by Mason, Nina
Her heart surged in objection.
Damn her feelings and damn her dissolute husband. She did not want to care for him any longer, did not want to hold onto hope. He’d disappointed her beyond measure. ‘Twould not do to go on loving him.
Moldering with misery, she shifted her gaze to the seat across, where the villain in question slept, albeit roughly on account of his wounds. Good. Let him suffer from her hand as she suffered from his. And to think, she’d taken pity on him the other night. Had she guessed his secret, she would have given him another ten lashes—and a few on his cock and cods as well. That ought to keep him from playing musical beds when they got to court.
Not that it mattered, given her plan to divorce him.
Her heart reared in protest once again.
Fine. She wouldn’t desert him, but she definitely wanted to punish him—perhaps by throwing herself at the king. Yes, that would fix Robert. Then, all the way back to Dunwoody, she could rave on about the monarch’s superior size and sexual technique.
Come to think of it, why wait to taunt him? With an arch look in her dozing husband’s direction, she loudly asked, “Do you think the king has a prodigious cock?”
Robert stirred, sat up, and blinked at her blearily as he finger-combed his tousled hair. “What was that?”
“I enquired after the size of the royal scepter. Do you happen to know if King Charles has a large phallus?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I have not seen it, but I have heard tales. I have also committed to memory the lewd verse the Earl of Rochester penned on the subject of the king’s endowments, if you would care to hear a recitation.”
“I should like exceedingly to hear it,” she said primly.
“Are you certain? ‘Tis quite vulgar.”
“All the better,” she returned, pursing her lips. “If I am to play the part of a strumpet, I may as well be prepared for the role.”
He gave her a glower and cleared his throat before launching into the verse.
“In th’ isle of Britain, long since famous grown
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,
There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,
The easiest King and best-bred man alive.
Him no ambition moves to get renown
Like the French fool, that wanders up and down
Starving his people, hazarding his crown.
Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,
And love he loves, for he loves fucking much.
“Nor are his high desires above his strength:
His scepter and his prick are of a length;
And she may sway the one who plays with th’ds other,
And make him little wiser than his brother.
Poor Prince! thy prick, like thy buffoons at Court,
Will govern thee because it makes thee sport.
’Tis sure the sauciest prick that e’er did swive,
The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive.
Though safety, law, religion, life lay on’t,
’Twould break through all to make its way to cunt.
Restless he rolls about from whore to whore,
A merry monarch, scandalous and poor.
“To Carwell, the most dear of all his dears,
The best relief of his declining years,
Oft he bewails his fortune, and her fate:
To love so well, and be beloved so late.
For though in her he settles well his tarse,
Yet his dull, graceless bollocks hang an arse.
This you'd believe, had I but time to tell ye
The pains it costs to poor, laborious Nelly,
Whilst she employs hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs,
Ere she can raise the member she enjoys.
All monarchs I hate, and the thrones they sit on,
From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.”
“That was”—she swallowed her shock—“offensive on several scores. I do, however, have one or two questions about some of the references and terminology.”
“Oh, aye? Well, ask away.”
“First, who is Carwell?”
“Louise de Kerouaille, the Duchess of Portsmouth—a favorite among the king’s mistresses,” he explained. “She is demanding and manipulative, yet the king lavishes riches and titles on her and their son, whom he made Duke of Richmond and Duke of Lennox at the ripe old age of three.”
“Will she be with him at Holyroodhouse?”
“‘Tis highly probable.”
“And she will not mind him pursuing other conquests?”
“I would not go quite so far as that. She and Nell Gwynne, the noted actress, are fierce rivals for the king’s affections.”
“Would that be the Nelly to whom the verse refers?”
“Aye. She’s a stage actress of some repute.” With an arched eyebrow and a cocked smile he added, “Her nickname for the Duchess of Portsmouth is Squintabella.”
“Why? Is the duchess not handsome?”
“Not in my opinion,” he said.
“Does the king have children by the actress, too?”
“Aye. A son, who’s ten now. Charles Beauclerk is the lad’s name.”
“Good heavens,” she said, touching her naked throat. “Does he name all his sons after himself?”
“Most, but not all of them.”
Maggie could not believe her ears. “How many illegitimate children does the king have?”
“I have lost count, though I do know he had three by Barbara Villiers, the Duchess of Castlemaine, before they fell out—and a daughter by Moll Davis, another actress.”
“Good God. He must be as fertile as he is licentious.”
“Aye. He’s a randy Scotsman, to be sure. And his brother’s no better, though not quite as public about his paramours.”
As tears stung her eyes, she sniffed and swallowed them back. “‘Twas what you meant, was it not? Last night—when you said there would at least be some chance the child we reared was yours.”
“Aye, Maggie,” he said glumly. “Though there remains some chance the king will not attempt to get a leg over you.”
