The King's Mistress

by TERRI BRISBIN

  Her thin chemise allowed the light of the flames to pass through it and Marguerite stood so that the material became transparent. From his indrawn breath, she knew she was exposed to him. Reaching her arms up, she lifted her braids and tugged the ties from them. Shaking her head, she allowed her hair to unravel behind her. Orrick probably did not even realize that he had taken several steps toward her. It had never failed her in the past and it did not now.

  He approached her stealthily, like a hunting cat moving in on its prey. He pulled the loose robe he wore off and stood naked before her. She could not help but admire his muscular form and masculine attributes. He fisted and opened his hands as he got closer and she shook her head again, teasing him. She knew she’d been successful when he took her in his arms and held her so tightly that she thought she could not breathe. Then he slid his hands into her hair and wrapped it around his hands over and over until she could not move.

  His mouth was hot and wet and took hers. His tongue sparred with hers and he tasted of wine and lust. Although she stood trapped in his embrace, she was not idle. Leaning against him, she let him feel her body with his. She met his kiss and his tongue with her own and felt his hardness press against her belly. He was breathless when he lifted his mouth from hers and she closed her eyes so he could not see how unmoved she was.

  Then, suddenly, he released her and stepped away. The air chilled her now that his heat was removed. Startled by his action, she watched as he looked over her from toe to head and then his gaze focused on her belly and breasts. His breathing was rough and labored and now she found hers matching it. Unable to stop it, her body tingled now under his gaze and moisture gathered in the place between her thighs.

  When he had taken several paces back, he spoke. His voice was thick with his lust. “Your pardon, my lady. I allowed my ardor to overwhelm my good judgment.”

  She could think of nothing to say. Her body thrummed with a pulse she had not thought possible with anyone but Henry. Her plan to stay unaffected was going awry.

  “I fear there is something I must ask you before we…” He could not say the word, but she knew what he meant. She nodded. “Are you breeding?”

  Of all the things she thought he would ask, this was not one. She expected curiosity about her past with the king. She even expected him to ask of her physical experiences, but this?

  “Breeding, my lord?” She met his gaze and saw that it was clear of lust now. He was still erect, but she knew that once focused on something other than the sex to come, he would lose it quickly. Damn! She did not want this drawn out overlong.

  “A simple question, surely. Do you carry the king’s child?”

  “Why would you ask such a thing of me? And at this time?” Marguerite needed to get this back on its path. She sat at her table and began to brush her hair, hoping that he would react to that.

  “The unseemly haste in which he accomplished our marriage. Your known past in his bed…or should I say him in yours? His established ability to beget children on his wife and others. All of these things went into my question.”

  When spoken like that, she felt dirty. And she had permitted no one to make her feel soiled. Her blood pounded in her veins as her anger rose. Marguerite stood and faced him. “And would you believe me if I answered nay?”

  He did not answer quickly enough and she threw the brush in her hand at him. He swatted it away without difficulty and took a step toward her. “I think you fear that you cannot live up to what he shared with me. I think you fear I will be comparing you and discovering you less a man than he. I think…”

  He was on her in a moment and she knew that she had said too much. He ripped the chemise from her and threw it to the floor. Pulling her into his arms, he touched her everywhere and plundered her mouth, more fiercely now than before. Before she knew what he planned, he walked them to the bed and fell into it without ever lifting his mouth from hers. Turning as they fell, she lay under him now, completely covered by his hard body.

  “You are mine now, before God and the king, and I will not share you with anyone,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. “I will be the only man you think of in this bed.”

  He spread her legs with his knee between hers and she knew that it would be over soon. Orrick was too far into his lust and anger now to stop. His words were bold and exactly what she had expected once she put a name to his fears. She had learned early in her education in life that men hated to be compared to others, especially in bedplay.

  Marguerite did nothing to encourage him, but neither did she resist him. He reached beneath her and lifted her hips toward him. But when she thought he would simply plunge inside her, he stopped and looked at her, truly looked at her. In an instant, he changed. Oh, he still wanted to take her, for she could see the lust in his gaze, but he let her hips fall back onto the bed and moved up so that their bodies met hip to hip and chest to chest.

  The curly hair on his chest tickled her breasts and she felt the hardness of his thighs on her. He took her hands, entwined their fingers as he had at dinner and held them over her head. His kiss was searing, but so gentle that it scared her. She could accept lust. She could accept his forceful taking of her. But this new gentleness nearly undid her.

  He rained kisses on her face and her mouth and then on her neck. Her body reacted, bucking against him and he moved closer and closer to her breasts. Marguerite could not control the moan that tore itself from her as he took her nipple into his mouth, his hot mouth, and tongued it until it pebbled. More sensitive than she remembered, her breasts swelled as he moved from one to the other.

  And then, as her body reacted more to each touch of his mouth and his body against hers, he slowed down in his attentions. He would not release her hands and she arched against him, her body offering itself up to him. Finally, he let her hands go and she clutched at his shoulders. But instead of pushing him away, her traitorous hands held him close.

