Paladin's Prize

by Gaelen Foley

  Then Thaydor followed the order to place the ring on her finger. Gladly. He smiled, gazing into her dove-gray eyes as he did so. The simple gold band was temporary. A large, polished diamond handed down through his family awaited her in the vault of his father’s castle.

  “And so,” the priest went on, “before this gathering of friends, and with the blessing of the Father, I now pronounce you man and wife, forever as one.”

  “So may it be,” the people said.

  The priest closed the holy book and smiled at Thaydor. “You may kiss your bride.”

  When Thaydor turned and lifted her veil, he discovered tears welling in her eyes. He brought her hands to his lips and kissed each one, then he bent and caressed her lips softly with his own. He felt her tremulous wonder in this moment, and his heart clenched when two crystal teardrops spilled from beneath her lashes and fell onto his hands.

  “Those had better be tears of joy,” he whispered fondly.

  She brushed them away and nodded with a quick, endearing sniffle.

  But when he turned to face their guests, lifting her hand to present his prize to all in the thronged pews, the thunderous applause made her blush and laugh, and then she was all right again.

  Sweet Ilios, I love her.

  Bursting with pride, he tucked her dainty hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her out of the chapel and under the arch of swords his brother knights had created just outside.

  There were congratulations all around from the Sons of Might. From there, the party poured out into the gardens, where Brother Piero had arranged for musicians to play for them and the refreshments of a traditional bride-ale, including a fine wedding cake and a steady flow of wine.

  They both embraced the wearied warrior monk when they saw him, and abashed him with their profuse thanks.

  “It was just as you promised,” Wrynne said warmly. “Everything was perfect. We owe it all to you.”

  With a sheen of sentimental tears already in his eyes and a beefy arm around each one of them, he smiled from ear to ear. “Just enjoy yourselves. And be happy.”

  While you can.

  He did not say that part aloud, but he and Thaydor exchanged a guarded look, for they had been both thinking it since yesterday, when they had found out where they’d have to go to get a hold of Jonty Maguire.

  “Ah, calamity!” Piero cried suddenly, looking into his empty cup. “I need more ale!”

  “Have at you,” Thaydor jested, slapping him on the back. The big friar went bustling off to refill his cup and see to their guests, leaving him to ponder briefly the next leg of their quest.

  According to the information he had received late this afternoon, the wild bard had gone and got himself thrown into the Blackport Dungeon. On what charges, nobody could say.

  Well, whatever the merry scapegrace had done now, it struck Thaydor as more than a little ironic that in order for him to carry out the oracle’s advice, he—the most wanted fugitive in the kingdom at the moment—was going to have to break into a dungeon.

  But all that trouble could keep until tomorrow. Tonight, the only place he wanted to go was straight to bed with his luscious little bride.

  His awareness of her was intense, even as she introduced him to several of her friends from the Daughters of the Rose. Though he smiled and nodded politely, it was hard to pay attention.

  As twilight deepened into darkness, he was admittedly growing just a tiny bit nervous about the wedding night. He had never deflowered a girl before, and the truth was he did not have the most experience in the world when it came to women—by choice, by course.

  Women threw themselves at him everywhere he went; some even showed up uninvited in his bed. But they were easy to refuse when he knew full well that they were either married or only there to try to manipulate him with some sort of lustful power game.

  The unspeakable harlots of Fonja were the worst of all. They seemed to find it terribly amusing to try to seduce him. He’d heard there was some kind of running wager among them to see who could make him break his vows of chivalry and upright, honorable conduct.

  He found them all repulsive.

  Wrynne, however, was as dedicated to righteousness as he was…and had even less experience.

  Well, if he was terrible, at least she wouldn’t know any better, he thought wryly. Somehow, the thought did not give him any comfort. Truly, it was hell sometimes having to live up to his own daunting reputation for being excellent at everything.

