A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  Alistair’s blush intensified, and he blurted, “Julian’s not the one.”

  “Not the one?” Arend practically roared. “There is someone? Someone you do fancy?” This was downright earthshattering news, coming as it was from Fin.

  “I shan’t discuss the matter further.” Alistair sniffed dismissively. “Julian’s become a dear friend, but anything we’ve pretended has been just that—pretense.” Then Alistair gaped at him as if just realizing something important. “Arend, did you honestly worry I might fancy Julian? Were you jealous of me?” Alistair patted his thickset middle significantly. “Me?”

  Arend ignored that, rolling his eyes. “No, I was worried that you might be jealous of me—because of Julian.”

  Alistair grinned at him, rather dearly. “Arend, I could never begrudge you any happiness. You are my only family. I may only be your foster brother, but—”

  “You are my true brother. And one day, you’ll love me enough to confide in me more. To trust me, as I do you.”

  Alistair blew out a heavy sigh. “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s because the gentleman in question—oh bloody fucking hell, Arend. We’ve more pressing concerns. I’ve sent a message to the palace, to my assistant, Mr. Church, who will coordinate and inform the under-secretaries of our return.”

  At Arend’s questioning glance, Alistair added, “He’s a good lad, Church, eager to please. He’ll have the troops readying. Before we depart Ferndale, I shall dispatch messages to a select list of key lords, ones whose loyalty is unimpeachable. And, then”—Alistair drew a quick, winded breath—“if we make haste in the royal carriage today, we will meet those lords in two days, at the palace.”

  “But will their support be enough?” Arend asked, desperate for a bit more reassurance.

  “Among the peers on my list are no less than three dukes.” Alistair tapped his reins, beginning a rolling walk. “You have so many supporters, Your Highness.” Back to formality, back to king and servant—not brother and brother. “These mutineers are likely a smallish band, crowing loudly to seem more bountiful in number,” he said. “Whereas you are one of our most popular monarchs in recent centuries.”

  “Recent centuries.” Arend laughed despite himself. “Such an oxymoron, no?”

  “Not when referring to His Majesty.” Alistair gave him a proud smile. “The progressiveness of your reign has endeared you to your people, sire. They will take to the streets, if they learn of this plot.”

  He thought of Cordelia’s funeral cortege, the throngs of mourners. He’d always assumed they’d been crying only for her. But what if Alistair was correct, and they’d been grieving with Arend. Believing him a new widow, left alone with a young son—who then had no mother.

  “You’re not suggesting we let the people know about the Council scheme, are you?” Arend wasn’t sure how he felt about the realm knowing such private royal business.

  “They will rally behind you, if you need them. And I’m not above enlisting them, if the Council won’t back down. Your people do not want another king. They want King Arend Tollemach, the Eighth.”

  Then Alistair urged his mount into a trot, the morning light dappling the track ahead, covered in leaves and trampled grass. “But for now, let’s meet your foes with our full strength. And not relent until we have brought them to heel.”

  With that pronouncement, so assured and strong, Arend’s hope gave wing. Something burst from inside him, something that he’d first felt the night before, when he’d promised Julian he would fight for him—only now it took flight in his chest. God help him, but he believed they could win, and that Julian would stand at his side.

  Arend made to trot away, but Alistair stopped him. “I . . . I took a risky liberty, sire. I hope you won’t curse me for it. Sometimes, for all my conservatism, I do make bold in things.”

  “Do I want to hear this?” Arend asked, the hope he’d experienced banking a bit.

  Alistair smiled at him, countering, “Depends on whether you want a life with Julian.”

  “Oh, Fin, what did you do?” Arend halted his mount, and Alistair circled back to him, drawing alongside. “You best tell me now.”

  Alistair nodded. “I informed Blaine that you’d be married by summer’s end—but not to a woman. That you’d follow your own . . . heart.”

  “You told him I’d marry Julian?” Arend gasped.

  “Not . . . precisely. I mentioned that you have supporters far and wide, and—I might have—mentioned quashing a mutiny.” Alistair cleared his throat. “And implied that the prick won’t be able to find a safe corner of your realm, once this is done.”

