He spluttered at this, muttering something she did not catch beneath his breath. Anxious to appease him for insulting his friend, she pressed forward. “Forgive me,” she said contritely, and dropped a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth. It was hard to tell in the dark.
“You’ll need to console me more than that,” he complained, falling back against the pillows. “I’m wounded to the core.”
Una blinked down at him in alarm. “Wounded? I never intended—”
“Too late,” he interrupted her. “I may never recover from this blow to my self-esteem. My wife thinks me an easy prey to those who would take advantage of my guileless nature.”
Una bit her lip, for that was exactly what she had done. He suddenly laughed and caught her about the waist, dragging her half on top of him.
“You think me a tender gull for the plucking, my princess,” he said silkily. “But you’ll soon discover your groom is more fox than goose.” His hands were roaming over the thin fabric of her shift, cupping her buttocks and softly squeezing her there. “Or maybe I should say cock pheasant,” he said, his voice thickening as he took her hand from his shoulder and slid it down his body until it rested on the hard thrust of his arousal.
Una blinked in the darkness, striving to keep up with his mercurial mood. Clearly his self-esteem had not suffered too dreadful a blow, or he would not now be so inflamed, she thought as her fingers tentatively made out the shape of his thick shaft. His own hand over hers, encouraged her to be bolder, and feeling grateful of the darkness, Una took him firmly in hand making him gasp.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Now stroke me, princess.” His fingers showed her what he wanted. So, firmly? she marveled, but he should know what he liked, and she listened closely to his raspy breath as she familiarized herself with the handling he preferred. Suddenly his breathing hitched, and his hips thrust up. “Stop,” he groaned. His hand returned to cover hers, stilling her fingers but keeping her hand lightly squeezing him. “Slow down or I’ll spill in your hand.”
“I don’t mind,” she admitted in the dark.
“You may not, but I would,” he said. “There’s a much sweeter spot I crave.”
Una blushed deeply. He couldn’t be talking about what she thought he was, surely? Emboldened by the enveloping darkness, she asked quietly. “Do you mean, inside me?”
He groaned. “I do. But for now, you can pet me some more. But gently, very gently.”
Una caressed him lightly with the pad of her thumb. “Like this?”
“That’s good.”
“Armand,” she whispered. “Do you have a place …?” She almost lost her nerve, but plunged on, lowering her voice. “A place like I do? You know.” She groped for the words, but she simply did not have the vocabulary. She did not think she’d ever heard the soldiers speak of pleasuring a woman. “My … bud?” she ventured.
He drew a ragged breath. “I don’t have a pretty bud like you,” he answered. “But I am especially sensitive at the head,” he slid her hand up to the tip where she lightly squeezed. “And at the base, between my ballocks,” he said huskily.
Una’s eyes widened. “Oh.” She moved her hand down and let her fingers trace him lightly there. It felt curiously soft. “Tell me what to do.”
“Cup them,” he said tightly, and grunted when she did so. “Now roll them carefully, in your hand.” She gently massaged his ballocks until his breath grew raspy again and she thought she had better change strategy. “Is this nice?” She traced a figure-eight pattern around them, and he made a sound deep in his throat. She paused the progress of her fingertip and rubbed at the spot that had made him shudder.
“Fuck, Una!” he exclaimed, sounding shaken and the next thing she knew, she was on her back with Armand astride her, bunching up her shift.
“I hope to gods you’re wet, my princess,” he panted, sliding a warm hand up her thigh. “Cause, I can’t wait.” He made a rumbling sound of appreciation in his chest, as his fingers delved between her legs. “Thank fuck. Open your legs wider.”
Una blinked at the coarse language, for he restrained it around her usually, but his blood seemed well and truly up. To her surprise, he did not settle his hips between her thighs at once, but instead shifted down the bed. Feeling his breath between her legs, she let out a surprised gasp. “Armand, what—”
“Shh,” he told her. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”
Una froze. He was kissing her down there! She tried to sit up, but he wrapped his strong arms about her thighs, keeping her firmly in place.