  He sighed and downed a swallow of wine, rather amused at his own idiotic mix of almost virginal anxiety and crazed eagerness. All he wanted was to give Wrynne the perfect first time she deserved.

  Yes, he doted on her, but he was still very much a battle-hardened warrior, more than a foot taller and a good six stone of muscle heavier than she was. What if he hurt her, or scared her unintentionally? The girl had suddenly become everything to him and his only wish was to make her happy. He did not want to make her, of all people, bleed.

  But he must.

  He finished his goblet of wine with a terse command to himself to calm down. He did not get this worked up before even a battle!

  At least she had made it easy on him with what had happened that night in the cave. The fact that they had already begun to explore each other’s bodies took some of the pressure off. To be sure, he already knew that he could give her pleasure. She had been more than game for it.

  At length, they bade their guests adieu and retired to their accommodations for the night—not at the chapter house tonight. For this special occasion, they were granted the use of the private guest apartment at the top of the white tower usually reserved for visiting dignitaries.

  An opulent, high-ceilinged bedchamber with gilded trim and velvet drapes awaited them, bathed in candlelight. Through a pair of arched doors, the opulent room let out onto a small square courtyard on the roof of the tower, open to the sky. From there, they could see for miles in all directions.

  Wrynne’s white bridal veil, now hanging down her back, blew and billowed in the wind at that elevation as they stood together by the waist-high wall and savored the soaring views. Between the little fountain and the stone urns full of flowers, there were low chairs built at a steep reclining angle so that guests could lie back and gaze up at the stars. They were eager to try them, but first Wrynne said she needed to change out of the elaborate gown. She wanted to give it back to the Daughters of the Rose in the same pristine condition in which it had been lent to her.

  Done trying to move gracefully in the yards of fabric, she scooped up handfuls of the voluminous gown, flopped the long train over her arm, and marched into the bedchamber.

  “Could I get your help, husband?” she called in a flirtatious tone.

  “My dear,” he said as he sauntered after her with a smile, “if your first request to me is to help you undress, I am really going to like being married.”

  She grinned and took the wreath off her head, setting it aside. Next, she gingerly removed the veil and held it out to him. “Would you do something with this?”

  He took it from her, put it on his own head, and presented himself to make her laugh.

  “You could start a new fashion,” she said, her gray eyes twinkling.

  He took the veil off and found a clothing hook on the wall, where he hung it up. Returning for the gown, he swept her long hair forward over her shoulder and could not resist kissing her exposed nape.

  She let out a sweet sigh, lifting her shoulder happily. Then he set about slowly unlacing the white ribbons down her back.

  “You look absolutely…celestial,” he whispered as he parted the back of the bodice, exposing her creamy skin and the top line of her thin white chemise. He kissed each of her shoulder blades and the curve of her neck, then took hold of the ends of the long, tight lace sleeves of the gown and held them so she could draw her arms out.

  These he also kissed when they were bare, moving down onto his knees beside her amid the pool of pu
ffy white fabric. In a trancelike state, he breathed in the intoxicating scent of her skin as he let his lips wander from her palm and wrist all the way up her arm, taking particular care to nibble the sensitive flesh in the crook of her elbow.

  When his attentions roused a moan of desire from her lips, he rose and lifted her off her stockinged feet into his arms, carrying her over to the ornate canopy bed, where he laid her down.

  Their stares locked as he caressed her stomach through the crisp layer of linen just for a moment before taking off his belt and coat. He tossed them aside, his dress sword clattering to the floor.

  “Take off your shirt,” she whispered with a come-hither stare.

  He smiled and obeyed.

  She bit her lip at the sight of his body.

  “Do I please you?” he whispered.

  “No,” she said. “You drive me wild.”

  With a half-smile, he leaned down and planted his hands on either side of her on the mattress, and then kissed her, hard.