  “Dear God,” Arend said admiringly. “Your bollocks must’ve grown bigger whilst in this clear mountain air.”

  His brother continued excitedly, “I am already drafting a proviso for the Council, one to officially approve Julian as royal concubine. Publicly known, approved by Council edict. A ratified edict, Arend.”

  “I-I was hoping you might say husband.”

  Alistair gave him a flat look. “This is me, Arend. Don’t try playing at palace secretary. It’s a hard job, you know.” Then his brother’s stern expression transformed. “The ratified edict, Arend, is merely to stand in place until you marry Julian. I’m drafting a proviso to cover that, as well.”

  “For the Council to sign and ratify? Julian as my husband.” Arend touched his lips, wondrously picturing Julian’s kiss on them. Imagining a day when he could freely parade Julian anywhere as his prince. His spouse.

  “Yes, and you as his husband, too.”

  “Alistair, you’re a wonder.” The words felt paltry, not nearly enough thanks for Alistair’s keen strategy. “I don’t know how I’d get along without you.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t.” And with that, Fin took off at an impressive gallop.

  Arend watched his brother ride away, shaking his head. “Too hefty for riding, my kingly arse,” he muttered after the man.

  His foster brother was something else. Always had been.

  And if anyone could save them all—it was none other than Mr. Alistair Finley.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You have a spring in your step, Your Majesty,” Julian observed, watching Arend move briskly about the vast apartment. In the short time at Ferndale, it seemed that royal accoutrements and clothing and folios had tripled in size. There had to be an eventual limit to what Arend had brought from the palace—didn’t there?

  Watching the production that went into moving their king, Julian had new appreciation of what a spectacle it was to simply be Arend Tollemach. No wonder his lover grew wearied by formality, by the ceaseless demands of filling the royal role. And, too, no wonder Arend had come looking for Julian, beyond the prying eyes of society and court, where a man could be simply a man.

  Arend thrust a hat in the direction of one of his temporary valets. “And this,” he said. “I don’t like to wear a hat when I travel.” When the seasoned servant gave him a surprised glance, Arend waved the man off. “I know, I know. But I’m king, and if I don’t favor a hat, then I shan’t bloody wear one.” But he laughed as he said it. There was merriment in Arend’s eyes that Julian hadn’t seen since their very first days together, before the edict. He didn’t appear like a man returning home to face an uncertain destiny.

  He appeared—with those smile lines crinkling at the edges of his eyes and his mouth quirking into easy smiles—to be somewhat . . . giddy.

  Arend called to another servant, flagging him down from the next room. “I’ll want these cheroots! Please! Here.” He darted back into the sitting area where Julian had folded himself onto the overstuffed sofa, attempting to make the smallest footprint possible, with so many people rushing about.

  Arend handed over his miniature humidor, which the valet took somberly, as if it were some expensive jewelry. “I’ll also wish for a flask of some sort—discreetly. Mr. Finley will have his own, and let’s not give him any ideas about mine.” Then Arend winked at the valet
who gave him a fish-eyed stare. “Right,” Arend said, clasping his hands together. He glanced about, his gaze moving right past Jules as he surveyed the apartments. Jules might not even have been there, patiently waiting to learn more about what was afoot.

  Julian had been informed of very little, of course. Of course! A bevy of servants had simply arrived at his rooms, explaining they were to pack him for travel—but nothing else. No destination, nothing. Frustrated at the lack of information, Jules had paid a visit to Alistair. When he’d knocked at Finley’s door, the gentleman had poked his head out, partially closing the door behind him. Flicking his gaze down the empty corridor, Alistair admonished, “I’ve explained previously that it’s ill-advised for you to visit my private—”

  “Where are we going? And why are we doing it?” Jules demanded, gazing up at the secretary and tapping his boot impatiently. He planted fists as his hips, raising his brows at Alistair’s stoic silence. “’Tis all I need, sir, that knowledge. Certainly not to gain entry here”—Julian gestured at the room beyond Alistair’s broad shoulder—“where only scandal will follow.”

  Julian had been proud of that remark, as it seemed directly minted from Mr. Alistair Finley’s personal lexicon. “You see?” Jules added brightly. “I have been listening to you, sir.”

