Enchanting the King (The Beauty's Beast Fantasy Series)

by E. D. Walker

  On the other side of the king, Llewellyn swore again, and Thomas flinched with pain, his hand convulsing painfully around hers, mashing the bones. “I was thinking of you, you know. When I sang,” Thomas murmured, his voice tight. “Your summer-red hair, the shifting color of your eyes.”

  “I know, I know…” she crooned.

  He did not speak again after that, only gritted his teeth and gripped her hand hard enough to hurt. Drawing the arrow was fiddly, delicate work, but eventually Llewellyn sat back, hissing his breath out. “There.” He tossed the broken bit of arrow away and wiped his brow.

  “Master Llewellyn?” someone called from downstairs, voice frantic.

  “What is it?”

  “A badly injured woman. Lady Noémi needs your help.”

  Llewellyn nodded, surveying his injured king helplessly.

  Aliénor jerked her chin toward the hallway. “Go. I can bandage him.”

  Llewellyn nodded, pushing away from the bed. “All right. Best wash his other cuts too, and dab on some of this salve.” He tapped his finger on one of the little pots arranged by the bed. He left her bandages and a bowl of clean, hot water, then took the rest of his kit as he hurried downstairs.

  Once he was gone, Aliénor busied herself with tending the king. They’d already stripped off his damaged chain mail and surcoat, and he lay on the feather bed, shirtless. His torso was a mess of bruises and small cuts.

  She felt guilty for it, but she couldn't help but admire the chiseled muscles of his arms and chest, the broad, coiled strength under his skin. Nevertheless, she stayed brisk and efficient as she cleaned his cuts and dabbed them with salve. Inside, her body tingled, every part of her aflame. Really, I must be the most wanton woman alive to ogle a poor injured man in this shameless fashion.

  She smirked, and after she’d dealt with his injuries, she washed his neck and face too. She traced her fingertips over his collarbone and shoulders. His eyes fluttered open as she gently sponged the dirt off his nose. She jumped in surprise but smiled. “I thought you'd fallen asleep.”

  “No.” His gaze flicked all over her face, his blue eyes looking almost black in the weak candlelight. He touched one fingertip to her cheek and traced the bone there with a light, tickling touch.

  “Does your wound hurt very much?”

  His hand slid down to cup the back of her neck, drawing her closer. “No.”

  She narrowed her eyes and tensed above him. “Are you lying?”

  “Maybe.” He smiled, and she wanted to kiss his laugh lines, kiss every part of him.

  Feeling very daring, she pressed her palm over his heart, sensing the vital beat of it beneath the skin. His body was lightly dusted with dark brown hair, and she danced her fingers over the hard breadth of his chest.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  Perhaps Jerdun and Lyond can surrender to each other, after all. Her cheeks heated at the thought.

  He gave a low chuckle. “Now you must tell me.”

  Aliénor lifted her chin, faking a confidence she was far from feeling. “I was thinking I'd like to kiss every part of you, and perhaps bite your shoulder.”

  His gaze warmed, the lids lowering sleepily over his eyes. He pushed himself onto one elbow so they sat pressed together on the bed. She was breathing hard now, and each rise of her chest made the front of her gown brush against the hard strength of him. Her skin felt afire, her mouth aching for his kiss. “What are you thinking, Thomas?”

  He cradled her chin with his hand, and traced a thumb over the fullness of her lip. She tasted the salt off his skin. “I’m a fool not to send you out of this room right now.”

  “Thomas, the Tiochene could pour over the walls of this city and kill us all at any moment. I do not think it is wrong if we take what pleasure we can from each other while we may.”

  “Aliénor—”

  Wetness prickled in her eyes, and she turned her face away from him so he would not see. “Please, Thomas, put aside your honor for one night. Forget we are Jerdic and Lyondi. Surrender your scruples.” She faced him again, tangling her arms around his neck, breathing the smell of his skin, his hair. Thomas. “I do not wish to die without having ever made love to you.”

  He locked his arms around her, squeezing her waist.

  “Wait,” she murmured.

