“And he spent the entire night here alone with you?” breathed little Meeta, her eyes bugging out at the impropriety of it.
“Well, yes, but I can assure you that nothing untoward happened,” said Persephone, blushing from the tips of her bare toes to the top of her brow. “I mean, Azriel is a slave, for goodness’ sake. And then, of course, there’s the fact that I’m married. Oh, and also the fact that he’s a eunuch.”
“Is—he—really?” said Meeka, looking as though she’d like to rip the blankets aside, tear off his breeches and confirm this for herself.
“Absolutely!” squeaked Persephone. “Now, uh, I’m to go hunting with Lady Aurelia and the rest of the ladies today. Therefore, after the servants arrive with food—”
“You should hear what they’re saying about you in the kitchens!” piped Meeta.
“—and I’ve finished breaking my fast, Martha, I should like you to select a suitable gown and cloak for me,” continued Persephone hurriedly. “Meena, you will find the yeoman of the bowman and ask him to send a bow up to my rooms that I may practise drawing it, for it has been some time since I’ve gone hunting and I should not like to appear … unpractised. Meeka and Meeta, you may help me bathe and dress.”
“Perhaps the eunuch could help us,” suggested Meeka with a sly, sideways glance at Azriel.
“Well, it would only be appropriate that I do so,” he said with a modest shrug. “After all, I am Lady Bothwell’s Master of the Bath. Trained in the art of sponge and soap, gentle-handed and thorough, I never rush but devote myself entirely to the task before me—tenderly working my way up and down her body, one slow inch at a time, that my lady might eventually step from the water flushed and tingling with the knowledge that she is cleaner than any noblewoman in all the realm.” Pretending not to notice the way Meeka was looking at him (like he was a giant sweetmeat), Azriel let his words hang in the air for half a heartbeat before turning his very blue eyes upon Persephone, cocking his head to one side and innocently adding, “Then again, perhaps Lady Bothwell would prefer that I busy myself emptying the chamber pot?”
“Huh?” breathed Persephone, who was flushed and tingling at the very thought of submitting herself to Azriel’s “gentle hand.” “Oh, uh, yes—that is what I would prefer.”
“Very good, m’lady,” he murmured. “I’ll see to it at once.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
IN ANOTHER PART of the palace, Mordecai was struggling to control his rising anger. He’d come to the king’s chambers under the guise of wanting to discuss the young monarch’s upcoming birthday celebrations but with the true purpose of casually mentioning that at the most recent Council meeting there’d been much talk of the many reasons the king ought to name his Regent as his heir. Instead, Mordecai found himself caught up in a discussion regarding a matter as trifling as it was tedious.
“Majesty,” he sighed, “I agree that the execution of Lord Pembleton’s son was regrettable—”
“It was more than regrettable, Mordecai,” interrupted the king, coughing slightly as he shoved his breakfast tray to one side. “It was a grievous misjudgment on your part. I knew the man personally—he was new to court, but I liked his spirit. Just six weeks ago I gave my blessing to his newborn son!”
“That’s as may be, Your Majesty,” said Mordecai soothingly. “However—”
“Not only that,” continued the king, holding his index finger high in the air, “but Moira here tells me that she heard you made an unseemly spectacle of the poor man’s execution and caused his bereft father needless pain and suffering in the bargain.”
Mordecai turned his dark, glittering gaze upon the insufferable cow who had mothered the king since infancy. She blandly returned his gaze, then settled deeper into her cushioned chair by the king’s bedside and resumed shuffling cards.
Promising himself for the thousandth time that someday she would die in agony, Mordecai took a deep breath and turned back to the king. Spreading his bony hands wide, he murmured, “What you say about the execution is true, Highness, but as we’ve discussed many times before, if you do not show the great lords what will happen to them if they sin against you and this realm, you can never hope to control them.”
“I do not believe that Lord Pembleton’s son committed any such sins,” said the king flatly.
“He confessed—”
“Because you had him tortured!” exclaimed the king.
