The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok Book 3)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “Thank the gods for small mercies,” Armand murmured, before wishing them a cheery goodnight.

  8

  “Do you suppose Henry’s wife has a bad back?” Una asked later, as she sat on the edge of the bed and braided her hair.

  “What’s that?” Armand lowered his razor and glanced over at her. He had been reflecting on the fact their bedroom fire had not been lit, despite the evening going off cold.

  “I just wondered …,” she trailed off. “I suppose they must have heard from someone in the village that you were home.” Suddenly, she gave a suppressed wail and dropped her face into her hands.

  “What is it?” he asked with alarm.

  “I wish I had not made such a horrible impression on your family!” she said through her fingers. “I was awful!”

  Armand gave a soft laugh. “You weren’t anywhere near as bad as they were.” He set down his razor and wiped his face. “How are you feeling now?” he asked, blowing out the candle on the table and approaching the bed.

  “A lot better,” she sighed.

  “Good.” He pulled back the bed covers and climbed in, eying her back as she tied the ribbon at the end of her braid. Then she swung it over her back and blew out her candle, joining him in the bed.

  They were both silent laying side by side, the only sound their breathing, except for some scuffling under the cabinet, which he hoped was her dog and not a rat. “Are you doing your trick to take the edge off a cold bed?” he asked casually.

  He heard her turn her head toward him. “Are you cold? I did not think to remind Rose to light the fires,” she said regretfully.

  He grunted. “It will be a good thing when that new housekeeper starts. Maybe she can keep her in line.”

  Una was silent at this and he found himself going over the evening in his mind’s eye. His father hadn’t changed one bit, still a stiff-rumped, disapproving, old buzzard. The least said about Henry and his ghastly wife, the better, and it seemed Roger had not gone off to his religious seminary after all. He wondered vaguely what his father was planning to do with the feckless idiot now he had no clear path in life.

  After dismissing his family from his thoughts, he dwelt instead on his wife, who had unexpectedly been sent into a blind panic at the prospect of unannounced visitors. He didn’t think he’d seen her flurried before. Except, perhaps that morning after their wedding when he’d planned on leaving her at the palace. That had sent her into something of a spin. Still, it hadn’t been a glazed-eyed, pale as a ghost, cold sweat sort of panic. Not even after they had so nearly been murdered in their beds in that second inn.

  No, she had been shaken that night, but not sick with dread and fear. He considered this a moment in frowning concentration. He had a strong notion it had been the knocking on the door that had set Una into a panic, and he remembered vividly how she had wept in his arms at that first inn, the night they had spoken of Strethneal. He had known then that Una hadn’t really laid her ghosts to rest from the war but hadn’t wanted to dwell on the matter.

  After all, it was no business of his, or so he had reasoned at the time. Now he found himself wondering if there had been a knock at the door when Wymer’s forces had arrested her. He would never ask of course. Forcing a confidence from her might make her believe him willing to take on more than he intended.

  Also, he did not mean to reopen any old wounds if he could help it. Una’s scars were not visible, but clearly, they ran deep. If not, they could not make her lose her appetite and send her into a frenzy even now, years later simply by a knock at the door.

  In any case, what could he possibly do to lighten her burden? She was obviously used to shouldering it alone and simply putting a brave face on it. For some reason, that thought didn’t sit quite right with him. He reached out for her in the dark and drew her closer to him. “How’s your stomach now?” He placed his palm carefully over the slight swell of her belly. “Still queasy?”

  “It’s not turning over anymore,” she assured him.

  “You’re not hungry?”

  “No.”

  “A pity,” he sighed. “Mr. Beverley’s pie will probably last us a sennight as it is.”

  She gave a soft chuckle at that. “Did you tell Otho to hire him?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “You may have to,” she said, and he heard the pillow rustle as she turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. “Otho’s far too harsh a judge of character.”

  He grunted. “You don’t need to tell me that. He’s still looking at me as though deciding where to dispose of my body.” He could almost feel her frowning in the dark. “That was in jest. I usually am … joking I mean.”

  “Yes, I know,” she agreed absently, and he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or not. “Your brothers aren’t very like you, are they?”

  “No,” he agreed. “I did tell you so.”

  “Yes, but you also told me your younger brother was entering the priesthood,” she pointed out. “He certainly seems very ill-suited for such a vocation.”

  “Yes, I think that plan must have fallen by the wayside,” he murmured in agreement. “Noticed that about Roger, did you?”

  “His tongue was practically hanging out across the table,” she said dryly, and Armand laughed. “I don’t think Rose even noticed,” she mused. “She’s a very pure-hearted girl.”

  Privately Armand thought Rose was something of a simpleton, but he gave a murmur that could be taken for agreement. “You will admit I am right about Henry being chicken-hearted at all events,” he said. “And presumably your heart no longer bleeds for him after my cruel treatment of him in boyhood.”

  “When did I say—”

  “When we were at the tower,” Armand retorted. “You read me a proper lesson on proper brotherly feeling.”

  “Well,” she said after a moment’s pause, “that sounds very tiresome of me and I apologize.”