The reminder of her probable fate crushed her rallying spirits. Twirling a finger in her curls, she turned toward the window, desolate and resentful. First her father and now her husband had left her unprotected. And the king would abuse her for his own ends. Was there no justice? Were all men selfish and cruel? How could God, knowing this—and He must know, mustn’t he?—prefer their barbarity to women’s gentleness? She could not fathom it, could not imagine ever trusting God or man again. How could she and still call herself sensible?
For now, however, she had a vital decision to make: turn her back on her husband and never speak to him again or simply smite him with his own pillow. Electing for the latter—for the time being, at least—she lunged across the carriage, wrenched the cushion out from under his wounded backside, and thumped him about the head and shoulders with all the strength she could summon.
After she’d landed a few choice blows, he grabbed her wrists and pushed her down on the set, pinning her under his weight.
“Why did you stop me?” She fought his hold on her. “I thought you enjoyed being struck by women.”
“Not in anger.”
She scowled at him, her heart oozing resentment. “I have every right to be angry.”
“Aye, you do.”
Thereupon, he brought his mouth down on hers.
She fought him, tried to bite him, to free her wrists and land blows, but he was too strong. She kept fighting, body, mind, and heart. He was Lucifer made flesh, the devil in duke’s clothing. He had warped her mind, stolen her heart, and blackened her soul. So why did her cunny still long so desperately for his cock?
She combated her traitorous concupiscence, even as the pillars of her resolve crumbled. His lips were so persistent and persuasive she opened her mouth against her better judgment. His tongue entered, seeking hers. Th
e desire to surrender clawed at her, hot and sharp. Fighting it with all her might, she snapped her head to the side and hid her face behind his screen of hair.
Lead me not into temptation. Lead me not into temptation.
Given what he would have her do, how could she ever make love to him? She could not. Would not. He still held her wrists, but she no longer fought to break free.
“Get off me, you scurvy cur.”
“Maggie,” he said like a plea. “I would never ask this of you were there any other choice, but I must put the needs of the people who depend on me above my own. And, as my wife, so must you.”
“Fine,” she bit out through clenched teeth. “I shall spread my legs for the king if I must, but I shall never spread them again for you. Now get off me, you heartless whoreson, before I knee you hard enough in the cods to make them pop out your mouth.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he released her wrists, climbed off her, and set down on the other bench, wincing as his buttocks met the tufted upholstery. This demonstration of pain gave her more pleasure than it ought to have, but she wanted him to hurt as much as she did.
She sat up, smoothed her skirts and hair, and moved to the opposite end of the carriage. Out the window, a palisade of towers stood in the distance against a smoke-darkened sky. Edinburgh, the capital city. A se’nnight ago, she could not wait to see it and now its proximity only exacerbated her misery.
* * * *
Dread weighed heavily upon Robert as he stepped out of the carriage into the courtyard of Holyroodhouse. The palace’s pale stone face seemed to stare down at him like a fuming parent, making him feel small and frightened. Anger always affected him that way, especially when it turned cold. Bellowing, he could tolerate. Beatings, he could endure. But frosty silence exceeded the limits of his forbearance.
His mother used to go quiet when he’d disappointed her, as she’d done the day of the hunt. He’d wanted to go along and she’d forbidden it, claiming the outing far too dangerous for a lad of two and ten. He’d said terrible, unforgivable things to her, things that preyed on his conscience as she rode off with his father and the others.
Then, she’d taken a bad spill when her horse balked at a fence. For three days, she lingered in a coma, pale and quiet with her head wrapped in blood-stained white bandages. He’d knelt beside her bed until his knees were bruised and raw, begging her and God for forgiveness.
She’d died without granting him clemency.
“Your Grace?”
The salutation snapped Robert back to the courtyard. The greeting had come from a kilted guard in a black fur hat who’d appeared out of nowhere.
“Pray, follow me, if you would. His Majesty the King requests you attend him without delay.”
The heaviness on Robert’s heart became a boulder. This was not a good sign. Usually, the Merry Monarch took his time about greeting his guests, even the high-ranking ones.
When the guard set off toward the palace’s front entrance, Robert offered Maggie his arm.
She refused to take it—or meet his gaze. The boulder on his chest became a mountain.
Diable m’emporte!
Now he had two people’s anger to contend with, though he doubted the king would express his through quietude. What, then, might the monarch do? Robert’s courage withered as his mind catalogued the unpleasant possibilities.
The guard held the door as they passed through the pillar-flanked entrance. Multiple candles burned in the carriage lamps on either side, throwing eerie shadows across the enormous royal crest carved in relief above the door.
The palace’s interior was dark and gloomy despite the plethora of candles burning everywhere.
The king’s man led them through a series of long rooms with ornate plasterwork ceilings. French influences met the eye everywhere as they passed a proliferation of tapestries, ancestral portraits, and processional rooms, each more elaborate than the last.
The effect was intimidating, undoubtedly by design, and Robert feared for his head as they followed the guard up a grand staircase with stone steps and balustrade. An upward glance revealed plaster angels bearing crown, scepter, and sword.
