefully, she’d run across a mirror on the way back to check her hair, but Fyona had secured it with enough pins to withstand a maelstrom. Lastly, she pulled on the slipper, lying several feet away, and hurried to her room.
The halls were dark, which was just as well, considering her flustered appearance. And she made it to her room without further incident. Before she entered though, she took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. There certainly wasn’t an issue with whether she found the prince attractive.
Fyona gave her a quick once-over as she walked in. “What were you doing?” the maid scowled as she hurried over. “Your gown’s all mussed! And where’s your parasol?”
“I… must’ve dropped it somewhere.”
Fyona made a noise of disapproval and helped her disrobe. From the wardrobe, she pulled a gown of turquoise silk dotted with gemstones and diamonds along the bodice. She smiled knowingly, seeing the wonder in Jessica’s gaze. “Only the best for our princess.”
After pinning a sapphire and ruby tiara in place, Fyona declared her ready and sent Jessica on her way. A guard on either side escorted her to the great hall.
The herald ushered her forward. “You’re late!” he hissed, mustache rippling in agitation. The doors opened to reveal a marble staircase that led to the immense hall below. “Her Ladyship, Jessica of the land of Utah, soon to be Princess of Britarre, intended of his royal Majesty, Prince Wycliffe of Britarre,” he announced to the room.
The crowd stood as one.
Jessica forced a smile and prayed she wouldn’t stumble. As she walked down the stairs, she scanned the crowd for Prince Wycliffe but didn’t see him at the head table. Instead, there were two men, one elderly and hunched, the other, a nice-looking man with black hair extending halfway down his back, and a woman, pale as the dawn. All three smiled and appeared kind enough when she noticed their ears. Pointed.
She stumbled slightly, realizing she couldn’t recall the prince’s ears. She must’ve seen them, but unlike every other elf she’d seen, they hadn’t struck her as remarkable.
As her panic crested, she saw him stride through a side-door and smiled in relief. Their meeting earlier had been a bit intense, to say the least, but he was a face she recognized, and anything familiar was welcome in this crowd. Her smile faltered, though, as he took a spot at a side-table beside three men, all large, like him. Why wasn’t he at the head table?
Realization dawned on her when the dark-haired man stepped forward, hands outstretched.
“Lady Jessica, you are a vision,” he said. With an enormous smile, he turned to the crowd and said, “Welcome, Lady Jessica!”
The voices of the assembly rang out as they ec
hoed their prince.
Frozen in place, she stared dumbly until the man coaxed her to a chair at the head table. As she walked passed the imposter, she shot him a furious look. If this man at her elbow was Wycliffe, and he obviously was, then who the hell was the man who’d nearly had her panties about her ankles in the goddamned garden?
The head table sat before the assembly, a deep purple cloth hanging to the floor and golden dishes stacked high. All she wanted was to run and hide, but instead, she looked numbly from person to person, sitting at their own tables surrounding her in a wide arc. What the hell had she gotten herself into?
The people in attendance wore a variety of costumes, lush velvets and silks, magnificent hats bedecked with plumes, and dripped with jewels. This was clearly the place to see and be seen. She focused on anyone talking while doing her best to avoid looking at him.
“This will be a bit of a bore, I’m afraid,” Wycliffe said through the side of his mouth. He was trying hard to put her at ease. “It’s a meeting of our allies. I’ll have them announce themselves for your benefit.” Then he pointed to the pair sitting beside them. “My father, King Aaron and sister, Lyzelle.” Both smiled and nodded in turn.
A goblet of wine appeared, and Jessica downed it in one gulp.
The calling of the standards began at the far side of the room, and she stared dull-eyed and unhearing as each representative came forward, bowed, and introduced themselves. When they finally arrived at the only group she was curious about, her eyes narrowed.
“House Stoneforge, Kingdom Grayweather, My Lady.” The eldest of the four men said, then gave a very courtly bow. He smiled broadly at her. “I am King Brindle, and these are my sons, Braum, Klieg, and Forde.” He motioned as he spoke their names, and each man stood and bowed in turn.
Her eyes lifted, unwilling to cower, and shifted at once to his. So, his name’s Braum, is it? The deceitful devil! She wanted to spit, she was so mad. How dare he take advantage of her! Did he go around seducing all royal fiancées or was she a special case? His golden eyes flashed as he held her gaze with a boldness that made her quake
“Dwarves,” Wycliffe said, a tinge of distaste in his voice as the older man walked back to his table.
“Dwarves?” Jessica’s gaze shifted from Braum to the other members of his family. “But they aren’t tiny at all.” In every possible aspect as she so intimately knew. She shivered, recalling perfectly how he’d felt, pressed firmly against her.
Wycliffe chuckled. “Human tales, I’m afraid. They don’t always get the details correct.”
Jessica took another sip of wine.
The bastard had tricked her! When she’d asked if he was the prince, he’d said yes. Okay, to be fair it seemed he was a prince in his own right. But how could she be so stupid to not even ask his name? If word ever got out about her indiscretion with the dwarven prince… she shuddered.
The hall buzzed with conversation as dozens of servants appeared, carrying food on golden platters. Roasted birds, terrines of soup, delicately plated fruits, and bite-sized balls of dough, studded with currants. Everything smelled wonderful, but she had lost her appetite. The wine though, that she drank freely.
Unbidden, her eyes moved to where the dwarves sat. She started. He still watched her with those inscrutable topaz eyes. She looked away. If he didn’t stop, someone would notice him looking at her that way.
People shouted back and forth about the cost of importing tea and whether they should force sanctions on a rival kingdom as they ripped flesh from chicken legs and guzzled wine. But Jessica’s mind wandered back to a certain dwarven male sporting a cockstand for her. She bristled. Surely, she’d find Prince Wycliffe just as desirable.
