* * *
Caecilia didn’t think the kiss would end, nor did she want it to. She ground against him and delighted in every moan.
“I want to make love to you,” he whispered against her hair. “Every day that we’re together is torture, wondering what it would be like to have you beneath me. Because you’re unable to speak, I need you to tell me in some other way this is what you want, Coral.” He kissed her again, long and sizzling, his tongue still flavored with citrus wine. “I need to know you desire this as much as I do.”
Desire it? If he stopped, Caecilia was positive the yearning would smolder until she burned up like cinders. She leaned into him, initiating the next long kiss, but Joren drew back after only a few heartbeats.
“I need another sign aside from your kisses, no matter how sweet they are.” Then his mouth trailed to her ear and nibbled the lobe, turning her knees weak. Her lips parted with an unspoken plea for him to continue, but his husky chuckle warmed her throat.
A sign. He needed a sign, and something told her he didn’t want her to scamper across the room to write it out on paper. Caecilia raked through her thoughts, until her weakening knees provided the answer for her. She pushed him back against the wall and knelt before him.
“Cor—”
Giving him no chance to protest—not that Caecilia suspected he would—she snatched at the laces to his pants, tearing them open so swiftly she took Joren by surprise a second time. He blinked down at her, his startled expression a mix of arousal and astonishment until the moment she took him in her hand.
Then there was only pleasure on his face. His blue eyes slid shut, and he thrust his hips, pistoning in the grip of her small fist.
For a moment, she marveled at him, the size of his shaft so huge in her hand she ached in anticipation of having him inside her. She brushed her thumb over the silken head and delighted in the sound he made.
“I take it you’ve done this before and aren’t a virgin,” he murmured. “I’d wondered if you’d want me to go slow, if—”
Lacking any other way to confirm his suspicion, she used her mouth to relay the message in a whole different way, closing her lips around the tip. A swear hissed between his teeth.
“Definitely done this before.”
His certain tone made her wonder if he thought less of her for having experience. She licked her tongue up and down his shaft, wetting him thoroughly. When she gazed up at Joren, afraid she’d see condemnation or disgust, she found his eyes were locked on her face, filled with wonder and darkened by lust instead.
She filled her mouth with him and let the very tip of his length touch her throat. He made a low, tortured groan as he threaded her hair between his fingers. “You’re too perfect, Coral,” he said in a strangled voice. “That’s…gods, that’s the best, love. Just like that. Don’t stop.”
His praise lit her up.
“More, sweetheart. Take all of it.”
She claimed his every inch until her lips pressed to his base, dragging shudders and low groans, his hips moving and breaths heavy with pleasure. After the amazing day Joren had shown her, a day in which she felt human, adored, and normal once more, this night was his turn to feel treasured.
The sounds she drew from him were music to her ears and she used them as a guide, slowing or speeding her pace as cued by his reactions. His hips followed her retreating mouth and the hand in her hair tightened its grip. Joren’s whole body shuddered.
“No more,” he rasped. He gave her hair a slight tug, urging her to stand. “I want this first time to be inside you.”
Her stomach did an excited little flip. She wanted the same thing, and it frustrated her that she couldn’t shout, “Yes, yes, yes!” and encourage him to take her any way he pleased.
Increasingly impatient, she stepped into him and brought their bodies together. Layers of linen and wool separated them, keeping her from the warm contact she craved. Joren must have felt the same, because they moved as one, each reaching for the other.
Joren stripped her remaining garments with the same urgency she’d displayed with his trousers. Once their clothes littered the floor, he swept her up into his arms and carried her the few steps to the bed. He lowered her onto the blankets and paused for a moment, trailing his gaze from her head to her toes, then back up again.
“Gods, you’re beautiful.”
Her breasts felt heavy and full, the tips beaded unbearably tightly beneath his stroking hands. Every time he petted them and skimmed her nipples, she felt a pulse between her thighs, her core aching for him.
Caecilia reached for him and Joren didn’t make her wait. He claimed her one delicious inch at a time, delivering a satisfying stretch she’d craved since the very first afternoon in his cabin aboard the Jolly Roger. Her head tilted back against the pillow, lips parted in a soundless cry she wished he could hear. Years of forced abstinence were suddenly worth the wait. She couldn’t imagine a moment so perfect with anyone else. She opened her eyes to find him watching her, awe filling his gaze.
They shared the moment of mutual bliss, all pleasure and no disappointment. Her entire body hummed for him, alive with sensation and already tightening in anticipation.
His next kiss fell against her throat. “Is this okay?” he asked, his husky voice warm against her ear. Something told her Joren knew the answer to his own question, because he followed the inquiry with a long stroke.
Yes! Better than okay. Lacking the words to answer him, she clenched around his shaft instead. The way he sucked in his breath filled her with smug satisfaction.
“You’re amazing.”
The next slick backstroke left her feeling empty and needy, but then he surged forward anew, bringing pure pleasure sizzling down her nerve endings. She trembled and grasped his shoulder, tangling her other hand in the hair above his nape.
“Show me what you want me to do next,” Joren murmured between kisses. “Take my hand.”