They were taken into a large paneled room with a fireplace and told to wait whilst the guard announced them to His Majesty. Several minutes passed during which Robert’s nerves further unraveled and Maggie, keeping behind him, kept still. He was far too riddled with worry to try and draw her out.
Finally, they were admitted to the antechamber. Only the most privileged guests were admitted to the King’s Bedchamber. Despite the towering velvet-draped bed dominating the room, this was not where His Royal Highness slept.
The king sat in a chair near the fireplace in the raiment befitting his station: a knee-length silk brocade coat with large cuffs turned back to reveal the frilly shirt cuffs underneath. Breeches trimmed with ribbons peeked out from under the highly embroidered waistcoat. From his royal neck flared a rabat of needlepoint lace.
Charles sported his signature black periwig with tumbling curls, but had shaved his mustache since the last time they’d met, which was when? Robert’s desire to do the calculation was chased away by the king’s uncharacteristically grim expression.
Robert’s dread increased ten-fold, making breathing difficult. He stopped before the king and bowed deeply at the waist.
“Your Majesty. How pleased I am to see you looking so well.”
“Likewise, Your Grace.” The king held out his hand—the signal to approach.
Robert stepped forward, took the offered hand, which reeked of French perfume, and planted a kiss upon the back of it. “If it pleases Your Majesty, may I present my bride to you?”
“By all means.”
The king’s dark gaze shifted to Maggie and lingered in an appraising way her husband did not care for in the least.
Setting his hand in the small of Maggie’s back, Robert urged her forward and made the introduction in the proscribed manner. Rather than offer her his hand, Charles took hers and raised it to his lips.
“My dear duchess,” the monarch said, keeping her hand, “I can see why your young guardian was so captivated by your charms he forgot what he owes his sovereign.” He slid an icy glare in Robert’s direction, adding, “Now, if you will kindly excuse us, I have important business to discuss with your husband.”
A heavy sweat broke out on Robert’s skin as the guard escorted Maggie from the room. The king’s immediate dismissal of her did not bode well for their future together.
“Tell me something, my young duke. Do you ever find the time to read the Bible?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Perhaps not as often as he ought, though he had read the whole book at one point.
“Then, you are no doubt familiar with my favorite passage from Job,” said the king with a mirthless smirk. “Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
“I am, Your Majesty.” Robert’s intestines knotted as he bowed his head in reverence. The threat, though veiled by scripture, was hardly subtle.
“Your father proved a loyal steward of my interests, for which I gratefully awarded him a prosperous duchy,” Charles went on. “You have yet to pay your dues for its continuance. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, Your Majesty. Perfectly clear.”
The king stood, rising to a height of six-foot-five in his high-heeled slippers.
Robert was nearly as tall in his, but still felt dwarfed in his exalted shadow.
“Then please tell me what in the name of God possessed you to defy my wishes.” The king’s voice was laced with anger. “Did I somehow fail to make clear my wishes regarding Lady Leticia?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
The king’s expression remained dour. “Who is this inconsequential chit you chose to marry instead? What are her claims of fortune and birth that place her above the bride of my choosing? They must be glorious indee
d if you would hazard my condemnation to attain them.”
Robert knew how ridiculous his reason would sound even before he said it, but he had no other answer to offer. “Her only claim is upon my heart, Your Majesty Highness.”
“God’s fish!” The king expelled a sharp laugh and threw up his hands. “Your excuse is you are besotted? You should know at your age the changeable heart makes a poor foundation for a lasting union. Loyalty and duty to your sovereign would have been far firmer cornerstones.” Charles paused and regarded him with a pinched expression. “Since you read your Bible, you must be familiar with the parable of the foolish man who built his house upon the sand. How did the last bit go?” Looking ceiling-ward, the king pulled on his chin for a moment before returning his heated glare to Robert. “Oh, yes, I recall the passage now. ‘The rain fell and the floods came and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and it fell—and great was its fall.’”
King Charles turned toward the fire, set a hand on the mantle and absently kicked the grate with the toe of his shoe. “You are a Roman Catholic, I presume, like your good father?”
“I am, Your Majesty.”
“Has the marriage yet been blessed by a priest?”
“It has, Your Majesty.”
The king turned and met his gaze with obsidian eyes. “Was the lady’s hymen intact on your wedding night?”
Robert, suspecting the motive behind the question, withered inside. Being in no position to take umbrage, he could only bow his head and answer truthfully. “‘Twas indeed, Your Majesty.”
“And how long ago did you pluck her flower?”
“A se’nnight, Your Majesty.”
“I see.” The monarch looked pensive and again took to pulling on his chin for several eternal moments whilst Robert sweated like a pig under his heavy coat. “So…she was virgin-tight not so very long ago?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.” His throat was so tight, it was hard to speak.
“I see.” The gleam in the king’s eye grew brighter. “And just how tight was she?”
Robert reached deep for his stoicism. He’d known what the king would demand before they arrived. He also knew they could not refuse without paying the heaviest of penalties.