  He froze and expelled a long breath against her skin. He eased back, his head hanging. “Of course. You’re right. Forgive me—”

  Aliénor clucked her tongue and laughed a little, tilting his chin up so he would look at her. “Wait,” she murmured. She dug her fingers into her now untidy coronet of braids, untwisting the coil of hair tangled around the cursed hairpin. With a small oath—and a few sacrificed hairs—she at last freed the pin from her hair and set it with a small click next to the bed. “There.” She smiled at Thomas. “Where were we?”

  He puffed out a small laugh, then dropped his head, brushing his lips over the curve of her neck where it joined with her shoulder. She shivered as his breath tickled her skin. “Where were we? Let’s see. You just asked me to make love to you, I believe.”

  Her cheeks burned, but she wasn’t going to turn back now. “Yes.”

  “Nothing would make me happier, Aliénor.”

  “Thomas.” She blinked, tears streaking down her cheeks.

  Before she could say anything else, he dropped a kiss onto her neck, and then another. Slowly his mouth worked its way in a hot trail up to her jaw, her cheek, until at last his breath stirred against her lips. They were both shaking now. “I surrender, my lady,” he murmured against her lips. “I surrender to you if you’ll surrender to me.”

  “Yes.” Her heart soared with a joy that made her light-headed as they tumbled backward together onto the feather bed. He kissed her at last, his eyes happily crinkled, and she could taste the smile on his lips. She wondered if he could feel the love in her heart.

  ***

  Thomas woke many hours later, careful not to move too much and wake Aliénor. Her hair was a coppery, silken spill across the tumbled blankets. They’d both dressed after their lovemaking, but the neck of her gown had slipped a little, showing the delicate line of her collarbone. Her skin looked like clear, perfect marble in the gray light from the window.

  His chest constricted, actually ached, as he eased his way out of that tumbled bed, walking away from her. He fancied he’d have the red-and-gold pattern of the jacquard blanket embedded in his heart forever now.

  I will come back, he promised himself. As soon as he’d checked in, found out if there had been any movement on the walls. He traced his hand lightly over the silk of her hair. She stirred and smiled in her sleep but did not awaken.

  “I will marry you, Aliénor.” A promise not just to her and the fancy curtains, but also to himself. He would get them free of this cursed city somehow, and he would marry her. Politics and practicalities be damned. He knew what her mouth tasted like, the smell of her hair, the soft sighs and hums of happiness she made when he kissed her. To walk away from her, from the potential of the two of them together, would be a kind of curse. A flouting of Fate’s gentle mercy that would be almost offensive.

  With a half-swallowed groan, he left her sleeping and padded lightly down the stairs. Most of the others lay sleeping, even Llewellyn. The magician’s long form was sprawled on a pallet by the fireplace, mouth open and snoring. He’d probably exhausted himself the night before, tending to patients. Thomas left his magician sleeping and nodded hello to Lady Violette and a few of the wounded soldiers who were awake.

  “Lord Guillaume sent a note for you, Your Highness.” Lady Violette scurried over to hand him the note, her eyes lowered. He wondered if she knew what he and her lady had been doing the night before.

  Her gaze flicked up to meet his, and she gave him a small, shy smile. “I am glad you and the princess…” She broke off and shook her head, embarrassed.

  Thomas grinned and patted her hand. “Worked out our disagreement?”

&
nbsp; “Yes. That.” She spoiled her recovery by giggling.

  “Forgive me, Lady Violette. I didn’t think you liked me much.”

  She lowered her dark eyes. “I saw you get my lady to safety yesterday and…and she smiles with you. That never used to happen before. With the prince.”

  “I see.” He smiled.

  Looking flustered, Violette waved her hands in confusion and scurried back to the less confusing company of Ned.

  Thomas unfolded his note from Lord Guillaume and read it over. There had been no serious incursions during the night, but Thomas’s presence was most urgently requested on the wall this morning. If his wounds would permit.

  Thomas hesitated. He wanted to wake Aliénor up, to say good-bye and tell her that he would be back as soon as possible. But they had been up so late—

  He grinned in memory and caught at his lower lip with his teeth, trying to hide the expression. She made him so happy and light. “A scrap of vellum, if you please? Lady Violette, I'm leaving a note for the princess. Will you see that she gets it straightaway when she wakes up?”