  “Julian,” he whispered, “ask our king.” Then he’d made a flicking motion with his head, urging Julian along wordlessly.

  And that next foray had yielded no information, either. Arend had been—possibly—even less helpful than Finley. “No time to get into the details of it, not right now,” he’d said, pausing only to brush a kiss against Julian’s temple when none of the servants were looking. “Ears, darling,” he’d whispered. “Too many of them.” Then, with the briefest touch of Julian’s cheek, Arend had resumed acting the part of rear admiral, ordering his deckhands about.

  But now, after enduring well more than an hour of whirlwind preparations, Jules was turning impatient. The longer he watched Arend, so jubilant and lighthearted—even teasing some of his servants—the harder Jules hoped. Believed. Wondered. And, God help him, feared. Because the hope stirring in his heart, seeing the man he’d fallen in love this happy, was intoxicating. He’d not be so joyful, were our outlook grim. He has reason to believe in our future, he must.

  Then why wouldn’t the man simply pull Julian out onto the balcony or downstairs to the parlor—away from servant’s eyes, of course—and simply tell him the good news. Unless . . . Julian sank into the sofa, tucking his stockinged foot beneath his knee. Unless, he does not wish to falsely fan my hopes. Julian frowned, unable to decide if that possibility boded positively or negatively for any future with Arend.

  Julian wished Jim, his valet and friend at the palace, were here. The fellow was keen with the advice on things, and he’d likely flick Julian on the shoulder, saying, “You done gotten too carried away on this one, Lord Julian. His Majesty’s happy and that’s always a good thing.”

  He smiled to himself, anticipating getting to embrace Jim soon—if they were even returning to the palace. But surely so. Damn, you, Arend. Please give an impatient concubine a few crumbs of information. He smiled bigger when he decided, that as a tariff for this suspenseful wait, Jules would punish Arend . . . in bed.

  Julian’s gaze tracked with his master’s, at the nervy motion to his limbs, the easy smiles on his lips, the gracefulness in his movements. And watching the king, that hot wash of desire that had been simmering in Julian became even hotter. If they were returning to the palace, that meant to the privacy and protection afforded by Arend’s personal servants.

  Surely, too, it meant more time abed in the royal boudoir, once Arend had successfully set down the rebellion. Then Jules could continue in his role as Arend’s bedroom tutor, gradually teaching him the sensual arts. And unfurling the delicate petals of Arend’s sensuality, slowly and painstakingly over time? Nothing excited Julian more. He’d always want to be Arend’s private bedroom tutor, even if his formal role at court evolved—and even if Julian became something more akin to Arend’s . . . spouse.

  Spouse. Julian’s heartbeat quickened, his thoughts right along with it. Spouse. Royal consort. His Majesty’s companion.

  Husband.

  Was any of this truly happening, he wondered, glancing about them at the open trunks and hat boxes and fur-trimmed capes and so many servants. So many blasted people, all in attendance to the single man Jules loved with all his heart. These same people, and their counterparts at other manor homes and palaces, would stand in attendance to Julian. Julian, who was barely better than a glorified strumpet, who’d been trained to spread for a king. Who’d been sold by his own brother for a midnight pittance.

  How could a whore like that ever truly become a prince?

  He blinked back the quick tears filling his eyes. Arend was so happy, there had to be a good reason. The tears were chased away almost instantly as he watched Arend whistle his way toward the looking glass. The king stopped there, examining himself briefly, and it give Julian an unimpeded view of that handsome, rare face.

  And at the smile spreading across it.

  “You are so very happy,” Julian called out, using elevated Agadirian, the more formal iteration that few servants ever spoke. “I’ve rarely seen you this”—Jules gestured his hands in whirling circles—“full of the bubbles. Like champagne.”

  Arend caught his eye in the looking glass, appearing younger than usual. There was something boyish and innocent on the man’s face: as if he’d been given a long, purifying bath. “I was never truly happy until these past weeks. I did not know what it should feel like until you.” The words were spoken in near-flawless Agadirian, with a thoroughly aristocratic accent. But it was the words, in Julian’s own tongue—so tender, so naked, here in front of servants—that made his eyes burn again. This time with happy tears.