  Her marvelous, healing hands stroked up and down his sides as she opened her mouth, hungry for his kiss. Her passionate response to him lit the already-banked fires in his blood. He realized she was more ready for him than he had expected with all his fretful, overprotective worrying. Perhaps even as eager as he, though that seemed impossible. He wanted her so much.

  He had thought they’d sit awhile outside together, have more wine perhaps, and warm up gradually to the night’s main task to be accomplished—the official consummation—but her undulating body, her heaving breaths, and turgid nipples raking his bare chest made it clear she was ready to go.

  Enthralled by her passion, he peeled the white shift off her, then pulled the covers back and slid her under them. Kissing her all the while, he hastened to rid himself of chausses and braies. His trembling fingers fumbled with the lacings until she assisted. Her touch made him groan—she wasn’t even using magic.

  Naked at last, he climbed into bed with her and pulled her on top of him in a wordless effort to let her know that she would be the one to decide the moment when he would take her. Surely it was no small thing for a woman to allow a man into her very body. Far be it from him to rush her. He could wait until she gave the signal even if it killed him.

  Wrynne seemed to be enjoying her command of the situation and stretched out flat atop him, belly to belly. His thunderous erection throbbed between them, and her night-dark hair hung down around him like a veil, cloaking them in their own little world. He tucked it behind her ear.

  He felt her lips curve as she kissed him. “Husband?”

  “Yes, wife?” he whispered.

  “I am very happy right now.”

  “Good. So am I,” he answered.

  “Yes, I noticed,” she teased in a breathy purr, moving her hips to tease his cock with the silkiness of her lithe, nubile body.

  He closed his eyes with a groan of pleasure. “Don’t do that,” he rasped.

  “Thaydor?” she breathed.

  “Yes, you hot-blooded little minx? What is it?”

  “I’m really not sure…what to do.”

  “Oh, I see,” he murmured, sliding his hands down the sinuous curve of her back to cup her charming buttocks firmly in his hands. “Would you like me to show you?”

  “Very much,” she answered with a shy, rosy blush.

  “It isn’t difficult. Don’t be nervous.”

  “Oh, I could never be nervous with you. I know you’d never hurt me.”

  He gazed into her eyes. “You melt me when you say things like that.”

  “How I love you,” she said softly. “All steel on the outside, with a poet’s heart tucked away behind the armor.”

  He felt a little sheepish at such honeyed praise, but she had never outright said that she loved him until now.

  The words made him go still. He cupped her nape and held her gaze for another moment in wonder, as if he could see into her very soul.

  “What is it?” she whispered, touching his face.

  “I love you, too,” he said. He couldn’t believe he was one of the fortunate few who had actually managed to marry for love and not just practicality. His heart full unto bursting, he kissed her as he smoothly switched their positions, rolling her onto her back and easing atop her.

  Beneath him, Wrynne wrapped her arms around his neck and slid her legs around his hips as he entered her tenderly, kissing her all the while. Deeper he pressed into her dreamy wetness until he met with her maiden barrier.

  He paused in kissing her as he broke through it with a thrust of his hips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered at her low cry, shaking all over with need.

  “No, it’s all right. I love you,” she panted, petting his chest and shoulders and struggling to gather herself.

  He held still for her somehow, though he was breathlessly close to exploding. He waited, mentally saying the Greek alphabet in reverse to distract himself from the exquisite pleasure of her body’s warm velvet grip.

  Resting on his elbows, he traced little shapes across her forehead with his fingertip, taking his time until he felt her relax under him again. “Does it hurt?” he murmured worriedly.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad. It means I’m yours now forever.”

  “And I’m yours.” Overwhelmed by his sheer adoration, he did not know how to hold back anymore.

  Thankfully, she pulled him down to kiss her, nicely recovered, it seemed. Her embrace as she clutched him to her bosom and fed upon his fevered kisses asked silently, cautiously for more. His heart slammed in his chest as he resumed the motion, making love to her with slow, careful strokes as gently as he could.