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  Thomas dashed off a quick note, grinning all the while, and left it in care of Lady Violette as he walked out of the nobleman’s house. He passed one group of soldiers just coming off shift and heading to their beds, but otherwise the streets were startlingly empty, every doorway closed, every window shuttered.

  “Thomas.”

  He froze at the sound, his body jolting with alarm. “Aliénor?”

  “Thomas.”

  Impossible. He’d left her sleeping. Safe.

  The cry came again, laced with fear. “Thomas, oh please.”

  He took off running, following the sound of her cries back toward a narrow alley near the nobleman's house. “Aliénor?”

  “Here.”

  He rounded the alley corner but something stopped him, a prickling on his scalp, an uneasiness that he could not name. He was reaching for his sword as someone slammed into him from behind, pinning his arms. He whipped around and caught a glimpse of his attacker. “Godric?”

  Thomas’s heart was pounding even before a little chuckle sounded from the shadows in the alleyway. As Godric dragged Thomas forward, Mistress Helen was still smiling. Godric pushed the king to his knees in front of the blood witch.

  Thomas thrashed, but the younger man’s hold was too strong. Thomas’s sleeves felt wet, and he glanced over in dismay to realize he’d reopened the wound on his arm. “How did you get into the city, witch?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been here a few days. Just a poor widow woman and her brother. Refugees from another Jerdic colony. I suspected you were headed this way.”

  “How did you know where I was in the city?”

  “Your blood, dear Thomas. Once I’ve tasted a man’s blood I can always follow the scent and find him again. Anywhere.”

  The blood witch cooed in delight and peeled his sleeve and bandage both back to see the raw wound beneath. She stuck her thumb into the arrow wound, pressing cruelly hard. Thomas let out a roar of pain, not caring for his dignity. Maybe someone would hear and come to his aid.

  The witch popped her bloody thumb into her mouth and sucked hard, eyeing him. She winked.

  He spat at her and thrashed again, trying to throw off Godric.

  “Ah.” The blood witch sighed happily, her pupils dilating for a moment before they contracted back to their regular size.

  That horrid, familiar stiffening of his limbs settled over him as the witch stripped away his will. He thrashed weakly once. The last twitch of a doomed man. It did no good at all.

  The blood witch clucked her tongue. “Now, now, straighten up. We need to pay a visit to little Aliénor, and I want you looking your best.”

  “No.” Thomas gritted the words out from between his teeth. The effort made his jaw hurt, his head ache. “Why?”

  The witch shook her head, raising an impatient eyebrow at him. “So you can kill her, of course.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Aliénor knew she should get up. There were probably things to do, people to help, ways to be useful. But every muscle in her body was warm and liquid. The bedroom door creaked open and she didn’t even have the strength to roll over. “Thomas?”

  His heavy boots stomped across the floor, and then his heat settled against her body, his front to her spine. She hummed with pleasure and pushed her bottom against him. He touched her shoulder, turning her onto her back. She kept her eyes closed but smiled and toppled over willingly to lie beneath him. What a shameless wretch I am. She laughed happily.

  His hands traced over her face and jaw, down to her neck. She arched into his touch and lifted her hand to touch his face, at last opening her eyes. Instead of the sleepy, happy expression she expected, his face twisted into a mask of anguish.

  She touched his lips. “Thomas? What’s wrong?”

  “Run.” He gasped the word out, as if it were literally torn from his lips. A vein throbbed in his forehead.

  “Thomas—”

  His hands fastened around her throat, squeezing tight, crushing the air out of her. Her throat burned. She gagged and clawed at his hands in pure, animal instinct. He pressed harder.

  Something wet plopped against her face. Tears. He was crying, tears dripping off his face and onto hers.

  “Wh-why?” She had to mouth the words. She had no breath.

  He blinked, and his grip slackened ever so slightly. “Blood witch.”

  “No.” Her body clenched with horror and fear. Aliénor let out a hoarse sob and tugged at his fingers, dragging a shallow breath in. “No.”