“Your hair’s so pretty, Una,” he said huskily, and her cheeks burned to realize what hair he was commenting on. “Such a lovely shade of deep, dark red.”
She could think of absolutely no response to this. Luckily, he did not seem to require one, as his soft kisses became a good deal bolder, his fingers opening her cleft to his tongue.
“Armand!” Una panted, her head dropping back onto the pillows. She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. “Oh!” Oh my gods! What was he doing? Her mind rebelled at the feel of lapping tongue. He couldn’t possibly be licking her down there! But he was, and what’s more he sounded like he was enjoying it. He groaned against her and Una’s body took over, her mind too shocked to comprehend the wicked sensations he was evoking. She went taut as a bow, before the moment of release, and then she shot right up into the heavens with a muffled shriek.
The next thing she knew, Armand was guiding his throbbing staff between her legs and thrusting deep inside her. She gasped, but he had prepared her so well that there was barely any discomfort at all. “Ah gods,” he groaned. “So good.” Once he was planted deep, he held himself very still. “Wrap your legs around me,” he urged, dragging her thigh over his hip.
Una opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly, his fingers were between her legs again, his thumb seeking out that pleasure place, and soon he had her panting and twisting against him. The sensations streaking out from the pressure of his thumb, combined with the heady feeling of his hard shaft embedded so deeply within her, soon had her sobbing and trembling once more on the very edge she had only just descended from.
When he labored above her this time, she did not find his movements crude, but moved along with him. He was striving to please her, she realized, and simultaneously to stave off his own rapture. That was why his expression trembled between blissful and tortured. The ragged edge to his breathing, the kindling look in his eye, all served to twist the coiling pleasure in her belly higher still.
When he lowered his head to suck one pointy nipple into his mouth, Una broke again, and he drove into her hard, crying out. Their explosion seemed this time simultaneous, and it was a long while before Una felt herself drift back down from the ceiling into her tingling body.
Armand was lying half on, half off her, his face turned into her neck, one hand resting on her bottom. She should pull down her shift, she thought exhaustedly and make herself decent, but she didn’t want to move a muscle.
“My clever princess,” Armand murmured, his voice deep and velvety, with a rough edge to it. He kissed her collarbone.
She really ought to reprimand him for calling her princess, but her eyes were closing and instead she lay in his arms, limp and sated.
10
Armand spent the next morning shut up in consultation with Fulcher again while they thrashed out the last details of their arrangement. Once the bargain had been struck to the satisfaction of both, they sat back and regarded each other thoughtfully.
Fulcher clicked his tongue. “You’ve the devil’s own luck, and no mistake,” he said with a small shake of his head. “Fort you was proper done up, my lad. Caught in the parson’s trap like that and shackled to that—”
“Careful,” Armand interrupted him, his eyebrows snapping together. “That’s my wife you’re speaking of.”
Fulcher regarded him with surprise. “Well, that’s what I’m saying. She ain’t turned out a bad-looking gal at all. Som
e might even call her ’andsome in ’er own way,” he said generously. “When she ain’t glaring at a body across the supper table.”
Armand suppressed a wayward grin. “She thinks me a tender lamb that needs protecting from a nasty wolf.”
“Wot you?” Fulcher demanded. “A tender lamb! Bullshit.”
“Let’s not forget, the last time I told her I was meeting with you, I came back sporting a black eye.”
Fulcher avoided his accusing gaze. “Fort we was dissolving our partnership, didn’t I?” he said sounding injured. “Had to protect my interests.”
“By setting a gang of thugs on me?”
“Only roughed you up a bit,” Fulcher said with a shrug. “You broke poor Walt’s nose and give ’Enry such a blow to his ear that he ain’t ’eard nuffink but ringing ever since!”
“And, if that’s not all,” Armand added direly, “you stole my hat!”
Fulcher sat up. “Your ’at?”