Gritting his teeth with the strain of keeping his heavy head from bobbing and his rage in check, Mordecai hesitated, trying to figure out how best to handle this most unwelcome development. He had not realized that the increasingly strong-willed young king even knew Pembleton’s son, let alone knew him well enough to bestow blessings upon his doomed infant. This, in itself, was cause for concern because it spoke to the fact that he was losing control of the king—a thing that he could not allow to happen until such time as he’d gotten himself named and accepted as heir to the Erok throne.
After that, control of the king would not matter— because the king would be dead or as good as.
“Of course I had him tortured,” flared Mordecai in a sudden, carefully calculated display of irritation. “Do you think he’d have confessed if I’d brought him a cup of tea and a loaf of fresh bread?”
“No, but—”
“Is this the thanks I get for safeguarding your kingdom lo these many years?” demanded Mordecai, as the cow placidly began to deal the cards into two piles. “For toiling ceaselessly on your behalf, asking nothing for myself?” The cow snorted quietly. Mordecai just barely resisted the urge to order her beaten to death on the spot. “Do you think I like getting blood on my hands?” he continued hotly. “Do you imagine for one moment that I enjoyed driving scores of your poorest subjects from their pestilent slum—or that I took pleasure in the hideous screams of those who chose to burn to death rather than leave their pathetic hovels?” The already-pale king grew paler at this. Leaning forward, the Regent twisted the knife a little deeper. “These terrible things were approved by you and done for you, Majesty—and yet I, alone, willingly carry the burden of responsibility for them. And you show your gratitude by accusing me of—what? Working too diligently? Being too thorough?”
The young king looked at his Lord Regent—not with the eyes of a boy suffering with the sudden knowledge that he’d had a hand in the deaths of innocent people, as Mordecai had hoped, but with the shocked eyes of a young man who’d just gotten his first fleeting glimpse of the way things really were.
“You know that I appreciate all that you’ve done for me and my realm, Your Grace,” said King Finnius slowly. “Nevertheless, you erred in your treatment of young Lord Pembleton, and I would not have you do such a thing again without my express permission.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Mordecai saw Moira nod approvingly. Clasping his hands together to keep from reaching for her throat, he swallowed his rage at the insults being heaped upon him, staggered to his feet and stiffly bid the king a pleasant day recuperating. Stifling a wet cough with the sleeve of his nightshirt, the king replied that he would not be spending the day recuperating. Mordecai—who always felt most at ease when he could somehow arrange for the king to be beyond the influence of the great lords—tried to convince him that he needed rest in order to fully recover from the fits brought on by the smoke from the burning slum, but the young man would not be dissuaded.
“I am going to make an appearance on the Grand Balcony and then I am going to spend the afternoon in the garden. Moira thinks the fresh air will be good for me and also that it is important for those of low and noble birth alike to see for themselves that I’m entirely recovered from last night’s fit,” he explained as he surreptitiously watched his bovine nursemaid pick up one pile of cards, deftly arrange them in her hand and begin studying them. “Besides, Lord Atticus sent word that he has an early birthday surprise for me, and though I am not especially fond of the man himself, I am very fond of surprises.”
Mordecai
smiled thinly, thinking of the surprise he had in store for the king someday very soon and how he’d like nothing better than to deliver it himself—in the form of a poisoned dagger plunged directly into the boy’s royal heart.
“You are smiling, Your Grace,” said the king, who was studiously ignoring the pile of cards at his fingertips. “Do you like surprises, too?”
“Oh, yes, Highness,” said Mordecai, smiling more broadly still. “I certainly do.”
The image of the young king gasping for breath as his life’s blood drained away buoyed Mordecai’s spirits for a spell, but by the time he was halfway to Lady Bothwell’s chambers, he’d plunged into a foul mood once more. At once a soft-hearted fool and a hard-nosed ingrate, the king was getting more difficult to manage by the day. And now he was accepting “surprises” from Atticus? This was even more deeply disturbing than the revelation that young Pembleton had been known to him, for Pembleton was a dead nobody and his father was a broken man, while Atticus was very much a somebody and his father, Lord Bartok, was anything but broken. The Bartok clan coveted the crown almost as much as Mordecai did, and if ever they were to get close enough to the king to start whispering against Mordecai—even if they were to do nothing more than whisper the truth!—there was no doubt in Mordecai’s mind that his plan to be named heir would be utterly and completely ruined.
