by Georgia Fox
"'Tis a beautiful sight, is it not," said the Captain. "I do love my life at sea and wouldn't trade it for land-legs, but once in a while I like to sail back just to look at that. Perhaps when I am an old man, I'll settle down, eh? Come back for good. Plant my roots."
Ram nodded. "Every man thinks of that eventually."
"But you are younger than me. You have many more adventures waiting for you."
"Mayhap." He stared at those castle walls as the sun swept them with a gilding brush. "Mayhap my adventures are here and meant to be shared with someone in particular. Someone I've waited ten years to claim for my own."
The Captain was barely listening, his mind already sailing back out to sea. "You'll take a rowboat back to the port now?" he asked. "Give a kiss to my troublesome daughter, Apollonia, for me, will you?"
"I'd prefer to shake her hand, if you don't mind," Ram replied wryly. "She might cut my lip with a stout punch if I tried to kiss your daughter."
"Not still writing those books, is she?"
"I fear so."
Revellaux shook his head. "She should have been a boy. The world isn't ready for a woman like that. I thought if I got her well married off she'd learn to be ladylike."
"Well, the world may have to change," said Ram softly. "That's the future and we'll have to change with it."
* * * *
The Queen's Men were sworn in to fill the empty seats on the Council. Those mysteriously absent members— Bonneville, Riaz, Bosworth, Medlar, et al— were nowhere to be found and Lady Marchand was vanished with them. No explanation. Some felt the new Council was too boisterous, too full of common men. But with this swift and sudden change of power, those who valued their heads kept silent about their suspicions in that regard. Who knew what the likes of Ram Thruster and Slam Hardy would do next?
A new regime had come to Ersadonia. It was younger and more vital than the previous reign. It had rougher and tougher. It had spirit, luster and strength. It held the future. It came, almost it seemed, from out of the blue and took the slumbering folk of Ersadonia by surprise.
Chapter Fifteen
Ariana left her son's chamber that night and walked along the corridors of the palace with Lady D'Arbanville, both marveling at the peace and happiness that had come over the world in those few hours. The death of Septimus had shrouded the country in grief, worry and doubt, but a new day had come with the crowning of a new king.
"Goodnight, Ari," Apollonia whispered as they came to the Queen's chamber door.
"But won't you come in? I need help to get out of this heavy gown."
Her friend smiled. "I don't think you'll need my help."
As it turned out, she was quite right about that.
Ariana entered her room and found it filled with flowers. And one stark naked man on her bed with a very self-satisfied look on his face.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, every bit as imperious as a Queen should be with her errant bodyguard.
"Sorting out a few problems," he replied with a saucy grin that she really ought to punish. "For you and your son."
"Ah." She set down her candle and came to the bed. "I trust you spared their lives."
"As you asked." He bowed his head. "But the moment they cause trouble...I shan't be lenient a second time."
"You can't simply dispose of your enemies by sending them away."
He pretended to consider this statement, puzzling over it with a slight frown and a finger to his lips. "Hmmm. We'll see. They have been sent quite a...long...way away."
She decided it might be better if she didn't know any more than that.
There was something more pressing that she must know at that moment. "Are you going to stay, Ramon Villaverde?"
He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the bed with him. "As long as you need me, Ariana."
"Why? For Ersadonia?"
"No."
"For the memory of Septimus?"
"No."
"For Gaston?"
He laughed. "No. For that damnable woman who kept me here before."
"I insist you tell me her name." Slowly she swept dark hair back from his warm brow and looked into his eyes. They did not look away, or down, or at anything but her now. They drank her in as if she was a fine wine and she felt absorbed by him. She had become a part of his veins, his blood. And he was a part of her too now.
"Her name is Ariana," he said huskily, as he began to remove the silver cuffs at her wrists. "And she holds me here, as she has done for ten long years."
"Good, because she won't let you leave," she whispered. "You're her prisoner."
"I always have been." Gently he kissed her bared wrists. "I love her. I've loved her from the first moment I saw her standing in an emerald forest glade, and she looked up at me with brave eyes full of honesty and goodness. Things that were lacking in my life until then."
She could barely believe her ears. The stern warrior had confessed that he loved her. Perhaps she would soon wake and realize she dreamed all this.
Better make the most of it then, she mused, reaching for her lover's most splendid weapon of all. It was already raised and unsheathed, ready to be plunged deep inside her, all the way to her heart.
"I always knew you'd one day spear me with a sword," she chuckled, rolling him over onto his back. "I just didn't realize how much I'd enjoy it."
Epilogue
Slam Hardy scratched his armpit and leaned back in the horse trough, enjoying his first "bath" in some time. He was slightly drunk— not as drunk as he would like to be, nor as drunk as he felt entitled to be after a job well done. But just enough to smooth the edges.
It was a pleasant evening, the air warm and fragrant. Quite relaxing really with the dirt floating off his aching muscles, water gently lapping up the stone sides of the trough. Aye, a man might get used to bathing if he had some reason to be clean more often.
He began to whistle a favorite tune, admiring his feet where they rested on the sides of his makeshift bath.
Suddenly steps approach, walking quickly, busily. Only a woman would walk like that, he mused. A woman in a bad mood.
"That's a sight for sore eyes!" The steps stopped abruptly and he opened his eyes, looking up to see the pretty blonde wench with the fine bosom— the one he'd been eyeing up earlier that day. She absolutely refused to smile at him and he was intrigued by that. Challenged by it, he supposed.
"Good eve to you, ma'am," he grinned, leaning his head back to take in the full height of her. "Care to join me?"
"I don't think there's room. Not with your big head in there too."
"Ha! I do love a wench with a sense of humor."
"That's fortunate. Any woman who spends time with you would need one."
Slam was not put off. He sat up. "What's your name, wench?"
"You can call me Not Likely."
"Ah, that's a cruel jab. Only trying to be friendly."
"Well, perhaps you could try being a little less friendly and remember this is a palace, not a brothel. I know, it's confusing for you, but there is a difference. Generally the ladies here are saved such sights as... this." She gestured with a wave of her hand at the trough and his body in it. "Bathing is done in private. Unless you're a horse."
He grinned slowly. "Perhaps I remind you of a horse, eh? A fine big stallion."
She arched an eyebrow and folded her arms. "You're the one they call Slam Hardy, are you not?"
"Aha! You've asked about me already." He was smug. "Wondering who I was."
"Wondering what you were."
He paused and then laughed heartily. She was simply too interesting, and much too pretty, to insult him. "I like you, wench. Sure I can't tempt you to scrub my back?"
"Positive." She picked up his shirt and breeches from the cobblestones and tossed them at him. "Although at least now I know you don't have fleas."
He frowned.
"That's the trough they use for the flea dip," she added, clearly trying not to laugh.
With that she walked away, her shoulders trembling very slightly as she struggled to keep her haughty composure.
Sitting in the bath, clutching his damp clothes, Slam watched her disappear under an ivy-laden arch.
Now that, he thought, was a dangerous woman. Just the type he always chased after.
So under no circumstances would he follow that one. No indeed.
Had he not just told his friend Ram that he was done with women?
Unfortunately that wasn't the first time he'd made a similar promise. And he'd never before felt quite such a temptation to break it.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Georgia Fox has lived in many different places, including a canal boat, but sadly never in a windmill or a lighthouse. Maybe that's next! She loves good company, spicy food, thought-provoking erotica and excellent brandy. She also enjoys pushing the boundaries.
In her life she’s done a little bit of everything and somehow lived to tell the tales. Except those she's legally bound not to spill - for now.
She doesn’t believe in fairies, ghosts, flying saucers or conspiracy theories.
But she still believes in love.
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