Finally, the hairpiece felt looser on her head and Una gave it a tentative tug until the whole mass of tight yellow curls came away in her hands. Jane covered her mouth with her hands and stared at her. Una flung the wig on top of the pile of discarded brocade, leather, and wood that comprised of her former self. “There lies Princess Una,” she said softly. Jane turned and stared at the cast-offs almost fearfully. Indeed, Una had to admit looking at the heap, that it almost looked like the poor Northern princess had collapsed in on herself, especially with the distinctive wig sat atop of the sprawling mass.
“It almost seems like we should bury it,” Jane blurted.
Una gave a laugh, surprising her companion greatly. The expression of humor sounded rusty and out of practice coming from her lips. Indeed, she could not remember the last occasion she had had to use it. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Una.” Jane’s eyes grew rounder. “And you must not call me princess anymore.”
Jane made a strangled sound in her throat. “We … we had better see to your hair,” she said, looking almost frightened. Una nodded and together they removed yet another mass of hairpins until her auburn hair was unfastened from the tight braids wound about her head and hung down to her waist in a thick fall of dark reddish-brown.
“I can scarce recognize you,” Jane breathed.
“How much longer will you be?” Queen Armenal demanded. “You’ve been an age, I vow! Bring her out, Jane! The groomsmen must nigh be upon us!”
Wordlessly Jane took her hand, and Una allowed herself to be led around from the screens toward the center of the room, where a large bed lay on a raised platform, covered in rose petals.
“Finally—” the Queen began, before another of her ladies let out a shriek. There must have been seven ladies stood in the room, spreading petals and draping garlands of flowers over the four-poster so it looked like a bower more than a bedchamber. Every one of them turned now to stare at Una with frozen expressions of varying stupefaction.
“That’s never the princess!” Lady Fenella Vawdrey cried, dropping her end of the garland. “Whatever have you done to her, Jane?” For her part, Una rather liked the country-born Countess who seemed such an odd choice of wife for the elegant Lord Vawdrey. She invariably said the wrong thing but was exceedingly kind for all that. Against all odds, her husband positively doted on her. She hurried forward now to clasp Una’s hand. “You look so much better without those awful cumbersome clothes! I suppose that extraordinary hair was really a wig, then?”
“I can take no credit,” Jane answered, serious as ever. “For the princess wrought this change herself.”
The Queen was the first to recover from the shock, clapping her hands together. “Bring her to me,” she ordered summarily, setting down her goblet of wine with a thump. Obediently, Jane obeyed her summons and Una meekly followed until she was stood before the Queen Armenal.
Una waited while those shrewd dark eyes summed her up. Much like Robkin the jester had circled her half-brother earlier, the Queen paced about Una taking in her altered appearance. This time, it seemed the Northern stranger was not found wanting. The Queen’s lips spread into a slow smile, as she came about to face Una again. “But this is charming,” she pronounced. “Our princess was under a dark spell, and now she is freed by the kiss of true love.”
The ladies gasped and twittered at this, clearly as taken with the notion as the Queen herself.
Una colored. It trembled on her lips to point out that the only kiss she had received thus far from Sir Armand had been a chaste salute placed clumsily on her fingers, after their vows had been exchanged. His eyes had been bleary and his smile somewhat vacant. It seemed to Una’s seasoned eye that her groom was sotted and small wonder, for every time she had caught a glimpse of him before the ceremony, someone had been pressing a goblet of wine into his hand.
“Quickly!” the Queen cried, for her sharp ears had caught the sound of the bridegroom’s party approaching. “Set the crown of flowers on her head, then get her under the covers!”
Una found herself rushed toward the bed, as the Queen’s ladies hastened to set a flowered wreath over her head, while dragging back the sheets for her to clamber into the wide bed.
“I wonder what Sir Armand will say to such a transformation?“ one lady gasped out, before she was shushed and dragged to stand against the dressing room door. Apparently, the Southern tradition was for the bridal party to prepare the bride, and to then retreat as the groom’s faction approached. It seemed there would be some crossover as the Queen’s party lingered at the far end of the room, eager for a glimpse of the bridegroom.
