Marie (The Curse of Lanval Book 2)

by Rebekah Dodson

  I eyed her, crossing my arms. “It’s not okay, and I don’t care if it’s 1154 or 2016, it’s wrong.”

  “So, you’ve never just, ya know, diddled a drunk girl after she passed out?”

  “‘Diddled’?” I scoffed. “No, never.”

  “Seriously?”

  A wicked, cruel scene flashed in front of my eyes: the rape victim that Becci and I had on my last shift. Rachel? Rochelle? Something like that. Her twisted arm, her torn skirt, her black eye. How could anyone take advantage of women like that? Rape was rape – whether it involved abuse or not, it was still wrong.

  “I’m going to punch you,” I cautioned my sister. “I’ve had almost more than I can handle today. And I don’t take advantage of women. Ever.”

  Jules sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to tell you, Gill, but I know that if Francis and Becket don’t hear the horizontal mambo, then they won’t crown you king.”

  “I know.” A thought occurred to me, then. “Is there some way to fake it? Just have her scream or something?” I whispered.

  “She told me they check, like examine her, afterward.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh!” I repeated when I realized what she meant. “Gross, Becket has to…?”

  Jules made an obscene gesture with her arm. “Right up in there.”

  “Ugh,” I said in disgust. “Wait, how do we know she wasn’t with Henry before?”

  Jules shook her head. “They check her right after, um, you’re done, I guess.” She cleared her throat and shifted her weight to each foot. She looked about ready to cry.

  “Jules, you are okay?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jules…”

  “Go get ‘em, Gill,” she muttered and then turned and fled down the stairs. As I turned to watch her go, I saw Marie’s face at the bottom of the staircase. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she quickly disappeared.

  I exhaled heavily but strode into the room with the most confidence I could ever muster. She may not like me, but by God, I’d give it all I had.

  I wasn’t sure what Jules had meant by she’s ready, but at this point, I didn’t even know what to expect. The room was empty when I entered, the only sound the crackling fire that someone had recently stoked. I unclasped my cloak and threw it over the chair by the fire, then slipped out of my boots, socks, and pants. I left my tunic on. I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want to be naked for this.

  I didn’t want to do this at all, as a matter of fact.

  The bed curtains were drawn, and I heard her gasp as I approached. I threw back the thick cloth, and there was Eleanor, dressed only in a thin, revealing, white nightgown. I could see the tips of her nipples poking through the sheer material, and immediately my second, smaller brain stood at attention. She looked up at me, her long red hair, unbraided and framing her delicate face, which was twisted in sadness and almost fear.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Please, don’t hurt me,” she said in quiet French.

  “My lady,” I answered in French, kneeling on the bed before her. “I could never hurt you.” I blinked and her face dissolved in front of me, replaced by Marie’s rounded cheeks. I shook my head, and it was the queen’s thin, pert face again.

  I took a deep breath. I could do this. I can do this.

  It’s not just another fuck, I thought. This time it’s wrong.

  I lifted one of her legs, then the other, pulling her gown up above her knees to reveal her waiting sex. I reached forward and touched her face. “Let me please you.”

  She turned her head away from my touch, closed her eyes, and said nothing. I tried to caress her, tried to be loving. Tried to imagine it was Marie and not this stranger. But she didn’t respond to my touching. I knew she was scared, and so was I. This was no time to turn on the charm; this was time to get to work. I had a duty for King and country. Damn, I seemed to be telling myself that a lot these days.

  It had been two weeks without any relief for me, so our union was over and done before she had a chance to relax. She made no noise and never moved, and the longer it took, the more of a scumbag I felt. She was warm and tight, and I was relieved to find myself close to climax. I froze and squeezed my eyes shut, finally, feeling the euphoria wash over me. It was more fleeting than anything I had ever felt, and remorse washed over me like ice cold water, shocking me back to the present. When I finished, I rolled off her and grabbed for my pants, pulling them on and tying the knot tight, like a perverse penance.