But it is not ruined yet, he thought, smoothing his hair and straightening his robe as he took the final, lurching steps toward the door of Lady Bothwell’s chambers. It is not even close to—
The sudden sound of laughter from the other side of the door caused all thought to fly from Mordecai’s mind and the blood to drain from his face.
Because it wasn’t just laughter that he heard—it was rich, seductive, masculine laughter.
“Open—that—door,” hissed Mordecai, in a voice so terrible that the two poleaxe-wielding guards nearly knocked heads together in their haste to leap forward and fling it open.
The sight that greeted them was worse than Mordecai could ever have imagined. Lady Bothwell—his Lady Bothwell, future mother of his true-begotten half-noble son, the noblewoman on whose behalf he’d just that morning sent General Murdock on a mission of great import!—was in the arms of a half-naked slave, her back pressed up against his bare chest as though she were nothing more than a common whore. And she wasn’t debasing herself with just any half-naked slave—this beast was a study in masculine perfection. Broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, long and lean, he was all hard muscle and raw sensuality, the kind of animal that drew females like flies to honey. That, alone, would have been more than enough to make Mordecai want to see him slow-dipped in boiling oil, but one look at the brute’s face caused the Regent’s displeasure to multiply a thousandfold. For his skin was as smooth and unblemished as Mordecai’s own, his features as finely chiselled as Mordecai’s own, his teeth as straight and white as Mordecai’s own and his eyes as blue as Mordecai’s own eyes were black. The slave did not resemble the Regent in any way, but there was no denying the fact that he was at least as handsome as Mordecai was. Perhaps … perhaps even more handsome in his way, for he was much younger than Mordecai, and there was something in his eyes, something that seemed somehow familiar—
“Your Grace!” exclaimed Lady Bothwell. Leaping out of the slave’s embrace with a haste wholly unbecoming a lady of her station, she dropped into a low curtsey.
The female servants who’d been standing around doing nothing, like the useless drabs they were, likewise curtseyed. The beast bowed deferentially, but with a grace that inflamed Mordecai almost beyond reason.
Wordlessly, the Regent shuffled into the room, indicating to the bumbling guards that they should follow with their poleaxes at the ready.
“Lady Bothwell,” he said icily, as the full weight of his stare fell upon the bowed head of the handsome slave. “What is the meaning of this?”
For a moment there was nothing but silence. Then, to Mordecai’s utter astonishment, instead of cowering or begging forgiveness for her gross lewdness, Lady Bothwell began to laugh—a lovely, light-hearted sound that caused Mordecai’s heart to clench most painfully. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I think you are referring to this,” she giggled, pointing at the beast, “and I think that you thought you’d found me in the embrace of a half-naked man.”
“Well, yes,” spluttered Mordecai, who was so unused to people failing to quail in terror before his towering anger that he hardly knew how to react.
Lady Bothwell laughed again—and again, Mordecai’s heart clenched. “Your Grace, this creature is not a man—he is a eunuch,” she explained with a dismissive gesture in the brute’s direction. “He has belonged to my dear husband since long before we married, and he was with me when my caravan was attacked outside the city walls. Last night, the two New Men who discovered him trying to return to my service kindly delivered him to me. He slept on the floor by the hearth—far better accommodation than he is used to or deserves—and just now he was reminding me of the particular technique my husband wishes me to use when drawing a bow.”
Mordecai’s gaze dropped to the bow in Lady Bothwell’s hand—which he hadn’t noticed up to that point—then up to Lady’s Bothwell’s face, then over to the eunuch’s face. It was too handsome by far—just as his body was too perfect by far—but where it truly counted, it seemed that he was a mutilated nothing.
Still.
