by Andersen,Kai
All five of them were seated together at one end of the long conference table. The king presided over the meeting, his eyes and mind still alert at sixty years of age. He didn’t look like he was going to give up the throne anytime soon.
“I won’t regret this, Father!”
“Maybe you won’t. But humor an old man who happens to be your father, can you?”
“You’re not old, Father,” Giselda said loyally, loving this man who had taken her in thirteen years ago.
“You know what I mean, girl.”
Her stepfather’s voice was so kind that she nodded, although every cell in her being howled a protest.
“It would only be for a few days, Giselda,” her mother, the queen, assured her.
Giselda swallowed her tears. “What is the quest, Father?”
“It has been made known to me word of a golden bird whose saliva has wonderful medicinal properties.”
“Saliva! Yeck!” Giselda grimaced. Even Serena made a face. “Are you sure, Father?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” the king replied with the patience of a father who knew his children. “There’s a story of a man who has been lucky enough to have a drop of its saliva fall into his mouth. Immediately, his aches and pains disappeared.”
“Sounds too good to be true. What if it’s nothing but a wild goose chase?”
“Then he’d better bring home the goose instead,” a younger male voice replied.
“Frederick!”
He grinned, unrepentant.
“Father?”
“I have verified it with the wise ones, Giselda. The story is true and legitimate.” The king shot a scolding look at Frederick. “Now, the bird has been sighted about two days’ hard ride east of here. Approximately five days to and fro is a short time, Giselda.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Of course, we will allow Michael some basic provisions. He can also bring his bodyguards with him. Two should be enough. This quest may have some level of difficulty, but I don’t think it’s impossible.” The king’s eyes glazed for a moment, and then he sighed. “More arduous quests have been undertaken by a man for his lady fair.”
“That’s a direct quote from somewhere, isn’t it?” the queen asked.
“Past and Present Days of Chivalry, chapter ten.” Serena uttered her own sigh, but hers was one of longing. “I love that book. I used to dream over those daring tales of knights and kings, and the princesses they loved and won.”
“You have your own prince right here.” Frederick leaned over and planted a passionate kiss on her lips.
“Oh, break that up, you two.” Giselda scowled.
Frederick and Serena broke apart, laughing.
The king banged his hand on the table. “So it is settled. This is my decree: To the man who completes this quest, I shall give my daughter in marriage.”
Chapter Six
Giselda sat morosely in the garden, a multi-colored pile of petals at her feet. She was surrounded by tall shrubs and trees that towered, providing a perfect shade for the bench she was sitting on. A fair breeze played with her hair, lifting the brown strands, which she had left to fall in a thick, loose mass at her back. Sometimes the wind shifted and swirled through the petals, reorganizing their arrangement. The sweet scent of different flowers mingled and wafted through the air. In her hand, a pink rose was quietly breathing its last. She stripped the flower methodically of its petals, letting them fall to the top of the pile.
“Cheer up, Princess.” Rodin sat a few feet away on another bench. “There’s nothing you can do but wait.”
“Easy for you to say.” She grabbed a handful of petals and threw them into the air. “It’s been three days!”
“And two to three more before he gets back.”
“Oh, shut up!” She didn’t want to be reminded that she was behaving out of turn. “Go guard somebody else; Michael isn’t here anyway.”
He had the gall to look bored. “I can’t. Frederick ordered me to stick by your side.”
“Then I un-order you.” Giselda knew she was being childish and petulant, but she didn’t care. When Rodin remained silent, she threw up her hands in impatience. “Oh, never mind! Just sit there and be bored, then.”
“You’re really missing that prince?”
“What’s it to you if I do?”
“Maybe you’re just worried about losing the chance to be queen someday.” His voice was quiet, only a little above a whisper.
But she heard it, as she knew he meant her to.
Giselda gasped in outrage because it was the truth. But it was a truth that no one but she and her mother knew. “You don’t know anything! You are just a bodyguard, a servant!”
Rodin stiffened. “Forgive me for my presumptions, Your Highness.”
An awkward silence descended between them. Giselda continued plucking the petals from the flowers; a neverending supply rested beside her in a large basket. She was angry at his accusation because hearing it from his lips made it sound terrible and ugly. It wasn’t as if she were taking advantage of Michael. She was a princess of one of the mightiest and richest kingdoms in the world; she had a lot to offer the man she chose to be her husband. All she wanted was power, riches, and a bloody title in exchange.
Her conscience nagged at her. Rodin spoke the way he did because he didn’t understand her. He didn’t know what drove her to have those dreams, those hopes. Whatever he did, she was still a princess, higher in rank and status than him. She shouldn’t have spoken the way she did.
“I’m sorry, Rodin. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“There’s no need to apologize, Your Highness. We servants learn to take these things in stride.”
Uh-oh. She wished he would go back to calling her Princess, anything but that insufferable Your Highness.
“Look, Rodin, you know I don’t apologize easily. Won’t you be gracious and accept it?” She looked at his stiff profile beseechingly.
He saw her expression and chuckled. “All right.”
Relief flooded over her. She hadn’t been aware of how much she treasured Rodin’s friendship until that moment.