  With a slow torturous method, he kissed his way down onto her belly and then her thighs. His cheeks, with the day’s growth of beard on them, teased her as he pushed her open to his gaze. Realizing his intent, she grabbed for his head even as his mouth reached its goal.

  And she was lost.

  He did not stop until she keened out her release. As the sounds erupted from her and the wetness and heat inside spread, he crawled up her body and slid inside her. No force, no haste. Just a gentle push and he filled her completely. She felt every inch of him moving deep within her and yet it felt so different than anything before.

  Confused and helpless against him, she opened her eyes and watched him above her. She could tell by the way he increased his movements and by the way his face tightened that he was ready to spill his seed. And with a groan he did. He continued to slide into her and then, spent, he let himself rest on her.

  He did not move for several minutes and then he lifted himself out and off of her. He watched her silently for a moment and then began to climb from the bed. This time she tucked her hands under her so that they could not reach for him. She needed to regain control. He could not think he’d won. He could not think that he could simply take her when he wanted. The words, meant to wound, spilled out of her.

  “Have you spent yourself for the night or will you want to bed me again as Henry always does?”

  Her aim was true.

  He staggered back away from her bed and left without a word, the door between their rooms slamming closed. ’Twould be some time before he gathered up his nerve to approach her again.

  Marguerite crept from the bed on shaking legs and washed herself with the still-warm water in the basin. Her chemise was torn beyond use so she crawled into the bed naked, pulling the covers up to her shoulders. Her body felt strange, as though it was somehow different than it had been before. As she sought sleep, she thought on how her tactics had worked.

  She could deal with his anger. When he nearly forced himself on her, her anger helped her to face him unafraid. It was his gentleness that sh
e feared.

  His gentleness would be her undoing.

  She would need to guard herself against that or she would truly be lost.

  Chapter Seven

  Orrick was gone from the keep and the village the next morning when she awoke. Edmee told her that he traveled to the abbey and might be gone for several days.

  Marguerite rose and washed and dressed with the help of her servant and then asked for a tray to be brought. She did not want to face his people this morn, especially not that rude Scot or her mother-by-marriage. What she wanted to do was walk outside.

  The window seat was a comfortable place now that the morning sun shone down through the window and warmed the alcove and cushion. Peering out the window, she watched as the yard came alive with people. Servants carried on in their duties and the gates of Silloth were open to visitors. If people could come and go, then there was a way to send a message south. Deciding on her course of action, Marguerite told Edmee to find parchment and ink for her to use.

  She surprised herself by finishing all of the food on the tray. She’d expected to be tired this morning and not have an appetite at all. Ah, well, she had survived the night and submitted to Lord Orrick’s attentions. Now, with him away from Silloth, she would have time to herself. Time to send a message to Henry and ask for his forgiveness once more.

  Taking the quill and sharpening it, she composed the letter to him in her thoughts first. She detailed the horrors of the journey there and then the meanness of this keep and the surrounding lands. Marguerite revealed the lack of the amenities and comforts and entertainments that she was accustomed to in her life with him.

  Dipping her quill into the ink once more, Marguerite began the more personal part of the letter, the part that told of how she had submitted to Lord Orrick’s attentions and how it had broken her heart to be touched by any man other than Henry. She promised that, though her body had been taken against her will, her heart and love remained only his. Although she had clearly embellished some of her account, she felt in her soul that she did still belong to Henry. Then Orrick’s heated words came back to her—You are mine now… I will be the only man you think of in this bed.

  Her heart protested his claim, but she knew that when he softened his assault, he had commanded her body in a way that frightened her. She had not thought of Henry while Orrick took her. She had thought of nothing. She had only felt. A shudder wracked her body as she realized that her reaction had been worse than simply not thinking of Henry. This man had pushed all thought, all control from her mind.

  Putting the quill down on the table, she pressed her hands to her eyes and thought back to the time last year when she had first voiced her displeasure to Henry over her meaning to him. Oh, how she wished she had never demanded more of him. She wished she could go back and change it, change the complaints she gave and change how she told him of her pregnancy.

  All she could do now was make him understand that she repented of her haughtiness and naive behavior. It took her a few hours but when she finished she was quite pleased with the results—two letters written to her uncle and a friend at court, each with a copy of the letter to Henry enclosed. She dare not try to have anything delivered directly to the king from here, so she sent them to two people she knew would support her in this matter.

  Finished, she summoned Edmee and asked her to seek out the steward and have these letters taken to wherever the king was residing. A few minutes later, the steward and Lord Orrick’s manservant arrived, red-faced and stammering. The steward went through a lengthy explanation about the difficulty of delivering such letters, but since he spoke English, she gave him a blank stare. Even if she wanted to, it was difficult to understand the English that these peasants spoke, due to their thick accents. ’Twas Lord Orrick’s servant who realized the problem and he began to translate the steward’s words into her language.

  “My lady, Norwyn cannot send a messenger to the king unless Lord Orrick gives his permission. And even then, my lord does not contact the king or his officials unless it is of the utmost importance.”