  She lay on the bed, waiting, staring at me. A tear ran out of her right eye and silently landed on the pillow beneath her. “I’ll just, uh, get the …” I didn’t even finish my sentence. I wanted a cold shower and to scrub my body with Ajax until my skin was bleeding.

  You’re a fucking horrible person, Gill.

  I know.

  I pulled on my boots, forgetting the socks and hopping awkwardly while rushing for the door, feeling ever more the fucking rapist I was. Who takes advantage of poor, defenseless queens? Guillaume Lanval, that’s who.

  I was no better than the faceless rapist of my victim that I’d taken to the hospital. We were the same. Except, I had tried not to hurt the queen. Tried and failed, I realized; the emotional damage was still there.

  Becket met me on the way up the stairs with Marie behind him.

  “It is done?” she translated. Her voice was so defeated I couldn’t even look at her.

  I nodded and pushed past them. I ran to the bottom of the stairs, taking them two at a time, leaping the last four and landing square on my feet. Jules was there, and though she tried to glare, she just wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Your majesty, wait!” Someone called behind me. I ignored them.

  I made a note to hold my head high as I strode past the couriers, the banquet still in full swing, many of them three sheets to the wind. A king always hid his shame. I pushed the great hall doors open and ran out into the night.

  “Prince Henry!”

  I turned to see Marie behind me, running with her skirts held in both hands. I crossed the bridge that held the rest of the courtyard in front of the castle. I didn’t have a plan; I didn’t know what I was doing. I just needed air. I needed out of the castle. I needed away from this madness. My head swam with the lingering remnant of my orgasm mingled with disgusting shame.

  “Gill!”

  “What do you want?” I stopped and spun, gritting my teeth.

  “You can’t run from this,” she said, stopping and dropping her skirts, her hand to her chest as she heaved with her exertion. “You…you have to go back in and play your part!”

  “My part?” I nearly spit the word at her. “This was not the plan!”

  “Maybe not, but you are still the would-be king, and you must stick to the script.” She took a step closer to me.

  “What would you know of scripts?” I shouted at her, advancing even closer. “Your life has been finery and playing at court. You know nothing about me, my sister, or what is going on here! This was not what was supposed to happen!”

  “You know nothing about my life, either,” she shouted back.

  “Try me!”

  She shook her head, her voice softer, now. “I can’t.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, this is not what I wanted.”

  “Nor did my grandfather want me to be stuck here!” she shouted with renewed vigor.

  “I—” We were scant inches apart as I leaned toward her. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, forget it,” she said and turned around.

  I grabbed her arm and spun her toward me.

  “What are you—” she started to protest.

  My anger, my frustration, everything flooded out then. Post-coital hormones that I couldn't control flooded through me. I kissed her firmly on her sweet lips, my arms wrapped around her. I didn’t dip her, even though I know girls like
d that sort of thing. I kissed her and then I did something strange.

  I let her go.

  She backed up quickly; her fingers pressed to her lips. “What … what have you done?”

  “What I should have done the first time I met you,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t have,” she mumbled, “You don’t know what you’ve done! I’m…” she trailed off and turned again, and fled back toward the castle.

  “Marie, wait!” I jogged after her, but she was gone before I could catch up.

  Maybe I’d been wrong. Those little smiles over the last two weeks, the glances, her humming by my bedside, laying with me and wooing me into gentle sleep, I’d been confused. She didn’t see me how I saw her.

  For the first time in my life, I realized I’d made a mistake.

  “Marie!” I called again. I felt wetness on my cheek and reached up to wipe it away. I stared at the tears on my hand. I never cried, I never … why the fuck was I crying?

  Marie, what have you done to me?

  Cursed. The world fled across my mind as I trudged slowly back to my castle, my prison. Everything I touched ended up ruined.

  You’re a horrible person, Guillaume Lanval.

  I know.

  Now.