“That monstrosity sat upon your greasy locks, at one point was my hat,” Armand pointed out with dignity. “Una made it for me.”
Fulcher removed his hat and gazed down at it. “I love this ’at,” he said sorrowfully. “Best ’at I ever ’ad. Now you tell me it was made by a princess, it sorta makes sense.”
“Well, you needn’t look like that,” said Armand. “I don’t want it back!”
Fulcher’s expression brightened. “You don’t?”
“Certainly not!”
After Armand had picked out some of the most distinctive pieces from his treasure collection and Fulcher inspected them before stuffing them in a sack, they made their way down from the attics together.
“How comes you never told me you’d got a great big place like this, tucked away waiting for you?” Fulcher commented in an injured tone. “All these years I knowed you and you been keeping secrets from me.”
“You never asked,” Armand retorted. “Besides, I only inherited it four years ago. I think we’d had a falling out at the time over some money.”
Fulcher’s frown cleared. “Oh,” he said without rancor. “That was that time you flung off ’ome to cool your ’eels. Makes sense.”
Armand paused, turning toward him. “How did you find me, then?”
“Followed you, didn’t I.”
“So, it was you following us? I thought there was someone …,” he said, trailing off. Of course, he’d put that down to Otho in the end.
“I weren’t the only one,” Fulcher snorted. “There was at least two ovvers.”
“Two?” Armand was startled.
Fulcher nodded. “One of ’em was a right shadowy bastard. Slipped in and out of view. I barely caught glimpses of him. Just when I fort he’d backed off, I’d catch sight of ’im again. Black ’ood he wore. Changed his ’orses regular. For a while I ’ad the notion he weren’t even the same body every time I caught sight of ’im, but …” Fulcher scratched his chin. “I’d started to get the wind up by then, so I dunno. Seemed like a professional to me.”
“Professional what?”
Fulcher looked cagey. “Scout mebbe. Or assassin.”
Armand expression hardened. “I can’t think why either should be on my tail.”
“What about your good lady wife?” Fulcher suggested lightly.
Armand was alarmed. “Why the hells should they be?”
Fulcher threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger, my friend,” he said hastily.
Armand ignored him, swinging around at the foot of the stairs. “You said two others?”
“S’right,” Fulcher said, lolling against the bannister. “They didn’t seem to be travelin’ togevver or nuffink. Oh, and the second party ’ad a Novern accent.”
“Northern?” Armand’s spine stiffened.
Fulcher nodded. I ’eard ’im talkin’ to a stable lad one time. Soft-spoken he was, but you could ’ear it all the same. Unmistakable.”
*
Armand was sufficiently disturbed by this piece of information to seek out Otho that afternoon. He found him directing Peter as to some fencing repairs that needed doing in the orchard.
“Have you been working at that fencing all morning?” Armand asked the lad pointedly. Peter nodded, round-eyed and apprehensive. “You haven’t seen anyone skulking around the place?”
“No, sir,” he replied, with a puzzled frown.
“If you do, I want to hear about it. Immediately.”
Peter nodded and made off with his tools as Otho gave Armand a sardonic look. “You surely don’t believe that fine friend of yours’s story? I caught him red-handed. He was the mysterious figure skulking in the bushes and none other.”
Armand ignored this. “If a party of Northerners was following us from Caer-Lyoness to Derring, who do you suppose they would be?”
Otho gave a start. “What? Northerners you say?”
Armand nodded. “A day behind us at most.”
“They’re nothing to do with me,” Otho said aggrievedly. “If that’s what you’re thinking!”
“It wasn’t,” Armand responded dampeningly. “Now answer the question, for I don’t want to put it to your sister.”
Otho folded his arms and regarded him steadily a moment before he answered with a shrug. “Rebels I suppose,” he said gruffly. “It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve sought her out. Why do you think I wanted to put her in a convent where she’ll be anonymous? She’ll know no peace now she’s no longer under lock and key.”