  Thomas’s breath was ragged too, almost as hoarse as hers. His hands shook where they gripped her throat. “Not strong enough.” His hands spasmed around her throat. She flinched. “Forgive me.” His voice broke.

  Aliénor’s nose burned. Wetness trailed out of her eyes. Blackness edged her vision. No. She kicked out in a blind tearing panic. Bucking beneath him, she managed to throw him off.

  “Help.” She half fell off the bed, scurrying away on all fours. “Help!”

  Thomas rounded the bed, his brow furrowed, his mouth stern as he pursued her. Tear tracks slicked his cheeks.

  Someone pounded against the door. “Princess?”

  “Break the door down!” Aliénor levered herself to her feet, weak and dizzy, frantically glancing around the room for a weapon. Thomas lunged for her and she ducked away, rolling sideways under the bed.

  The pounding on the door increased, the wood rattling in its frame.

  “Hurry.” She scuttled out from under the bed, making a mad dash for the door. Thomas leapt over the bed and caught her skirt, yanking her back. She cried out and slammed hard to the ground, her breath punching out of her on impact.

  “Thomas, please.” She clawed at the floor and kicked as he gathered great handfuls of her skirt and jerked her toward him. He caught her by the arms and tossed her backward onto the bed. He pressed his body atop hers, crushing her into the mattress in a horrible parody of intimacy. His hands clawed for her throat. He froze, blinking, and shook himself. Fighting the spell. But then she could almost see the witch’s leash settling around his neck as he bore in on her again.

  She slapped his face hard enough to make her hand sting. As he recoiled from the blow, she twisted underneath him. Rolling to the side, she pawed at the side table, reaching for a hairbrush, a comb, anything to defend herself with. As he yanked hard on her leg, dragging her underneath him, her fingers fumbled over the hairpin.

  She held it aloft, letting him see it clenched in her hand. “Please, don’t make me.”

  His face convulsed, his body shivering against hers. His muscles were braced and taut as if with great effort. “I surrender. Please, Aliénor. Do it fast.”

  “Thomas,” she sobbed.

  “I can’t—” His hands twitched, tightening around her throat.

  Lungs aching, heart hurting, she stabbed the cursed hairp
in into his chest. Just over his heart. He gasped in sudden pain. The breath left her in a sympathetic hurt. His hands loosened, and his eyes rolled back as he slid sideways off the bed to land on the floor. He did not move.

  “No. Oh spare me. Please no!” Aliénor lay on the mattress a long moment, gasping and coughing, sobbing, wiping snot away with her sleeve. Her body hurt, and she thought she might shake apart. At last, she rolled off the bed, falling onto all fours as she crawled over to Thomas.

  Thomas lay still as death, the hairpin sticking out of his chest. It hadn’t gone in deep, and she ripped the silver bauble out of him and flung it angrily across the room. “Thomas.” She set his head in her lap, shaking his shoulder, gently slapping his face. “Thomas.”

  Nothing she did roused him. He didn’t stir, didn’t open his eyes. She pressed her cheek against his mouth and felt his breath puff against her skin, but it was so faint. His eyes wouldn’t open. “Thomas, please.”

  The pressure built behind her eyes until her mouth trembled with it. A great ache filled her as if her insides were caving in. She buried her fingers in the fabric of his tunic and shook him in anger, in desperation. “Do not leave me. Do not leave me like this, Thomas. Damn you.” Her voice was a hoarse croak, and it hurt her to speak. At that moment, it hurt to live.

  She pressed her cheek to his heart, listening to the faint beat inside him, and she wanted to die. “Thomas, no. Please no.”

  The door splintered behind her, and she instinctively stooped to shield Thomas’s body from flying debris.

  “What the hell is happening?” Llewellyn clattered into the room. “Sire, what is—” The magician was across the room in three bounds and all but threw Aliénor away from Thomas’s body as he bent to examine it.

  Aliénor swabbed at her face with her sleeve again. “I awoke—” She stopped and coughed, but her next attempt was no better. She could make her voice work, but it was still a hoarse croak, and it hurt to speak. “Thomas tried to strangle me, Llewellyn. Blood witch made him. I was so sc-scared.”