His presence in Lady Bothwell’s chambers offended Mordecai, as did the fact that when the bandits attacked her caravan, he’d obviously abandoned his mistress in favour of saving his own worthless hide. That alone was reason enough to have his face carved up like a summer squash, to have his pretty blue eyes put out, to have one of his hands removed, to have—
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this fine morning, Your Grace?” asked Lady Bothwell.
Mordecai was jolted back to the moment by the sound of Lady Bothwell’s voice—and by the thrilling revelation that she found his visit a pleasure. Folding his arms across his withered chest to keep from preening, he said, “As it happens, my lady, I’ve come to invite you to spend the day with me. I cannot offer you a spectacle such as you enjoyed yesterday”—he paused to chuckle appreciatively at the memory of Lady Bothwell staring at the fresh, headless corpse of young Pembleton and asking if there was more entertainment to be had—“but I thought we might sit in the garden. You could read to me, and sing and dance and play the lute for me, and speak to me of the many things I should like to know about you.”
To his delight, Mordecai saw Lady Bothwell’s face flush like a girl being courted for the very first time. His delight was abruptly extinguished, however, when she said, “Oh, Your Grace, I should have enjoyed that very much, but I’m afraid that Lady Aurelia has already invited me to go hunting with her and the other ladies of the court.”
“Lady Aurelia? Lord Bartok’s daughter?” demanded Mordecai, irritated not only by the fact that the ripe, young Lady Bothwell had been invited to do something that his crippled body would never allow him to do, but also by the fact that she’d been invited by a Bartok.
The high-and-mighty bastards were everywhere!
The flicker of surprise that flitted across Lady Bothwell’s face at the mention of Bartok’s name was immediately replaced by a look of contrition. “I did not think to ask whose daughter Lady Aurelia is, Your Grace,” she murmured meekly. “I’m sorry if I’ve displeased you by accepting her invitation. Shall … shall I send word that I’ll not be joining her and the others?”
For a long moment, Mordecai said nothing, only savoured the fact that Lady Bothwell not only appeared entirely content to miss out on the excitement of the hunt in order to spend quiet time with him but also appeared entirely willing to be ordered about as he saw fit.
Verily, it was as though they were man and wife already!
“You need not send word to Lady Aurelia,” announced Mordecai magnanimously, wondering how long it would be before he’d have the pleas
ure of seeing Lady Bothwell standing before him wearing nothing but the dead queen’s silken undergarments. “Take your enjoyment as you will this day, my dear, and this evening, you may join me for supper and … amusements in my private chambers.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Lady Bothwell, who was clearly overcome by the prospect. “I shall look forward to it.”
TWENTY-NINE
THE MOMENT MORDECAI and the guards departed, Persephone dropped the bow from her shaking hand and sank into the nearest chair. Meeka swiftly handed her a mug of ale, Meena fanned her face, Martha fussed with her hair and little Meeta—who looked nearly as rattled as Persephone felt and who apparently could think of nothing else to do—ran to fetch her something to eat.
Under the guise of helping to adjust the cushion behind her back, Azriel leaned close enough to brush his lips against her ear. “You must stop saving my life,” he whispered, “for you are starting to make me look bad.”
For some reason, Persephone nearly burst into tears at his teasing words. She did not know what had made her laugh in the face of the Regent’s rage—nor where she’d found the courage to do so—but she knew for a certainty that if she hadn’t, Azriel would have come to terrible harm.
“Go, now. Go hunting with the great ladies of the court,” he continued softly, his warm breath tickling her skin. “By the time you return to me, I will have figured out a way for us to save my little tribesman—and a way to keep you out of the cold hands of that monstrous old lecher.”
Before Persephone could reply, Meeka’s face loomed between them. “While you’re gone hunting, m’lady,” she said loudly, “shall I teach your eunuch how to promptly adjust a lady’s cushion so that in the future you need not suffer having him linger about you so?”
“What? Oh! Yes, uh, thank you,” stammered Persephone, wishing she didn’t blush so easily. “And please find him a shirt to wear. It is not … seemly for a slave of a lady’s chambers to be so ill clad, even if he is only a eunuch.”
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