“I didn’t know you did want to put her in a convent,” Armand replied dampeningly. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Are you actually suggesting Wymer should have kept her under house arrest for the rest of her life?” His tone was cutting.
“He was mad to marry her off,” Otho said bleakly. “Surely you can see that. This whole scheme was doomed from the outset.”
“Gods, you’re a miserable bastard, Otho,” Armand responded with disgust. “I’ve no patience with your constantly bleak outlook on life. Thank the gods Una is nothing like you!”
“You have no notion what you’ve gotten into,” Otho persisted grimly. “Why do you think I’m sticking around? It’s not like you’ve any intention of guarding over her for the rest of your life, is it?” Otho’s lip curled. “I know your type.”
Armand’s fists curled and he took a few calming breaths before replying. “Oh, do you?” he drawled. “It seems you know me better than you do your own flesh and blood. Una was desperate to get away from court. She was no more suited there, than she would be in a convent.”
“And where do you imagine she would be suited then?” Otho flared up jeeringly. “Married to some obscure knight, who can barely hold his own in a fight? I’ve seen farmhands wield a sword with more skill than you, Sir Armand! Maybe here in the South they’ll bestow a knighthood on any fool, but where I’m from, it’s a different story, let me tell you!”
Armand had heard of red mists descending and people losing control before, but never associated such things with himself. He always prided himself on his steady, even temper. More often than not, he was the first to see humor in a situation, and hard to stoke to wrath.
Which is why he really could not really explain, why the next thing he knew, he was driving his fist into Otho’s face while the other lay sprawled out beneath him. It took an almost superhuman effort to stay his arm from landing another blow and he crouched over him, breathing raggedly, as he forced himself to roll away. He lay in the dirt, dragging air into his burning lungs and flexing his numb fingers. How many times had he hit him?
It was one thing for his wife to think him a gullible fool, but quite another for his brother-in-law to insult him like that. Of course, others had tried before in the field. You made mistakes when in a fury and Armand had always used this to his advantage. His had been the ready tongue and the mocking laugh that would provoke his proud enemies into hasty errors. Others never ensnared him with such tactics.
His fellow knights mocked him every time he went cras
hing out in an early round, and he shrugged it off every time. Such words had never dented his armor before. Why then, had he completely lost control this time?
He glanced at Otho’s bloodied face. He was still breathing at least. He propped himself up on one elbow and eyed the horse trough. He’d have to dunk him in it, he thought resignedly, dragging himself to his feet and grabbing Otho beneath his armpits.
He had just reached the trough and was propping Otho against the edge when he heard approaching footfalls and glanced around. It was Peter come running from the orchard, looking alarmed and out of breath.
“I seen you dragging him from over yonder. Whatever’s happened to Master Otho?” he puffed, coming to a standstill.
“He’s been attacked,” Armand answered coolly. “Here, help me dunk his head in.”
Peter hurried over, his mouth hanging open. “Was it one of them strangers on the prowl, like you was talking about?” he gasped.
“Yes,” answered Armand. “That’s exactly who it was. I shall need to hire more men to keep an eye about the place.”
“And to think I never seen no one,” Peter marveled aloud, as he grasped Otho’s shoulder and they lowered his head into the water.
After a moment, Otho’s limbs started to struggle and they pulled him back out and set him down upon the ground where he lay gasping for breath. “You bastards!” he growled.
“Nay, it weren’t us, Master Otho. It was them intruders what Sir Armand warned us about,” protested Peter.
Armand turned to him. “I want you to leave off mending the fence this afternoon and spread the word in the village, Peter. We’re looking for strong and capable men to come and work and patrol the grounds here. They’ll need to know how to handle themselves. It’s no good bringing me old men or the infirm.” He hesitated. “Former soldiers might work well.”
Peter scratched his head. “We might need to widen the net to Upper Derring and Derring Lacey too, mayhap?” he suggested.
Armand nodded. “Good idea. Tell them I’ll pay well and refer them to me or Otho here.”
The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok Book 3) Page 20