Three ceremonial knocks were heard on the bedchamber door and an upraised voice shouted out impressively, “The bridegroom has arrived!”
Lady Fenella cleared her throat discreetly, then called back. “The bride awaits her groom within!”
Then the door burst open and Sir Armand was dragged into the room, his arms slung around two supporters who were big enough to support his frame. Una huddled under the blankets as a stream of groomsmen came noisily into the room. They seemed a loud, inebriated bunch and her heart sank when she saw her nemesis, the court jester prancing about at the foot of the bed telling what, she could only guess from the raucous laughter, was a bawdy joke.
“Good luck, Una,” called Fenella with an encouraging nod, as the ladies hastily backed out of the room.
The King remained by the door, deep in conversation with Lord Vawdrey, though the earl seemed to be watching his wife as she whisked out of the dressing room door. Una had noticed whenever his countess was around, he had precious little attention for anything else.
“That’s it! Take off his clothes!” the King boomed as Sir Armand was lowered onto the bed face-first. “No need to stand on ceremony. She’s his wife now and will have to suffer him in worst states than this!” He guffawed and nudged his companion in the ribs. “Eh, Vawdrey? You should know, you’ve no head for spirits yourself!”
Earl Vawdrey looked a little pained. “’Tis sadly true, sire.
Una watched the King’s eyes drift over the flower-strewn bed until they reached her, and practically started from his head. “Good gods,” he faltered.
“Your Majesty?” she heard Vawdrey inquire. A hush fell over the room as everyone present caught the direction of the King’s stunned gaze and followed it to where Una sat huddled. Robkin’s bauble stick hit the floor with a jingle and a clatter. The jester let out a surprised yelp.
“Ah, Lady Una,” said Lord Vawdrey politely. He alone seemed quite unaffected. “I trust you are more comfortable, now you can abandon the royal trappings of the House of Blechmarsh.”
Una’s fixed smile grew a little warmer. She appreciated he was the first to address her without her old title. “Yes, my lord,” she agreed. “Indeed, it is a great relief to me.”
“I can only imagine it would be,” he responded and turned back to the King. “Perhaps your Highness, you might suggest we now withdraw and leave the married couple to their nuptials.”
“Eh? Oh, er, quite,” Wymer agreed, still looking like he had suffered something of a shock. “Everyone out!” As they turned to go, she heard him murmur to Lord Vawdrey. “What the hells happened to all that hair!”
The court jester was the last to tear his gaze away, and in keeping with his character, he tripped over his stick on the way out. Una wondered if he felt obliged to exit all rooms in such a fashion. Either way, when the door was finally shut after them, she breathed a sigh of relief. Only then did her eyes travel down to where her naked husband lay sprawled on the covers. Oh my.
Slipping out of the bed, Una crossed to shoot the bolt across the door and then returned to try and haul the inert body up the bed so she could cover his nakedness with the sheets. To her surprise, he roused from his stupor sufficiently to aid her in this task. It was just as well that he did, for she would have stood no chance without his cooperation, for his body was large and heavily muscled.
She tried not
to stare as she pushed and rolled him over the bed. She was no sheltered maiden, despite the distinction of her birth. A lifetime of military campaigns meant she had been fully exposed to all the privations of the battlefield. She had seen men’s bodies before, whether it was a flash of buttock as they peed in a field, or stripped for the attention of a surgeon. She had never seen one “stark ballock naked” up close though, as she believed the term went. She could not help stealing a few glances at him now, as she maneuvered him between the sheets.
He may have little prowess in the field, but his body was truly magnificent, she acknowledged. No wonder the King thought he looked the part of a bruising knight. With such mighty limbs, muscle, and sinew, any onlooker would be fooled into thinking him a serious contender. What a pity he could not actually deliver in the field. She bit her lip as her eyes wandered down over the expanse of muscular stomach and below.