  “And you question my intentions and my need to have these—” she pointed at the folded and sealed letters “—delivered to my kinfolk to assure them of my safe arrival here?”

  “My l-lady,” Gerard stammered again after repeating her words to Norwyn and hearing his response. “Norwyn does not question you on this. He but seeks to explain that he can do nothing without Lord Orrick’s permission.”

  She enjoyed their discomfort for a moment more then smiled at them. “Ah, then there is nothing to be concerned over, for Lord Orrick promised me that I could communicate with my family at any time and as often as I like.”

  She waited for her words to get to the steward and smiled at him, daring him to contradict her or prohibit her from sending these letters. The two men looked at each other, clearly not believing her words, but neither was courageous enough to stand up to her.

  “Then my son is even more generous in his care of you than I suspected.” The Lady Constance entered the chamber and nodded to the steward, continuing in English, “If Lord Orrick has promised his wife this, Norwyn, then you must see to it.”

  Marguerite held her breath as Lord Orrick’s mother scrutinized her and the letters held by Norwyn. Lady Constance broke off her stare and waved the men from the chamber. “When Orrick returns, he can decide on the best way to send any more of Lady Marguerite’s messages to her family.”

  Norwyn and Gerard left and she waited for Lady Constance’s true message. Had Orrick confided in her the events of the night before? Although the woman had helped her during the journey, Marguerite felt the anger, hostility and dislike pouring from her. She decided to make the first strike.

  “My thanks for intervening with those servants. They had the boldness to question me about sending the letters.”

  Marguerite walked to the window and sat down. Motioning to the chair before her dressing table, she invited Orrick’s mother to sit, as well. The older woman refused with a shake of her head.

  “I have been serving as my son’s chatelaine since he gained his titles, but it is your right to do so now. If you would like, I will work with you until you have a grasp of how things are done here at Silloth. As you can see, Norwyn is still new to his duties and needs guidance.”

  Surprised by the words and the offer, Marguerite thought about it. If she remained married to Orrick, ’twould be her responsibility to oversee the running of the keep and to see to the welfare of the people. But she did not plan to be here long enough to make such a thing necessary.

  “I would plead for your indulgence, my lady,” she began. “I am not yet recovered from the journey and would ask for a few more days before doing as you suggest.” Marguerite met the woman’s gaze evenly. “And I would like to observe this place before I take on those duties expected of me by you, my husband and his people.”

  She was not certain if Lady Constance believed her, but the woman nodded and rose to leave. Marguerite stood, as well, in spite of any personal feelings about her mother-by-marriage, for polite behavior had been ingrained in her from her earliest memories. And that behavior had helped her through many difficult and even awkward situations.

  “The day is fair,” Lady Constance replied, nodding toward the sunshine that still filled the room through the window. “Take advantage of it then. I will send your servant to you, and your husband’s, as well.”

  She frowned at the words.

  “Orrick ordered Gerard to teach your maid English. ’Twill be easier if he guides you through the keep and village since he speaks both your language and ours.”

  “I thank you for your consideration, Lady Constance,” she said, becoming uncomfortable with the kindnesses being offered.

  Within a few minutes, she and her small entourage entered the yard and Orrick’s servant gave a continuous description of the people they passed and the various buildings they saw as they walked the length of Silloth within the walls to the eas
t of the keep. Marguerite ignored the chatter as Gerard gave the English word for many of the sights around them. She could see that Edmee enjoyed the man’s attention as they moved through the yard.

  Silloth appeared to be an organized and ordered place, with its people being in good health and of a lively disposition. Many of the manors and keeps she’d visited in Normandy were not as well kept as this. Lord Orrick was obviously a man talented at maintaining and administering his properties.

  Although Edmee and Gerard were still involved in conversation, Marguerite decided that she’d walked enough for this afternoon and announced her intent to return to her chambers. Feeling better, she dismissed Edmee and told her to stay.

  “My lady, I will escort you back,” the manservant said.

  “Nay, Gerard. It is a straight path back to the keep and one I can see plainly. Continue with your lessons with Edmee.”

  Edmee smiled coyly at the man and blushed. Marguerite understood what was happening here and nodded to them both. Clearly, the differences in their language and origins did not stop the growing attraction between them.

  She left them and circled the back of the keep instead of returning directly to it. There, in a smaller fenced-in yard, dozens of men and boys worked with weapons and with horses. Ah, the training yard. She could not see this side of the yard from her window. Walking closer, she watched as some of the more experienced among them worked with sword and shield. Unfortunately, Lord Orrick’s Scottish friend was one of them.

  The giant had stripped down to his trews and his long, red hair was tied back. He moved with a certain grace that belied his size and roughness of manners. A skilled warrior, she realized he must be formidable as an adversary in battle. Marguerite stood quietly for a few minutes, watching as he took down three opponents without even seeming winded. Then he noticed her, for he saluted her with his sword, drawing attention to her presence.