“Thanks.” Her head bent, but the flower was blurred. “It’s just the pressure of the past few days, I guess, and then Michael’s sent off on a quest, and I miss him, and everything was just too much -- Ow!”
She had pricked her finger on a thorn, and a blurred red dot was blossoming. She dropped the rose and dashed her tears away with the other hand.
Rodin was beside her in a flash, petals flying everywhere as he waded through them. “Let me see that.” He grasped her hand, kneeling in front of her and tipping her fingers toward himself. He wiped the blood away gently and probed for a thorn. With relief in his voice, he said, “You just broke the skin. You’re lucky a splinter didn’t embed itself in your --”
Giselda knew why he suddenly stopped. He had looked up and seen how his nearness was affecting her, how she couldn’t stop the rush of desire rippling through her at his touch. She had always been so transparent.
In that instant, rank fell away. She was just a woman, and he a man.
His green eyes holding hers, he lifted her hand and sucked on the wounded finger. She gasped as molten heat ran through her veins. He sucked alternately on each digit of her hand, feeding the fire burning in her and inciting a strange yearning to have those lips on her lips, on her breasts. His mouth was hot, pulling deeply as he sucked. The raw look of lust on his face and the sight of him sucking on her fingers built her excitement and increased her desire.
Holding her fingers away from his mouth, he sat on the bench and bent toward her. The desire in his eyes slammed into her, making it hard for her to breathe. One hand cupped her cheek as he murmured, “Perhaps this is what you miss,” and then his lips covered hers, dry and firm and intent. The kiss wasn’t gentle, but wild and passionate, turbulent and freeing. His tongue stroked across her lips, strong and vibrant and seeking.
At first she was overwhelmed
, but then she responded, just as wildly and passionately. Her arms went around his neck, and her mouth opened and invited his tongue to taste her honeyed depths, meeting him boldly and stroking back eagerly.
“So passionate,” he murmured when they came up for air. “Just as I dreamed.”
Before she could even think, his lips had swooped down to reclaim hers for another heated kiss. With his hand supporting her back, she reclined slowly on the bench, pulling him down with her. Their exploration of each other’s mouths continued, savoring, lingering, memorizing.
She made a slight sound of protest when he lifted his head to say, “And maybe you missed this.”
His heated mouth captured a painfully tight nipple, sucking strongly, pulling her breast into his mouth. She moaned, not knowing when he had unbuttoned her bodice, knowing only that he mustn’t stop. He nuzzled against her bare skin, his hair falling softly and grazing the sensitive skin of her breast. His fingers rolled and rubbed the neglected nipple, twitching it until it was as tight and hard as its twin.
“I will make you forget him.”
She moaned again, both excited by his words and caught in the turbulent sensations coursing through her. He transferred to the other breast, enveloping her nipple with his mouth. He teased the hard nub with stabbing motions of his tongue, causing her to cry out at the intensity, desire pooling between her thighs.
His fingers worked nimbly and dispensed with the buttons all the way down her dress in record time. It was a new fashion created by Madame Beauvoir, and Giselda had worn it that day in an effort to lift her spirits. She’d never imagined that it would pave an easy way for him to access her bare skin, for his lips to dance down her ribs, across her abdomen, teasing at her navel, before burying themselves in the black curls between her thighs, his hot breath toying with her pussy.
She felt ... she didn’t know ...
She whimpered.
Cool air feathered across her breasts, and she missed the touch of his lips on them. She brought her hands up and played with her nipples as he had a while ago, pinching hard, intensely aware of another fire kindling in her lower body. His hands lifted her buttocks, and she arched into his mouth, willing him to continue the tormenting pleasure. His tongue reached out and licked her. Her breath hitched. He stabbed against her moist recesses, lapping at her juices. Her whimpering cries echoed in her ears. She was aware of something building within her, a strange and tight tension, pressure ...
His tongue curled around a hard nub, a place she soon discovered was the center of all her pleasure. He sucked repeatedly, strongly, holding her hips immobile as he continued his ministrations, and splinters of pleasure pierced through her. Her pussy spasmed, and she bucked and arched and writhed in frantic movements against his mouth. She screamed as the sensations overtook her. “Oh, gods!”
Finally, she lay still, complete lethargy invading her muscles. His face was still buried in her pussy, his tongue making soothing swipes among her folds, at her clitoris. She shuddered, a mini-orgasm rippling through her.
Now she knew. She couldn’t begin to describe the things she had felt -- it was that good -- but she now knew what it was that drove men to seek their pleasure between a woman’s thighs. Er, but why did he not ...?
He kissed her thigh, pulling the soft flesh into his mouth and effectively distracting her from her thoughts. Her pussy throbbed. After laying her back down on the bench, he moved until he was sitting beside her upper body. He bent his head, and she tasted her own juices on his lips. Instead of being repulsed, she thrilled to the added dimension of intimacy between them.
“Say my name!” he demanded against her lips.
She moaned and cupped his cheek, loving the rough feel of his skin under her fingertips.
“I want you to know --” His tongue teased the shell of her ear. “-- that it’s not the gods who are responsible --” His tongue stabbed into her ear, sending streaks of pleasure through her. “-- for this, but me. Rodin. Say it!”