Pragmatically, she considered the likelihood that the equipment between his legs would be just as ineffectual after his heavy afternoon of drinking. She had frequently heard ribald talk between men and had some hazy awareness that the efficacy of their pizzle was somehow related to the quantity of drink they had consumed.
Certainly, he was not “hard,” that much was evident, though he seemed to be of impressive proportions down there as everywhere else. Unkindly, it crossed her mind that perhaps in all areas of his life, Sir Armand de Bussell might look the part, but otherwise be lacking. Robkin the jester had sworn the Northern mare needed a stallion to master her, but in the end, it seemed he had given her naught but a gelding after all.
Strange to say, her heart squeezed with sudden sympathy for the handsome sot. She knew only too well what it was like to be considered one of life’s disappointments. She drew the covers carefully over him before walking around to the other side of the bed and climbing in.
To her surprise, Sir Armand rolled over the mattress toward her, one arm closing about her, to draw her body to his. She could only suppose him well accustomed to a sleeping companion. Indeed, with a face like his, why should he not be? Even at close quarters, she could see no flaws in those handsome features.
She had fully resigned herself to a night of failed consummation when he shifted over her and began sloppily kissing her neck. His breath was hot and his mouth wet and though she should find his drunken handling distasteful, she was shocked to find she did not. She was relieved he kept the brunt of his weight off her as one hand came to squeeze her backside while the other fondled her breasts through the filmy material. He fumbled a moment with the neckline of her undershift, unable to find access under the close fit of the material.
“Wait a minute,” Una said, struggling to slip the thin straps down over her shoulders, before peeling the garment down to her waist.
He gave a noise of husky approval as he lowered his face to her breasts and she awkwardly patted his head. She felt oddly touched he was even bothering to cuddle and kiss with her like this. She had heard enough soldiers’ talk to know that such things could be dispensed with during a coupling.
After a few moments of this, however, she started to wonder if he was going to get to the main business. He didn’t seem in any hurry and his movements were definitely slowing now. She was beginning to suspect he was going to fall asleep, face down in her bosom. That would be an indignity she could do without.
She felt a pang of dread lest the sheets not be stained with a drop of virgin’s blood come morning. The whole court would be awash with talk of the ugly princess whose husband could not bring himself to tup her.
“Sir Armand?” she ventured. Was he snoring? Panic forced her to become forthright. She dug her fingers into the thick dark hair at the back of his head and lifted his face from her breasts.
“Wha …?” he asked blearily, looking like he could not quite focus on her.
“Sir Armand, it is our wedding night,” she said urgently. “You must do your duty to King and country now.”
“Duty?” he echoed with a puzzled frown. Then his gaze seemed to wander down to her breasts and distract him. He sighed. “Gods,” he said and licked his lower lip in a distracting manner. “Gimme a taste.”
“You’ve already had a taste!” Una replied shrilly, though her color rose. “You must proceed now to the next step!”
He glanced about them in confusion. “Step? S’not a staircase, love. S’a bedroom.”
“Sir Armand!” she said sharply. “You were a soldier were you not? In the late war?”
Sadly, this approach, which had worked well for Una in the past, did not seem at all efficacious with Sir Armand. “Shh,” he said. “Too pretty to talk about ugly things.”
This astonished Una so much that she was struck dumb for a moment. Of course, he was sotted, she reminded herself when she felt herself blush violently. Pretty?
He sighed gustily. “I’m drunk,” he said confidingly.
“Yes, you are,” she spluttered. He was honest, if nothing else. She bit her lip. “Are you incapable?” she asked forthrightly. He had not actually presented his … well, “manhood,” to her. She had felt brushes of something against her thigh. She had thought it must be that, but what did she know?
It was no good just lying here like some shrinking maiden, she thought. He was simply too sotted to take the lead. But from everything she had ever been taught, men were base creatures with essentially two drives ruling them. To fight, and the other. Steeling herself, she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and rolled him fully atop her. He grunted and stirred, and she opened her legs to anchor him against her.
