by Lynn Kurland
Well, dragging Baldric upstairs to provide verse was absolutely out of the question. He'd just have to find something else.
"You didn't bring anything I could borrow, did you?" Alex asked.
Jamie frowned. "And ruin my own chances with your sister?"
"Oh, give it up," Alex snorted. "As if you're really the one under the gun right now."
"Very well," Jamie said, sounding none too pleased about it. "But know that it is not without great reluctance that I do this."
"Right. You can gripe all you want about it later. Just help me out now, okay?''
Jamie grunted in agreement and Alex sighed in relief. Heaven only knew what sorts of things Jamie had brought with him, but Alex knew his sister's taste ran to poetry and love letters. Alex could only hope Margaret would be moved by a sonnet or two. He looked at her and smiled.
"There's Odo's finest claret to look forward to," he reminded her.
She sighed the sigh of a woman condemned to a fate only slightly better than death. "Very well, then."
Jamie started to cough.
Alex pounded his brother-in-law very ungently on the back, then turned to Lord Odo's page.
"Tell His Lordship we'd be honored." And tell him to hurry up before Margaret changes her mind, he added silently.
The page scampered off and Alex turned to his bride to try to reassure her only to find her busily gulping down Odo's second finest wine. Alex took the cup away.
"You'll want a clear head."
" 'Twas to dull the pain."
"It won't be as bad as you think."
"It had best not be."
Alex seconded his earlier decision to make sure she wasn't packing any steel when he took her to bed. What he wouldn't have given for a portable metal detector.
Before he could wish any more for that, the king rose and a mad scampering to bow and curtsy convulsed the company. Alex was grateful for the distraction. He'd been on the verge of thinking about the particulars of the wedding night, and just the thought of thinking about them was enough to send him right over the edge. Going over the edge would have to come later and hopefully he'd take Margaret right along with him.
Assuming she didn't skewer him first.
With Margaret of Falconberg, one just never knew.
Twenty - four
The moans echoed throughout the castle. Lord Odo of Tickhill sat at his table, still recovering from the king's departure with a recently unearthed bottle of his very finest wine, and wondered at the volume and intensity of those moans.
What, by the saints, was Alexander doing to the girl?
Odo had squired with William of Falconberg, stood up for him at his wedding, and celebrated with him at the birth of each of his children. He'd mourned with him at the premature passing of his wife and grieved with him over the deaths of his sons. He'd also watched William waste away from his grief, leaving Margaret to fend for herself.
Odo had known, of course, just how long Margaret had kept up the ruse of her father being ill but alive. He'd done what he could secretly to aid her, for he'd always harbored a fatherly fondness for the girl who could best any of her brothers in a fair fight. And saints, what a woman she had become! Odo had held little private tournaments every now and then just to see if Margaret would come and humiliate the rest of the field. He'd never been disappointed. A pity she hadn't confided in him regarding Brackwald. He might have been able to help.
Then again, all he likely would have done was unwittingly expose her true state and thereby drive her to the altar sooner against her will. And what a man she would have missed out on.
Though at the moment, Odo was having less than charitable feelings toward Alexander of Seattle, lately of Falconberg. The moans were so intense, Odo couldn't decide if they were of pleasure or pain. The one thing he did know was that he needed to investigate. Far be it from him to intrude on another man's marriage bed, but he did feel a certain responsibility to Margaret and her happiness. Alexander could be strung up readily enough if need be.
He drained his cup, then rose and made his way from the great hall and up the stairs to his wife's solar. He'd seen the bed set up properly, a pair of tallow candles lit, and his finest claret set on the table with two goblets. And he'd managed to keep his wife from nipping at his heels about having her private solar used thusly.
He came to a dead halt at the top of the stairs. There, clustered about the door, were none other than his wife and all her ladies. Some were crouched, some were on tiptoes, but all had their ears pressed against the wood with all the enthusiasm of hungry leeches on a fat belly. As if they couldn't have heard the moans from down the stairs!
"By the saints," he hissed, "what do you?"
Lydia waved him to silence. "Hush," she said in a commanding whisper. "You distract us."
"I distract you?" he whispered back incredulously. "What is it you think you do to them?"
Lydia shot him a look of ire. "They're hardly attending us. By the saints, will you listen to them?''
Odo had no choice but to approach and listen. He leaned over his wife and pressed his ear to the wood.
"Is that good?" came a deep voice from inside the chamber.
"Oh, Alex," replied a higher, though very husky voice, "'tis bliss! I never imagined ... oh, by the saints!" This was followed by a gasp, then a moan of sheer pleasure.
Odo felt his cheeks flame. So he had spent his share of time as a squire with his ear pressed to various doors. And never mind that he'd also traveled to London as a young man and spent his share of nights in brothels where the sounds of pleasure fair echoed off the walls and ceilings.
This was something else entirely.
"Ohhh," Margaret moaned again. "It surely cannot be any better than this."
"Oh, but it can. Here, how about this?"
Well, whatever he'd done to her had just set up an entirely new round of moans. Pleasure? Pain? He couldn't decide. Just the intensity alone was unsettling.