  Tomorrow we would ride to London, where I’d receive my crown, and it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  Read more about Gill’s story in MAGIC, Curse of Lanval: Book III, available April 2017 on Amazon.

  Book III: MAGIC

  SNEAK PEAK

  Chapter One:

  Do I Have to Do Everything?

  I missed my mother.

  My name is Guillaume Lanval, but call me Gill. A curse has plagued my family for as long as I can remember—mysterious deaths, car accidents, vases toppling off the fireplace in the middle of the night, that kind of thing. My mother would never admit it, but we all knew.

  Especially the day my sister touched a mirror in an ancient chapel that sent us spiraling back to 1154 A.D.

  So, I missed my mother, my dorm room, my simple life in the present, all while I was trapped here without even modern fucking bathrooms or portable water. I wanted to be back in my ambulance, a kind of calming stress, saving lives as a paramedic, even in the midst of chaos. It would have been a welcome change to the near death we experienced every day since we got here. Every fucking day I flipped between Gill the awesome and Gill the life saver.

  It was exhausting.

  I wondered what my mother would be doing now. Jules and I had been gone for a little over three weeks. Surely, they would have found Cousin Andre’s car, in the empty parking lot of the castle, but we would be nowhere to be found. It was hard to think of my mother crying over us, wondering if we’d been kidnapped or run away or maybe just went insane. One minute she had healthy, happy college-aged children – me, the cool, calm, confident, twenty-year-old paramedic son and history major, and slightly older, my sister Jules, a firefighter daughter who was majoring in science – the next my mother would be childless. My father might even fly to France to look for us, and my Aunt would be just as upset at my mother.

  Did I mention this was Jules’ fault? That we were trapped eight hundred and fifty years in the past? Today is October 20th, 1154A.D., and we’re somewhere on the west coast of France.

  Oh, as if this isn’t fucked up enough, it gets worse.

  Way, way worse.

  I’m about to be crowned king of England and France.

  It’s a long story, so you should probably stop here and go read the first two parts of this tale. Go ahead, motherfucker, I’ll wait.

  Back already?

  Alright, so you know about Prince Henry and how I had to take his place. And some other stuff I don’t want to think about. So here I am, in a carriage made for a king, next to my wife, the girl I’m kinda in like with, and a fat priest named Thomas Becket who history says I have to kill in a few years.

  I hoped I wouldn’t be around for that mess.

  Hey, I warned you it was pretty fucked. Keep reading, though, because it gets more awesome as we go. You ready? Hang on for the fuckin’ ride.

  Our carriage rumbled over the bumpy barely-a-road we were traveling on, sending my head bumping against the roof as we traversed the treacherous French woods on our way to the coastline. Next to me, Queen Eleanor, who slept softly, jolted awake. She eyed me with contempt and scooted closer to the carriage window, her eyes snapping shut once more. I couldn’t blame her. We had consummated a marriage I never asked for or wanted, and I still felt like a horrible fucking human being.

  I looked over at Marie. She was always my calm after the storm, but lately, I hadn’t seen her, except in passing as we both played our course. After the events of the banquet last week, our departure was delayed for a few days. Piers, my servant, had almost drowned and so had I. Becket agreed we both needed more time to heal. After I accidentally named Marie my mistress by waving flowers around in court—in front of the queen, none the less – I understood, partially, why Marie had made herself scarce.

  And Jules hadn’t been around much either. She stopped coming to debrief me, and I never saw her at breakfast.

  I had never felt so alone in the last few days.

  Everything was fucked.

  “Prince Henry, you’re staring,” Marie murmured in English, ripping me out of my thoughts. It was the first time I’d heard her utter anything in the last two days.

  “Sorry.” I sighed, leaning forward toward Marie. I ran a hand through my wavy red hair, my nervous tick I’d worked hard to quell in the last few years, but had since resurfaced. It was annoying as shit. Next to her, Archdeacon Thomas Becket snored loudly with his head leaning alongside the window. Marie was squashed between Becket’s voluminous robes and the velvet lined walls of the carriage. She couldn’t even reach her familiar parchment to write. Her arms were clasped straight in front of her, and her cheeks were a bright rosy red.