Easier said than done, because Caecilia could think of plenty of things she wanted to show him. Good thing they had all night.
* * *
His wildest dreams hadn’t done justice to the reality. One nudge from Coral urged him to shift and turn, until his back was to the mattress and she straddled him. Then she guided his hands to her perfect breasts and rolled her hips in a hypnotic pattern.
Heaven. Bliss. He didn’t know how to describe the raging ecstasy coursing through his veins, only that he never wanted it to end. Everything beyond their boat ceased to exist.
Coral moved tirelessly above him, an indomitable force of nature. While she didn’t make a sound, her breaths came heavy and fast, and her eyes practically shone with pleasure.
Gods. How had he ever become so lucky?
Tension pulled through his body. He dropped his hands from her breasts to her hips and squeezed, guiding her faster and faster. Coral braced her hands against his chest and moved with wild abandon, until her own body drew taut and her limbs quivered.
For the first time in his life, he reached climax with his partner instead of long after, the moment so perfect he wondered if he were dreaming it all. Coral tightened around him, rhythmic compressions that milked from him every drop he had to offer. Then the tension released and she sank atop him, her face burrowing against his throat. He wrapped his arms around her and held on tight, losing all sense of time.
Eventually, Coral rolled away and lay back with her eyes closed, a blissful smile curving her lips. Joren propped himself on one elbow and studied her face, admiring the languid grace of her sprawl across the mattress.
“You’re truly wonderful, Coral. Every second since you came into my life has been a blessing, and…” He wanted her for his wife. The entire thing had been arranged to create and facilitate the ideal romantic moment to propose and offer his heart, but he faltered.
How many times had he felt a connection with a woman in the past, only to be turned aside for another man? What if she had no desire to become wed to an outsider? Had
a Neverlander ever bonded to anyone but their own people?
A dozen unanswered questions stilled his tongue.
I love her, he thought. So much he couldn’t bear her refusal. What he’d felt for Anastasia had been infatuation with her magic. What he’d had with Victoria had been grudging interest, a respectable match. And the dozen or so women afterward had all been intriguing in one way or another.
But none captured his heart as Coral did. Without a word, through mere action and sense of presence, she’d banished the dark clouds from his life and restored the sun.
The proposal would have to wait, at least until he had the engagement choker.
Coral cupped one palm against his cheek, brown eyes imploring. Go on, they said, urging him to finish. Instead, he kissed her and said nothing more.
Better to dream than open his mouth and remove all hope.
Chapter 17
In the days following their ride through Ridaeron’s countryside, Camden wondered if his harsh words had finally deterred the queen’s interest. Then one evening, just after concluding dinner with the other servants, Brynhildr’s personal messenger entered the thralls’ common area.
“High Queen Brynhildr summons you to her,” the young woman said, giving Camden an inquisitive look.
“Where?”
“The altar of Frigga. She will be there at this hour.”
The altar seemed an odd meeting spot, but he offered no objection and made his way there unescorted. He’d memorized the castle layout during his first days.
Frigga’s altar occupied the central floor of the eastern tower. He’d passed by it on several occasions but had never entered. The quiet space had an inviting atmosphere, welcoming him with vanilla and musk. Two benches flanked the doorway, the only seating provided, but Brynhildr was on neither. Instead, she knelt on the stone floor before a statue of a woman cradling a child in one arm and a spindle in the other, a lamb at her feet. It was quite beautiful, really, carved in white alabaster that seemed to glow in the moonlight filtering through the window.
She didn’t acknowledge him or speak, though she had to know he was present. One by one, she lit four candles and placed them just before the lamb, remaining there for a while longer. Fascinated by her ritual, he watched until she rose of her own accord and turned to face him.
“I have a gift for you, Camden.” A bell tolled somewhere to announce the start of the seventh hour. The queen clenched her jaw.
“A gift? What for?” he asked, tone sharper than intended. “Forgive me, that was the last thing I expected.”
“It is something you are owed. Not as much a gift as it is an obligation I must meet.” She plucked her sword from the floor—he noticed she wore neither it nor her shield while praying—and armed herself before gesturing for him to follow.
The queen led him outside, across the compound to a place he rarely ventured, where there was a stage before several rows of stone benches, most of the seats occupied by men with bearded faces bathed in the glow of multiple torch lights and lanterns lit with true fire, not magical stones or alchemical devices. A few armored women sat among them, fair-haired beauties ranging from late teens to crones with creased faces. But they all had one thing in common—an interest in Camden, watching him approach. Brynhildr took his hand and guided him onto the stage.
She faced the crowd and spoke, “As my chosen is present, we will speak in the tongue of his people.”
Cam waited for objection. None came.
Brynhildr turned to him. “My king is not present, so I will grant you a great honor tonight.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” He looked from her to the faces of those in attendance, trying to gauge what was happening. A great honor could mean many things, and he still didn’t understand enough about Ridaeron culture to hazard a guess.
“You will soon,” she said to him, before raising her voice to bellow, “Bring out the accused!”
She settled in one of two seats not far from a low stone table at the edge of the stage, both high-backed and polished wood with furred cushions. At that moment, a shackled man was led out onto the stage by a solemn guardsman, his head covered by a black hood. When the prisoner faltered, he received a kick to the back of the knee that toppled him to the stage. Cheers went up and rippled through the audience.