A glance at her intended confirmed he had the look of an elf. His velvet attire hugged a wiry frame. A long nose and sharply arched brows defined his face. And every now and then a pointy-tipped ear peaked out from under black hair.
It wasn’t as though she wanted to compare him to the dwarf, but found it impossible not to. Both men were tall, but where Wycliffe was slender, Braum was broad like a mountain, with shoulders that spanned forever. Wycliffe, with his smooth cheeks, appeared almost pretty, while Braum bore five o-clock shadow and exuded raw power.
Both were handsome, but a small piece of her heart wished the dwarves had kidnapped her instead of the elves. Not that she wanted to be bloody kidnapped. But if she had to be here, she wished it were Braum’s arms she could—
Not willing to pursue that line of thinking she took a fortifying drink of wine, faced Wycliffe, and asked the first thing that came to mind. “Why’d you kidnap me?”
Deep blue eyes narrowed at her bold question. Wycliffe calmly chewed his bite of food before asking—sounding irked, “You don’t know?”
“Fyona wouldn’t say.”
With measured movements, he wiped the corners of his mouth. “I need heirs.”
Afraid she’d break the goblet clutched within her hand, she set the glass down. “Heirs?”
“Yes, heirs. Gods, I’ll have words with Fyona for not explaining this to you.” He took a deep breath and rolled his eyes as though it pained him to answer her questions. “Ever since the humans and fae left Orygin, there’s been a fertility crisis of sorts. Elven women aren’t reliably fecund, so I’ve chosen to take a human to bride instead of risk an elf.” He waved his hand in her general direction. “You. You’re not exactly the woman I’d have taken had I gone to Earth myself, but you’re pleasant enough to look at.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, but before she could retort, a low growl came from behind.
“Then let her go.”
They turned as one. Braum crouched behind them, his face twisted with menace.
“What’d you say, dwarf?” Wycliffe stood so fast it knocked Jessica from her embarrassed reflection.
Braum straightened, his bulk, made even more, intimidating by his icy glare. “I heard you, you took her against her will. Let her go.”
“You have no say in this. You took my first choice long ago, so you certainly don’t have a right to voice a complaint about my second.” Wycliffe’s face took on a purple hue as he glanced around the now silent hall.
“You’re a fool to even remember Eadha.” Braum sneered, golden eyes glittering. “We were children. Have the elves fallen on such hard times you must shame yourself by taking this human to wife?”
“Who’s Eadha?” Jessica jumped in, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Nobody you need concern yourself with.” Wycliffe shot, sparing her a moment’s glance before he turned back to Braum. Spittle flew from his mouth as he snarled, “You dare insult my intended? Everyone here knows a human bride is considered the same as a true born. She’ll not shame me like the other. And no man offends my bride and gets away with it!”
Jessica’s hands fisted as she stared open-mouthed at the exchange. How dare either of these jerks talk about her like this. First Wycliffe told her she was basically a broodmare, then Braum called her a shame when an hour ago, he’d grinded on her like a dog after a bitch in heat. Despite all the logistical problems, she could no longer in good conscience stay here, she had to escape.
Cruel laughter rang out as Braum surveyed the enthralled faces of the assembly, then turned back to Wycliffe. “You’re weak. Have always been weak.”
“It’s not weak to marry a human,” Wycliffe hissed.
“Want to see weak, I’ll show you weak.” Without warning Braum’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword. But before he could unsheathe it his father stepped between the two men, his gray whiskers twitching.
“Enough!” Brindle said, grabbing Braum and Wycliffe each by a shoulder. His neck bulged as he restrained Wycliffe from launching himself at his son and shouted, “Are you men or are you boys? I’ve had enough of this ridiculous feud. Aaron,” he looked over at the elven King, shoveling peas into his mouth, “I’m going to return home with Klieg and Ford, if you’ll be so kind as to allow Braum to remain here and lear
n some manners, I’d appreciate it.”
King Aaron shook his head, arching white brows. “Our boys will never find peace, Brindle, but he may stay.”
“For the sake of our kingdoms, let’s hope otherwise. One day our sons will rule in our place.”
Around his father’s wide shoulders Braum snarled, “Fuck with me and prepare for the pain you’ll receive by my hand.” He retreated a step, beat his fist against his chest, and yelled a battle cry foreign to Jessica’s ears. Then Braum exited the hall through the side door.
Wycliffe tore himself free of Brindle’s grip, stomped up the stairs, and out the main entrance, vowing to find vengeance.
CHAPTER 4
Jessica opened the pantry door and scanned up and down the corridor before exiting. Three days had passed since the Meeting of Sovereigns. She’d easily avoided Wycliffe as he’d torn off on his horse that day. Braum though… that’d taken some effort. From ducking into empty rooms to feigning conversations with people she didn’t know, thus far, she’d avoided any contact with the dwarf.
The days had drifted by pleasantly enough, with Lyzelle as company. The woman, taller than Jessica but thin as a reed, had hair so blonde it appeared white. She often regaled Jessica with tales of her brother’s brave exploits. And though Lyzelle and Drake, Lyzelle’s personal guard, were enjoyable company, Jessica was often distracted. Despite her best intentions, her thoughts often dwelled on the dwarven prince—largely on his broad shoulders and golden eyes. Damn him. How had he been so kind and alluring one minute and a complete pig the next? That is when she wasn’t planning her escape.
With one final look, she stepped out of the pantry only to run into a brick wall exiting the kitchen, across the hall, at the same time. A brick wall that smelled of clove. She recoiled as twin dimples winked into view. She’d avoided so much as making eye contact with the big, handsome bastard, only to run into Braum here of all places?