His name sent a splash of cold water washing over her. She pushed him away. “No!”
He sat up slowly, his green gaze driven as it roved down her body, lingering on her breasts and her dark bush. His eyes met hers, and she caught a glimpse of the haunted pain in them before it was masked completely.
He reached out.
She trembled.
He gently buttoned her dress, taking care not to touch her more than he had to, evidenced by the careful way he grasped each button and slipped it into its partnered hole, then moved quickly to the next one. He helped her to sit up and then rose to his feet.
“I guess that prince was the one on your mind, then,” he said, his eyes hard. He stood and sat back on his bench, his body angled away from her.
She stared at his wooden profile, her thoughts and emotions tumbling erratically.
She could no longer run from the truth: She was attracted to Rodin, desired him, even. But how could she desire him when it was Michael she wanted, Michael who could give her the crown, Michael who’d had to work hard to gain her response? Even now, it was Rodin’s lips she wanted to trace her tongue over, to soften them and to feel them over her lips again, to have his tongue inside her mouth, stroking her, making her feel cherished and desired and wanted.
How could she tell him that when she didn’t understand herself, when she didn’t know why?
Chapter Seven
“Serena, it’s been seven days. I can’t take this anymore!”
Giselda paced back and forth across the sitting room in her stepbrother’s apartments.
Serena was seated in the overstuffed armchair in the right corner of the room, yarns of wool in the basket at her feet. “These things take time, dear. Sometimes there are detours along the way, or they may have been riding a bit slow, stretching the two days to three or four --”
“And they could have been captured, slain, and roasted over a fire for an ogre’s dinner!” Giselda’s agitation instigated her imagination, conjuring up several horrible fates that could have befallen Michael and his companions.
“You’ve been cooped up in the castle for the past four days; no wonder these silly thoughts have been going through your head,” Serena chided. “Here, take some of these blueberry cookies; they’re fresh from the oven.” She nodded toward the plate on the table beside her. “It’s not chocolate, but it might calm your nerves.”
Giselda saw the inviting presentation of delicious-looking cookies and reached out a hand. “Hmm ... Delicious! It positively melts in my mouth.” She released a blissful sigh. “You baked these?”
“No, it was Mrs. Goode-Heart.”
Giselda shrieked and dropped the cookie like a piece of hot coal.
Serena looked up in alarm. “What’s the matter?”
“I will never, never take in anything handled by that evil woman!” Giselda shuddered.
“Don’t be silly! Mrs. Goode-Heart is a loyal servant and as good as her name. She wouldn’t poison --”
“But that time at the lodge --”
“Except for Frederick’s courtship, I don’t remember anything of that time.” Serena’s voice was firm and brooked no argument.
Giselda shut her mouth.
She remembered with shame the atrocious plan she had participated in to drive Frederick and Serena apart. Giselda blamed everything on her desperation then to be the crown princess, and consequently, the queen of Mithirien. After all, Frederick was not her real brother. But then, there was never any possibility of him being hers, the truth of which she had forced herself to see in the past few months.
The point was that she also remembered with distinct clarity the night her princessly resolve was turned into fainting mush with one touch of that witch Goode-Heart’s hand, after which Giselda had awakened the following morning with a pounding head. From then on, she’d determined to put as much distance as she could between them. Hell, one thousand leagues wasn’t far enough! As to touching anything that had gone through those wicked hands ... G
iselda shuddered.
Serena was saying, “If you don’t want to eat anything, why don’t you take out that poor mare of yours and have a nice ride in the countryside --”
“You’ll come with me?”
“I can’t.” Serena looked shy for a moment. “I was going to tell Frederick first, but ... We’re going to have a baby.”
Giselda was delighted, and she ran over to clasp Serena’s hands. “When?”
“Oh, in about six or seven months.”
“Excellent! I’m going to be an aunt.” Giselda grinned, and then she looked at the basket of wool with new significance. “So that’s why you’re knitting.”
Serena grimaced. “Trying to. I still can’t get the hang of it. I was more into cooking than knitting.”
“Your cakes are the best.”
“Now, why don’t you go and have a nice ride with Rodin? You can expend some of that nervous energy and --”
Giselda did not want to see Rodin, not after what they had done, not after what she had done. Her cheeks flamed at the thought of her response to him, at how she had pressed herself more fully against his mouth.
“I know.” Her eyes lit up. “I’ll bring some of our soldiers and go after Michael myself. Thanks, Serena. Bye.”
“Wait!”
“What?” Giselda half-turned, her foot tapping incessantly on the floor.
“I don’t think you should bother Father about this --”
Giselda forgot her impatience. Her eyes widened. “You mean I should sneak off on my own? Why, Serena, I didn’t know you were so sneaky and naughty.” She nodded. “Yes, naughtier than me.”
“Of course I don’t mean that!” Serena’s knitting needles snapped against each other. When Giselda’s teasing tone registered, Serena’s lips pulled together in a sheepish smile. “You shouldn’t tease a pregnant woman so, Gi. It might have harmful effects on the baby.”