Odo could bear it no longer. He thought he either might expire from embarrassment on the spot, or be forced to carry his yipping wife off to their bedchamber posthaste to indulge in the images just listening to the goings-on inside inspired in him.
"Away from the door," he commanded softly. "Go on, all of you."
"But—" chorused the women.
"Husband—" warned his wife.
"Now!" he hissed sharply. "By the saints, women, leave them to their peace!"
Lydia and her ladies grumbled and muttered under their breaths, but they started off down the passageway just the same. Odo was tempted to linger, but another moan sent him scampering off after his wife and her women.
The poor child! The saints only knew what was happening to her!
Margaret closed her eyes and flopped back against the pillows.
"Oh, my," she breathed.
"Good?"
"I'll let you know once I've recovered."
He laughed and leaned over to kiss her. "Your moans said it all."
"By the saints," she whispered, wondering if she would ever again have the strength to open her eyes. ' 'How have I lived my life without that?''
"There's more."
"Is there?" she asked, bouncing back up enthusiastically. "Alex, this was a most marvelous gift."
"Well, you certainly sounded like you enjoyed it."
She smiled at him as she accepted the gold box. "How could I not? I've never partaken of anything so wonderful!"
She looked down and had to admit she was sorry to see there was but one little ball left.
Alex had presented her with the box after they'd retired to Lydia's solar. She'd half expected to have him assault her with kisses as a prelude to The Act, which she was certain would not be as pleasurable as he made it sound. Even though Elizabeth had promised it was very wonderful, Margaret had had her suspicions it was otherwise.
Instead, Alex had given her a box of pure gold, tied about with a ribbon made of a most marvelous fabric. There were eve
n letters hammered into the box from the underside so they stood up. They were so perfectly formed, all she'd been able to do was gape at them in amazement.
"Godiva," Alex had explained.
"Godiva," she'd repeated in awe.
"Open it," he'd said.
She could hardly believe there was more to the gift, but she'd pulled away the ribbon, then lifted the lid carefully to find another sheaf of gold paper. She had fingered it lovingly.
" 'Tis beautiful," she'd said.
Alex had taken the paper away. "That's not the present."
Four little balls had been revealed. One covered with ground nuts, one white with brown stripes, one covered with dust, and a final one just a brown ball that didn't look all that appealing.
But then she'd sniffed.
And then she'd tasted.
She hadn't believed such moans could come from her own throat, but come they had. She'd thought she just might faint dead away from the glorious rush of pleasure that had coursed through her veins at the taste of the stuff on her tongue.
"Perhaps I should save the last," Margaret said, poking it carefully with her finger. It was the one covered in dust, though she now knew it was chocolate dust. "I think I need some time to recover from the first three."
"I think Jamie brought one more box, if that makes you feel any better."
Margaret looked at him in surprise. "And he's willing to part with it?"
Alex shrugged with a smile. ''Consider it a wedding gift to the both of us. Besides, he can get more when they go back home."
"To Scotland."
"To 1998."
"Ah," Margaret said with a nod. She wasn't at all convinced that such a place, or a time, existed, but if she had been leaning toward such a conclusion, the very taste of this sweet paste might have convinced her.
Margaret replaced the lid with a faint twinge of regret. "I should save it," she said, setting the box on the table near the bed. Then she looked back at Alex. "For later."
He was stretched out on the bed, leaning up on his elbow. "There are other things we could do."
"Such as?"
He grinned at her. "Kiss."
She considered, then nodded. "I would like that."
"You'll like what comes after just as well, I promise."
She only shook her head.
"It's better than chocolate," he promised.
Margaret snorted before she could stop herself. ''I cannot believe that."
Alex only laughed. "You'll see."
"Indeed, I shall. Very well, what will you have me do?"
"Come closer."
She inched closer to him.
"Now, lie down."
She was more than ready to do that. Somehow the chocolate had gone to her head and she was feeling rather dizzy.
And then Alex began to kiss her.
Her dizziness was joined by a growing fever. The longer he kissed her, the more feverish she began to feel. It was soon joined by a tingling feeling she couldn't identify, either.
"We could take off some of our clothes," Alex offered, lifting his head to gasp for air.
"Indeed," Margaret said, reaching for the laces of her gown. "I feel altogether flushed. I think it is the chocolate."
"It could be me, you know."
She considered that, then shook her head. "I think not. This is an entirely new feeling. I daresay I've kissed you enough in the past to know the difference."
"Margaret," he said, sounding faintly exasperated, "this wasn't just kissing. My hands were roaming all over your body."
She was just certain he was wrong, but there was no sense in not humoring him. She shed her clothes without thinking, then realized just what she'd done. She stood, very naked, at the side of the bed and stared at her also very naked, seemingly very eager husband.
"Well," she said lamely.
He crooked his finger at her. "Come here, lover."
''Maybe I should have that other piece of chocolate—''
"Save it. It'll take the place of a cigarette."
"Cigarette ... ?"
"I'll explain later."