  He retreated into surprised silence. “If you’re going to be so reasonable about it, I have little choice other than to accept your apology,” he said humorously, and yawned, rolling onto his back. “In any event, you will admit, I sketched my sister-in-law to perfection. Did you hear her carrying on?” he shuddered. “Only Henry would put up with her. She’s a face like a withered apple too.”

  “Armand!”

  “It’s true!”

  “I’m sure she has many admirable qualities,” she said, and Armand laughed again, this time with a derisive edge.

  “No, you’re not,” he retorted.

  Una was silent a moment. “Very well, I confess she did not look to advantage under that cumbersome wimple, but I know myself how such trappings can make you look your worst.” She hesitated. “When I was at court you know, they called me several names due to my own appearance. It was hurtful.”

  “Names,” he asked. “What names?”

  “Not to my face,” she said quickly. “Except for that court jester. He can insult even the King to his face without fear. As for what names, they were mostly equine in nature.”

  Armand felt like he was really floundering now. He had vague recollections of the jester from May Day, but nothing certain. “Equine?”

  “Such as … the Northern mare, that sort of thing.”

  That did ring a vague bell. “It was doubtless just a foolish way to disparage you,” Armand said dismissively. “You don’t look anything like a horse. If you want,” he offered casually, “I’ll knock that jester down, next time I see him.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she answered, and he could hear the quiver of amusement in her voice.

  “Shuffle closer,” he told her. “And put your arm around my waist. I’m cold.”

  “Anything else?” she asked, with a hint of wryness as she looped her arm about his waist.

  “Yes, throw your leg over mine.”

  She hesitated a moment before doing that. “Is this truly comfortable for you?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Yes,” he ans
wered, folding his arms behind his head. “Now stay close until I fall asleep.” He closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge that only he would ever know he wasn’t actually cold at this point at all.

  *

  Armand woke early the next morning, feeling overly warm. Finding Una still lying half atop him, he flung back the covers and dispensed with them instead. If given a choice, he’d take a nice, warm woman over a blanket any day. He palmed her delightfully rounded backside and debated rolling her onto her back and waking her with his cock, which was already perking up with interest. That enticingly close-fitting shift of hers had ridden up in the night and he could feel her soft inner thigh laying against his own. It was extremely stimulating.

  After a moment’s consideration, he regretfully decided against it. She had not had the easiest of evenings, thanks to his gods-awful family dropping in on them. Instead, she’d been reduced to hollow-eyed panic and nausea. Only the most inconsiderate of husbands would now insist on a round between the sheets when she might still be feeling the aftereffects.

  Besides, he needed to find a way to coax her out of her reservations when it came to the bedchamber. Armand was as lusty and playful there as he was in every other area of his life. He liked a bit of spice and plenty of sauce when it came to bed sport. A straightforward coupling was all very well when nothing else was on offer, but he favored a bit of slap and tickle where he could get it.

  Was one supposed to get it from one’s wife though, he wondered vaguely? He’d never really considered the matter previously, but the fact remained, Una was a royal princess and hardly raised to romping in the sheets with the likes of him. He thought about those grave eyes and how they regarded him so seriously when he said something flippant or offhand.

  She’d practically ticked him off for pointing out his sister-in-law looked like a windfall last night, he thought ruefully. Still, it was small wonder she was sensitive about such things, after the horse shit she’d had to put up with at court. Spiteful bastards, courtiers could be sometimes, he reflected with a frown.

  Flirting with her at the moment seemed entirely a lost cause. She either colored up and refused to rise to the bait or else gave him a hard stare and took whatever he’d said quite literally. It had been as arousing as a bucket of cold water when she’d spoken of his rights and entitlements, he thought with a wry twist of his lips. He liked a wench to be keen and fully participant in the pursuit of pleasure. Not enduring his touch stoically like some kind of martyr.

  Then again, Una was not a statue precisely. She’d been willing alright after he’d spent the time getting her worked up with his fingers. Maybe she’d lighten up eventually and even learn to crack a spontaneous smile once in a while.

  She was not without a sense of humor, he reflected. He’d seen glimmers of it, flash out at him in the quiver of her lip, the way her eyes would sometimes lighten, and a sort of lilting quality to her voice. Still, he thought with dissatisfaction, he hadn’t actually seen her throw back her head and laugh. Not an honest to gods, outright laugh.

  What would it take to hear that? he wondered, his fingers lightly tracing the swell and curve of her buttock. “Are you ticklish?” he asked, moments later, when her head lifted off his chest to regard him blearily.

  “I’m sorry?” she asked in confusion. “What did you say?”

  “I asked, if you Princess Una, are ticklish?” he repeated huskily.

  She regarded him blankly, and for a moment he wondered if she was still asleep. “I don’t know,” she answered with surprise. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious,” he admitted. “Let’s find out.” He slid his hand up to where her waist dipped in and pinched her there, making her exhale and flinch against him in surprise. Then he was tracing her sides, lightly at first and then, when she squeaked, with increasing firmness.

  “A-Armand!” she protested, trying to lift off him.

  “Yes?” he answered, holding her in place.

  “Oh!” She squawked and struggled against him. “Oh, don’t!”