  I shook my head. “This is awful.”

  She almost smiled, but just looked at me.

  I’ve only been around for twenty years, but I knew the silent treatment when I saw it. She was still mad. Why? Because I’d kissed her? Or done my duty to king and country and slept with the queen? Literally, every woman was pissed off at me, well, save my sister, Jules, and I was sure she was a little mad at me, too, though I didn’t really know why.

  “How’s the ride in there?” I heard Jules call from outside the window. I threw open the purple curtain and looked up at her on her horse. Though I couldn’t see him, the English ambassador, Francis, would be trotting his own steed on the other side of the carriage. I could barely make out the flank of soldiers, both before and after us.

  “This is a lot of effort to crown the wrong prince,” I said in English. Only Marie and Jules could understand me, so I didn’t bother saying our secret out loud. Everyone else, of course, spoke old French, which I was quickly learning to translate from my modern fluency in the language. It was still hell. I still hadn’t figured out how Marie understood us, other than she was a time traveler like us, but her story was still mostly shrouded in mystery.

  “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” I asked for probably the twelfth time since we left Chateau de Falaise, just before dawn.

  “Don’t worry, little brother,” Jules smiled. “You’re in good hands.” She tipped her head, and her steel helmet fell over her eyes. She pushed it back on her head.

  I stared at her chainmail shirt with the blue and white coat of arms thrown over it, pants that ended at the knee, and her boots pulled high. “Whose idea was it to let you dress like a soldier, again?” I said.

  “Eleanor’s,” Jules said, her voice muffled by the helmet.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, eying her. I still couldn’t figure out what was going on between them. My sister had some grand love affairs in her time, but she didn’t always have the best sense when it came to women.

  But then again, neither did
I.

  To make matters worse, I was sharing a carriage with my wife beside me and across from me was the girl I was in l … lo…. I snuck a glance at Marie again and swallowed hard, almost gagging on the word.

  The girl I liked a lot.

  I tried saying that L word a few times, but fuck me, I couldn’t. She had ditched the white wimple again today, which made me glad. One thick brown side braid tucked over the front of her shoulder, but tiny tendrils of her shiny hair escaped to frame her round face. God, she was sexy as hell right now. She was wrapped in a brown cape, because it was almost November, and northern France was freezing. She had always dressed modestly, which generally I hated, but there was something about how she carried herself that made me sit up and notice.

  She didn’t have the face of a model, she wasn’t airbrushed, layered with makeup, or thin and sickly with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. None of the typical twenty-first century looks I was used to. No, she wasn’t my type at all. Her eyes were a soft brown under bushy brows, and thin, pale lips below plump, rosy cheeks. Most of her was round, from the soft curve of her face down to her ankles; curvy in all the right places.

  I hated curvy girls. What was wrong with me?

  Her lips. Yes, I stared. What else was there to look at in this carriage? The gaunt, sickly priest next to her? My queen next to me, with the pinched and slender face, what my buddies called resting bitch face. Marie was different, a stark contrast to everyone in this tight space, drowning out them all with her quiet, confident presence.

  Above all, she was smart as hell. She spoke English, French, Italian, German. She was a poet, a storyteller, and magic weaver. I knew in the folds of her dress she had her wand tucked somewhere. I’d only seen her use her magic once, but it was enough to make me a believer. She was a mystery wrapped in a plain robe, with bright eyes shining with intelligence, and beautiful plump lips, she tucked back around white teeth whenever she was nervous.

  She had sweet lips I knew, from when they had met mine. Even though a few days ago, I’d held her in my arms, she was the most beautiful thing I could have asked for. Her voice was music to my ears, and even when she said two words to me, I felt my stomach leap in anticipation like a fucking girl.