  Her building moans filled his ears with the most gratifying music, but he could feel his control slipping away. At least her intoxicating cries assured him his bride had reached some modicum of pleasure in her deflowering, along with the pain. As for him, thanks to their perch atop the tower, all the surrounding kingdoms probably heard his roar of release as he surrendered to her completely, filling her womb with his seed.

  So may it be.

  Chapter 10

  Dungeon

  “I hope that oracle knows what she’s talking about. Because this doesn’t make any sense at all to me,” Thaydor grumbled three days later.

  They crouched down behind a shallow rise about a mile outside the forbidding walls of the brooding Blackport Dungeon. He shook his head. “I don’t see why I can’t just crash the front door down and go in and drag the idiot out.”

  “For obvious reasons, darling,” Wrynne said, shaking her head. Everything about the bard had made him rather grumpy. “It’s a dungeon.”

  “So? I’ve laid siege to worse.”

  “Listen to your wife, lad,” Brother Piero urged, his head now draped in a hood of chain mail, his white surcoat pale in the waning twilight. He and two of the other Sons of Might from the chapter house had come along to provide them with some extra hands for their mission.

  “You are not going in there, I forbid it,” the stouthearted warrior monk continued. “Not with all the king’s men scouring the land to arrest you. Why make it easy on them? All they’d have to do is back you into a cell and you’re doomed. Don’t let love cloud your common sense. She can do this much more easily than we can, and without bloodshed.”

  “Thank you, Brother Piero,” said Wrynne.

  He sent her a wink. “You’re welcome, dear.”

  “I hate this,” Thaydor mumbled.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine, husband,” Wrynne said with a chuckle while her large, armor-clad paladin scowled in the direction of the infamous prison. “Trust me. I’ll go in as a humble sister on a charity mission and offer healing to the sick within. When I see the bard, I’ll figure out a way to get near him and then use my hasten spell to get him out. It worked to save you once, didn’t it?”

  He merely growled.

  “And you all must be ready to ride—and probably fight—as soon as we appear,” she instructed. “I’m sure the guards will g
ive chase.”

  “But if you do this, then you’ll be a fugitive in earnest like me,” Thaydor said.

  “I’m your wife. We face everything from now on together.” She laid a hand gently on his shiny silver breastplate.

  At the Bastion, his armor had been restored to its former glory after the Urms’ damage. Hallowsmite hung in his scabbard at his waist, its blade newly sharpened.

  “You have to let me help when I am able,” she added. “This is for the best. I’m a lot less recognizable than you. You cannot argue that.”

  “Well, you can’t wear your armor, then.” Thaydor’s unhappy gaze flicked over her. “It’ll only rouse their suspicions. And what if they don’t let you take your staff in? They might strip it from you as a possible weapon. If that happens, all this is a waste of time.”

  “I’ll just have to sweet-talk them somehow.”

  “That’s your plan?” he retorted.

  She ignored her scowling husband and turned to the brothers. “I trust you fellows have mastered the Feed the Hungry spell?”

  “Certainly, mistress,” Brother Piero said with a nod.

  “A few nice charity cakes or pies or loaves of some sort would help to get me in the door.” She lifted her arm and started unbuckling the straps of her brushed silver breastplate.

  While the three warrior monks proceeded to conjure a variety of tempting edibles that she could offer the prisoners and the guards, Thaydor helped her take off the few pieces of armor, which she had donned at his insistence when they had left the Bastion.

  He grumbled over the task all the while. “It should be me going in there. I don’t like you having to lie your way into that place, either, after the Golden Master specifically warned you about dishonesty.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him as he undid a strap she couldn’t reach. The oracle had also warned her about not leaving his side. Did this count?

  “I know,” she finally said, hiding her uneasiness. “But this is the easiest way. Besides, from the sound of it, the bard hasn’t even committed a crime. I suspect that, given the influence he wields with his art over all the people, high and low, he probably has as many high-placed enemies as you do. Well, almost as many.”