  “You take a gamble that no servants speak Agadirian,” Jules said, reverting to the provincial tongue of Arend’s realm.

  “Finding any servants at Ferndale who understand that coastal variation to your Agadirian dialect? The possibility strains credulity,” Arend said, tracking the last footman’s departure from the room. When the fellow left the door wide open, Arend called, “You may close that door, please!” There was a swift liveried blur, much like the frantic leap of a polite gazelle, and then they found themselves alone together.

  Arend pounced forward, flopping onto the sofa beside Julian. “We’ve but five minutes. I daren’t risk our being alone any longer, behind that closed door. Not with those servants aware that you’re with me.” He cupped Julian’s face, drawing it upward, and beginning a slow, scorching kiss.

  Julian melted into that kiss, and into Arend’s arms, as he was eased downward on the sofa. “There. On your back, darling.” Arend propped himself on elbows, angling sideways to deepen the kiss anew. “I love the sight of you spread beneath me,” Arend purred at his cheek. “The feel of it, too.”

  Arend slid a hand along Julian’s outer thigh, and then caressed inward, over Jules’s hip. Then he slid those same fingertips beneath Julian’s left buttock, squeezing. Julian rode off the sofa, chasing up into that caress with an unrestrained cry of need. That gave Arend complete access to Julian’s arse, and he cupped it fully in his right palm. He began kneading the flesh, drawing more cries from Julian’s throat. Urgency was building—this swiftly—in Julian. He rolled up against Arend’s hips, dragging the king’s solid weight against his groin, his pelvic bone.

  Arend stroked at Julian’s unbound hair, petting it as he slowly broke the kiss. “Good blazes.” The king was breathless, panting quick breaths, as he stared at Julian wondrously. “When I said five minutes, I underestimated how combustive your kisses become when you want something.”

  Julian began to laugh, recognizing the game. Arend began laughing with him, and then they both were laughing as if in some joke, but neither was quite sure which one. “See?” Arend teased. “I’m right.”

  Jul
ian laughed more, as Arend lifted his hips, slid a hand over Julian’s groin, then lowered back atop—the man’s fingertips pressed firmly against Julian’s turgid cock. “You do want something.”

  “We’re talking about sensual acts?” Because Julian wasn’t sure, but with Arend’s fingers all in his hair, and the other hand squeezing Julian’s prick, he no longer was sure.

  Arend gave him a wicked grin, laughing again. “Umm, my hot-blooded Agadirian wants something. I can tell,” he teased, his voice thick with lust, his pupils blown out with it, too. “You want it badly.”

  Julian wriggled beneath his lover, shimmying his hips, but Arend leveraged his greater size and weight, pinioning Julian. They lay there now, Julian’s head flattened upon a sofa pillow, staring up at him. “I want you.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Arend said, sly. “Although, you are splayed beneath me like a golden-hued wanton.” Arend nipped at Julian’s ear. “I adore you,” he murmured, and Jules was reminded suddenly of a flirtatious youth. One first discovering the things his cock was capable of, then putting the knowledge to use by fondling around beneath some other lad’s coattails.

  “You’re randy, sire.” Julian ducked his face to the side. “And you do, apparently, know what I want.”

  “Aye, I do.” Arend sat up tall on his knees, straddling Julian. “Here, let’s flip you over, shall we?”

  Julian stared up at his king, horrified at the man’s crassness. “Five minutes!” he squeaked, only realize Arend was teasing him, when the gentlemen gave him a dear, apologetic smile.

  “I believed you,” Julian complained as Arend lowered himself again, settling between Julian’s thighs, which—by some magic—had parted for His Majesty. Some magic, indeed. The magic of your throbbing cock, Julian chided himself.

  Julian was to have been about information. Gaining it, wheedling it out of Arend, whilst distracting the man with seduction. And, further, Julian was supposed to be winning this playful tussle with his lover, by God. “You need to get up now,” Julian said, pushing at Arend’s shoulder. “Right now, sire. Because you’ve things to do—haven’t you noticed? Important tasks, toward an important end”—Julian widened his eyes—“of some kind.”