  “Why? Does it tickle?”

  “It—yes, it does!” she answered breathlessly. “Please stop!”

  By this point, he was so entranced by the way she was wriggling against his hard cock, that he didn’t even mind that he didn’t get the belly laugh he’d wanted. “I’ll stop if you let me tickle you somewhere else,” he said thickly and rolled her onto her back. And with something else, he thought, his eyes roving over her heaving bosom and flushed face. “Fuck, Una,” he groaned. “Do you still feel sick this morning?”

  “No, no I’m quite well,” she assured him. Then she hesitated, just the smallest instant before letting her legs fall open for him. “That’s where you meant, isn’t it?” she asked, with just the smallest hint of uncertainty.

  “Yes,” he agreed, feeling a surprising surge of something else, as well as lust wash over him. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought it might just be tenderness. “That’s exactly where I meant.”

  *

  Armand made his way downstairs sometime later feeling refreshed and invigorated. Their morning tryst had been most pleasurable, and while Una had not exactly been tearing his braies off, she had at least welcomed his advances and not started bleating about it being daylight or any other such nonsense, he assumed respectably married women bothered their heads about.

  Of course, he hadn’t really cut loose. It was still early days and he hadn’t thought yet of a way to encourage her enthusiastic participation just yet, but he would. He just had to hit on the right method. Maybe next time he should give her his tongue? It would shock the holy hells out of her, but once that was out of the way, he had a feeling she would respond as sweetly to that as everything else he had cautiously introduced her to.

  On reaching the great hall, his good mood was rapidly suspended. The tables were piled high with tarnished silver candlesticks and salvers and jugs and he knew not what. They must have stripped the house from top to bottom of all its plate. Rose and that new somewhat garrulous maid were huddled over the great mounds with polishing cloths, conversing conspiratorially.

  “Morning, sir,” the dark one piped up loudly as soon as she saw him, and Rose broke off what she was saying with a start.

  Armand had the sudden, uncomfortable suspicion they had been talking about him. He cleared his throat. “Your mistress requires a bath,” he said shortly. “Kindly have one taken up to her as soon as possible.”

  “Yes sir, right away,” she answered cheerily and bounced up from her seat to run through to the kitchen.

  At least this one didn’t stare at him blankly after every order. He turned to Rose. “What was her name again?”

  “Janet,” she mumbled and returned to polishing a silver tankard with fervor.

  Armand carried on to the kitchen and surprised Janet staring out of the window at Peter who was weeding the overgrown vegetable patch.

  “I’ve just put the water on to boil,” she muttered guiltily, and unhooked the bathtub from where it hung against the wall.

  Armand refrained from comment, helped himself to bread and butter out of the pantry and let himself out of the kitchen door, wandering down to the stables. He leaned against Arturo’s stall as he finished his snack, contemplating what to do with himself for the day. He thought he’d take his horse out for a ride over the countryside and stretch his legs.

  He was looking over the indifferent nags they had helped themselves to from The Merry Wayfarer, all ensconced in stalls of their own, when Otho entered the stables with a sack of fodder over his shoulder, which he set down in one corner. He gave a start on seeing Armand, then recovered, straightening up and growling something that could have been a greeting.

  Armand decided to interpret it as such. “Good morning to you, too,” he responded affably.

  “Did you know there are three tenant farmers on your estate?” Otho demanded abruptly.

  Armand brushed the crumbs from his tunic. “Three?” he frowned. “I knew ther
e were one or two farms outlying on the edge of the grounds,” he said vaguely.

  “There’s three,” Otho corrected him heavily. “And I have seen nothing to indicate they have paid you any dues for the past four years.”

  Armand shrugged. “I daresay they haven’t, after all, who would have collected it?”

  Otho regarded him thunderously. “You should have appointed a steward in your absence,” he said cuttingly. “That is what a responsible landowner would have done.”

  “I daresay,” Armand agreed. “But I didn’t, and I’m not, so that’s neither here nor there at this point.”

  Otho stared at him. “What happened to Sir Adrian’s steward?” he asked in exasperation.

  “Old Haines? He dropped dead about three months before my godfather. By all accounts, he simply keeled over, face-first into the account books.”

  Otho’s expression darkened. “I can well believe someone died between the pages of that book,” he said damningly. “It’s a messy scrawl and barely legible.”

  Armand pulled a face. “Well, he was very old,” he muttered.

  “We’ll ride over and visit with them later,” Otho said decisively. “You and I.”

  “Visit with whom?” Armand asked, still thinking of Haines, who had been an old bachelor and left neither kith nor kin behind him.

  “Your tenant farmers,” gritted out Otho, with narrowed eyes. “And you’re not weaseling out of it.”

  Armand sighed. His new brother-in-law while useful in his own way, was also something of a despot. “What do you do for pleasure, Otho?” he asked suddenly curious.

  “What?”

  “Wine, women, or song? Which do you favor?”

  Otho glared at him. “None of them. I’ve better things to occupy my time with.”

  “Better things?” Armand repeated, but just then, Peter appeared framed in the stable doorway. “Sir Armand, you’ve visitors in the house,” he puffed. “Janet bade me fetch you.”