“Sir Armand,” she panted, out of breath from the exertion, for he was a good deal larger and heavier than she had anticipated. She was tall for a woman and well-built, but he felt like a felled tree against her. If a tree were made of solid muscle. His eyes flickered open as she gripped his hips firmly between her thighs. Something was lying, heavy and hard against her stomach now, wedged between them.
“Mmm,” he grunted and moved against her.
Una felt her whole body grow hot. It was happening! Flushed with triumph, she felt a tremor of fear nonetheless, for his manhood felt even larger brushing against her intimately like this. She struggled a moment to think of the right encouragement. What did men like? She had no idea. He had not responded well to reminders of duty. “Please?” she ventured timorously.
His head lifted and his eyes focused on her a moment. “You want me, sweetheart?” he asked with a sleepy smile. Una felt a pang. Why did he have to be so good-looking?
“Yes,” she answered truthfully and saw a flicker of pleased surprise pass over his face. “I really do.”
He huffed out a breath. “That’s nice,” he said thickly, and Una caught her breath as one of his big hands caught her under her thigh, urging her to open wider to him, as he moved against her with a breathy sigh. She complied eagerly, suppressing a momentary wobble at how open and vulnerable she felt to him now. He breathed heavily as he bunched the thin material of her shift to her waist and palmed her buttock, as he stroked something against her most intimate parts.
Una felt a frisson of real panic as he pressed his large shaft between her legs, his eyes closed with concentration as the bulbous end of it nudged insistently against her. Her eyes widened. What had she been thinking? This wasn’t going to work. He pressed forward unrelentingly as she bit back the objections her lips started to form. The pressure built as his flesh pressed painfully into her own, until finally, as tears started from her eyes, she felt something give inside her. With a brutal thrust of his hips, he surged forward and he was lodged painfully deep inside her.
Then he startled her by giving a bone-deep groan of his own. “Ah, gods, that’s good,” he moaned.
“Ow!” The objection burst from her lips before she could stop it, not that he paid it any mind. To console herself she slapped a hand against his shoulder blade, sinking her nails into the tanned flesh there.
He grunted and thrust again. “So good,”
he murmured huskily against her temple and she felt the brush of his lips there. Not for me, thought Una, with a wince. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remind herself that this was all for the best. After this painful act, no one could dispute that she was a married lady come morning. Lady Una de Bussell, she reminded herself. A princess no longer. She certainly had never felt less like a princess, than being swived by this lusty brute, she thought as he labored above her, his movements crude and vigorous. She held her breath and willed for it to be over soon. Even as she thought it, his movements slowed.
“Ugh!” he groaned and collapsed on top of her, breathing hard.
Una lay beneath him, catching her breath. Had he finished? Her cheeks burned. So too did the area between her legs. Her thighs were trembling from being held open so wide for the intrusion of his big, heavy body. Something was leaking out of her. Was it blood?
At last, he withdrew and shifted his weight to the one side of her, still caging her in with his big body. He was panting as though he had run one dozen staircases. To her surprise, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her on the mouth. Then he drew back his head, his face flushed and relaxed. Suddenly he gave an exclamation.
“What is it?” she asked, looking up at his expression of surprise.
“How did you make yourself beautiful?” he asked, then collapsed back against the pillows with a snore.
2
Armand woke suddenly, with a lurch of his stomach. He groaned and rolled onto his side. Gods, his head pounded. How much had he imbibed? Some urgent memory hovered at the edge of his consciousness, troubling him. Did he owe someone money? Squinting one eye open, he found the room dark and unfamiliar, but that was nothing new. He moved around a lot. More troubling was the way it was spinning. He liked a drink, but he didn’t usually drink to such excess as this. For some reason, last night he must have drunk himself into oblivion. He gave a hollow moan and shut his eye again. The sheets beside him rustled.
“Sir Armand?” inquired a voice. A cool hand landed on his shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”
The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok Book 3) Page 3