“Order!” Brynhildr called. An immediate hush fell over the group of spectators as two guardsmen yanked the hooded man upright, facing Camden and Brynhildr, and removed his hood. “Njal, son of Ole, you stand accused of high treason, defying orders which have been given by your high king and queen.”
Njal glared at them through one eye, the other swollen shut. The number and severity of his bumps and bruises implied it had been more a beating than a fair fight. “I declare myself innocent of these false charges.”
Innocent? Hatred hummed through Camden’s body, warring emotions of cold paralysis and trembling fury. He clenched both fists against his thighs instead of racing across the stage and giving in to the animalistic rage urging him to snap Njal in half for all the death he’d caused. The destruction. For the lives he’d taken. For Joren. Then Brynhildr’s words broke through the haze of anger and he twisted to face her.
“Treason. You mean attacking the Giddy Madeleine? So…you meant what you said about wanting to open talks with our kingdom?”
“He risked the safety of the Ridaeron Dynasty for glory. That, I cannot abide,” Brynhildr said in a low, even tone. “Before you in the first row are many witnesses. Behind them, the drottin, our jarls and lesser kings of the many tribes across the Dynasty. This is our high court, and how we try those accused of crimes against the crown.”
Njal licked his lips, gaze darting from the queen to Camden, staring at him. “I did no such thing. The Eislanders began that fight, Your Royal Majesty. We approached as we were ordered, to speak with them, and then their white witch hurled fire across our bow.”
Captain Njal’s accusation snapped his attention away from the drottin. “That’s a lie,” Camden objected before he could stop himself.
“My thrall says otherwise,” Brynhildr said. “His personal testimony to me is that your assault interrupted a celebration.”
“You take the word of a thrall over me?”
Camden realized then that Njal had yet to see his accusers, his back kept to the men and women of the first row. A few faces stood out as familiar, though all Ridaerons resembled one another to him at first, mostly bearded faces and blond hair, redheads and freckles. Variety emerged at last, revealing people with complexions ranging from fair ivory to the rich golden-brown of clay and the deeper shades of umber and carnelian.
“His claims have been substantiated by many,” Brynhildr replied. “Lars, son of Petter, provide your testimony.”
A man on the lower end of the Ridaeron height range stood, not much taller than Cam. “I was there, firing the cannons. I overheard him and our first mate arguing about it. We weren’t supposed to initiate battle, but Capt—-Njal thought they would be an easy mark, given they were not prepared for a fight.”
Camden kept his mouth shut and listened. They didn’t need him to say anything, not when the man’s own crew spoke against him.
The next man rose from his seat, a hulking figure with multiple braids in his auburn beard and hair. “He took the whip himself to the mage-thrall’s back, demanding he rain fire on the ship well before we were in cannon range.”
Brynhildr dipped her head. “Thank you, Owain, son of Sonner. Greta, daughter of Halda, what do you have to say? The mage-thrall was in your keeping.”
“Senseless death. I told him Sami could not take anything more, but Njal insisted the sacrifice would be worth it. He tore the whip from my hand and told Sami to do as commanded, else he’d do…unsavory things to his wife when we returned.”
Brynhildr’s cool mask transformed, flushed with anger.
Now Cam understood. The Ridaeron Dynasty was guilty of many crimes, but violence against women was not among t
hem.
One by one, others stood as called, one man testifying he’d been drinking at a bar when Njal bought a round of ales and bragged about catching an Eisland ship unawares. At the end, Brynhildr turned her gaze on Njal’s impassive face.
“High Council, as queen and party wronged, I recuse myself from judgment. What is your verdict?”
“Guilty,” said a dark-skinned man, an iron crown resting on his sand-colored dreadlocks.
“Guilty,” said a heavyset woman with arms thick as Cam’s waist. Jewels and rubies winked amidst chains covering her white-blonde hair.
One by one, the council gave their unanimous votes, much to Camden’s surprise and pleasure.
Njal paled at first, but by the end his face had gone red and splotchy. “They will never give us peace! They threaten our way of life, taking our thralls and enticing our countrymen away.” He spat at Camden’s feet. “You think you’re better than us, boy, but it is our mighty blood that founded your pathetic kingdom. Eisland would not stand if not for us! But they have forgotten. Our queen has forgotten.”
Brynhildr didn’t flinch. She raised her chin and stared at the doomed man. “You dishonor your family name. Peace may have been ours, had you not slaughtered their prince. Now we must live with the consequences of your actions.” Her hand touched Camden’s wrist. “You will choose the manner of his death, to be carried out forthwith. His life is forfeit.”
“Death is almost too good for him,” he growled, slanting his gaze to the queen. “I’m unfamiliar with your justice system. What punishment would you assign, were you to make the choice?”
A mild lift of her brows was her only reaction. “This prince, he was someone dear to you?”
“He was a good friend. A good man,” Cam replied. “His loss will be mourned by everyone in the kingdom and his sister…” He sucked in a breath and shook his head. “She will never forgive this.”
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