Well, there looked to be no avenue of escape. And besides, she was a Falconberg, and Falconbergs did not flee at the first sign of a good fight. Or a bad one, for that matter. And Margaret was a Falconberg and to be sure one of the bravest of the illustrious line.
So she went into her husband's arms, fell to the bed with him and found that his hands roaming over her bare body did cause heat in her, and a far different kind of heat than his little Godivas had.
"This may be a bit uncomfortable," he said, a goodly while later when he moved over her.
"It can't be," she said, pulling him to her. "It all feels so very goo—"
Sir Odo sat at the top of the stairs, blocking the passage from his wife and her entourage. They'd done their best to overpower him, but he'd held firm. The moans had stopped quite a while ago. Either that was a good omen or a bad omen. He had no idea which.
Suddenly there was a howl of pain.
Then a huge crashing sound.
"My solar!" Lydia cried.
He caught her as she strove to push past him, then hauled her back onto his lap.
"I'm sure your furnishings have survived."
She didn't look to have believed him.
Odo saw the calculation come into her eyes and felt his gold begin to slip through his fingers. He knew there was naught he could do to halt it.
He sighed. "I'll see them replaced if not."
"I'll likely need new coverings for the chairs," Lydia said promptly.
Ah, how dearly this night had cost him! "Done," he conceded reluctantly.
"New thread for more wall hangings."
Odo closed his eyes, unable to face the mounting expenses. He leaned back against the stairwell and listened with half an ear to his wife's demands. Someone should have to pay for this trouble and it shouldn't have to be him.
He sat up with a start, then began to smile.
Lydia's merchants should have no trouble following his directions to the newly made Lord of Falconberg's purse.
Odo knew Lydia was still knee-deep in the listing forth of her demands, but he had ceased to listen. She could blather on 'til morning and it would affect him not at all. He began, however, to feel a bit of sympathy for young Alexander. This night would cost him a great deal.
Assuming, of course, that the lad survived the night. Odo frowned at the thought. He clutched his purse and prayed mightily that Alex would come from the bedding unscathed.
For there was complete silence in the solar, and Odo wondered if Margaret hadn't just done her husband in.
Twenty - five
Margaret woke to the sight of sunshine streaming in the window. Ah, the weather would be fine today. It was the perfect accompaniment to the sunniness of her mood. Perhaps becoming intimately acquainted with her husband hadn't started out so well; the end results had been most satisfactory.
She shifted and groaned at the soreness in unaccustomed places.
"You can say that again," Alex mumbled. He lifted his head off the pillow next to hers, turned his face toward her, and smiled. "Mornin', wife."
"And a good morrow to you, husband," she said returning his smile. She lifted her hand and carefully touched his discolored eye. "My apologies."
He only snorted out a little laugh. "I'm only grateful you didn't have a blade at your disposal. You pack quite a punch, my love."
His eye was completely swollen shut and had taken on a decidedly unattractive smattering of dark colors: black, blue, but mostly lavender. In truth, though, he had no one to blame but himself. He'd warned her of a little discomfort, but she'd ached too much for him to pay him any heed. She had not expected that sharp, unrelenting sting. He was bloody lucky she'd only clouted him in the eye. If she'd had a blade handy, the saints only knew what might have happened.
She turned that over in her mind. He'd been thorough enough in his search of her person before they
retired to bed. She'd thought he was merely taking the opportunity to familiarize himself with her form, but now she could see that he'd been saving himself a sticking.
Well, he seemed none the worse for the wear. She trailed her fingers along the ridge of his bare shoulders and smiled at the sounds of pleasure he made.
"Would you have something to break your fast?" she asked.
"Maybe later."
She nodded. "Aye, I have to agree. I don't think I'm up to rising right now."
"I certainly am."
Margaret stared into a startlingly blue-green eye. There was a decided twinkle there.
"Well," she said, wondering just what he found so amusing, "then you go fetch us something."
"That's not what I'm talking about." His hand groped its way across the bed until it encountered her knee, then it investigated some more. He worked his way up until he'd captured her hand. He pulled it under the sheet. "Let me clear things up for you."
Obviously her fist in his eye hadn't cooled his ardor any, though the events of a very long, very pleasurable night should have told her as much. Amazingly enough, his fires seemingly still burned brightly even now.
"I see," she said.
"I think you do."
"I suppose I can think of less pleasing things to do first thing," she ventured.
"I'll bet you can."
He kissed her. Margaret was certain her mouth tasted as if a garrison had trooped through it during the night, but Alex seemed not to care. And, to be sure, she found that she cared even less what condition his was in. His mouth worked a magic on her that not even chocolate could equal.
And as for the rest... she'd bluntly told him that she was certain nothing he could ever do would outdo what those dark balls of sin had. She'd survived the night only to have to take back her words. Godiva could not hold its own against Alexander of Falconberg when it came to leaving her convulsing with all-consuming pleasure.
"Oh," she said, as his callused hands moved purposefully over her body.
''What, no moans?'' he teased, lifting his head to smile down at her. "I'm insulted."