The King's Pleasure

by Kitty Thomas

  She knew she must tell him the truth. If she didn’t and he found out, he’d feel made a fool of. If she pleased him enough, he might change his mind about whatever awful end he’d planned for her. He might even let her go back to her family. But those odds were long if she lied by omission.

  “I-I’m not a virgin.” She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for his reaction, waiting for the illusion of mercy to evaporate. She flinched when she felt his warm hand resting softly on her cheek.

  “Then why are you so shy?”

  Abigail opened her eyes, surprised when she found no anger in his features. He didn’t seem to care about the matter one way or the other.

  Of course he would assume general shyness and nothing more. How could he understand the swirl of emotions running through her? After all, he was the king. He was rich, powerful, and beautiful. His hair was a golden blond that made him look like a god straight from Mt. Olympus. His eyes were gray, but instead of being cold, like she’d expect from such a color, they were warm and kind. Had his eyes been like that the whole time tonight? She hadn’t dared to look into them, too afraid of the disgust and loathing she might find. Was there a chance it wasn’t a trick?

  She shrugged in response to his question. “I’m afraid you might not be pleased by what you see.” It was the first thing she’d thought to say, but there was a measure of truth locked inside the words. She was afraid of doing anything to add to any abuse he might heap on her simply for not being fair like the acceptable members of Himeros. She’d been reminded on a daily basis almost since birth of just how unacceptable she was, a stain on the kingdom that no one could wash out.

  “I’m sure that won’t be the case.” The king brushed the pad of his thumb against her cheek. It was such a sweet, intimate gesture that she sucked in a breath and allowed herself to have the fantasy for just a moment. What if he really meant it? What if he really wanted her?

  Selfish, Abigail. So selfish. Tears began to race down her cheeks. How could she enjoy a rich life in the castle while her family starved and died in the streets? She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. Right now her only concern had to be making sure the king didn’t regret his choice to spare her from the guard’s blade.

  She gripped the hem of the fabric and pulled it over her head. As the cloth hit the ground, she looked up, self-conscious. He stared intensely for a moment, so intensely that she felt far more innocent than she was. It took all her willpower to refrain from covering herself from his gaze, but he wouldn’t like such an overt display of willfulness or modesty. It didn’t fit with the local culture and it would be another reminder of how alien she truly was to him. After a few minutes, he nodded his approval and pointed again to the glass door.

  A fresh bar of lavender and oat soap sat on the shelf in the shower. She’d never seen one before—the shower, not soap. She’d seen soap. Only the richest people in the kingdom had running water. She’d never seen running water, aside from the fountains outside the castle, but that had been more decorative than functional.

  Words were scrawled above the handle on each side of the faucet. Abigail guessed it told people which side was hot and which was cold, but she couldn’t read the words to know for sure. She tested each side and fiddled with the handles until she found the right temperature. It was another indication of how different she was from the types of women kings usually took for their harems. On top of everything else, they were formally educated. The only category she fit neatly into was beauty. She may be poor, but she’d seen the way men looked at her.

  She lathered up and watched the dirt and grime as it swirled down the drain. God, she was disgusting. All that dirt. It was like she never bathed. She did, in fact. It was just that she’d been out all day and into the night. She’d tried several methods of acquiring food, from searching through the forest, to looking for an easier mark to steal from. No good opportunities had presented themselves, and she’d been desperate. She’d been about to turn to prostitution—assuming she could beguile a man in such a state—when she’d seen a back gate to the castle had been left open for a late night delivery.

  It had been insane and suicidal, but she knew if any place had food, it would be the castle, and surely they wouldn’t miss a few loaves of bread, not with so much available to eat. If she could pass through undetected…but then it hadn’t happened that way. The second her hand had touched the bread, a bright spotlight had flicked on, bathing her in a frighteningly unnatural light.

  Only the castle and the highest nobles had electric lights. To everyone else, the technology was forbidden. The power of the humming electric light had dazed her for a moment, and she almost got caught by the guard.

  She’d quickly gotten hold of herself and darted through the castle, hoping to lose her pursuer in the maze of hallways. Inside, electricity had been abandoned for the older torchlight. With the high, stone walls and good ventilation, the torches posed no problems to the air they breathed. It had felt more familiar, and in that familiarity, she’d found a burst of speed. But it hadn’t been fast enough or soon enough to elude him.

  Abigail shut the water off and opened the door, cool air hitting her and jolting her back to the present moment, a decidedly better moment than the one with the guard. For now at least.

  “You’ll find a towel to your left.”

  She blushed and took the towel off the hook. The shower door was a crystal clear glass that left nothing to the imagination. He’d stood and watched each drop of water as it slid over her curves, pressing into all the places his hands would soon stroke. She wrapped the towel around her and looked down, trying to avoid the penetration of his gaze. When she was dry, she made her way over to the tub and got in, never raising her eyes to his.

  The fragrances coming off the water were a blend of jasmine, rose, and gardenia, with a touch of sandalwood. She’d been exposed to each of these smells on the few occasions she’d been allowed inside the perfumery, when the shopkeeper’s son, Bryant, had worked. Inevitably, after only a few whiffs of perfumes, his father had shooed her out.

  But she’d kept coming back. Eventually, she’d lost her virginity to Bryant, and in return he’d taught her about perfume and what each scent was. Like her mother, he wasn’t afraid of the gypsies and seemed intrigued by Abigail’s exotic background and looks.

  She’d had no illusions they would marry, but he’d been a nice break from the cold reality of her life. He’d intended to teach her to read when the shopkeeper had found out and sent him away to another city, presumably on business. Abigail suspected Bryant would have been disinherited if he’d kept the relationship going. The last thing she wanted was for him to end up like her, on the fringes of society, barely tolerated even as a beggar.

  The king pulled up a stool to sit and brush her hair. It was such an intimate gesture; the menial nature of the task seemed far beneath royalty. It felt so wrong that it took all her willpower not to pull away. She could barely remember the last time someone had brushed her hair. She’d been a small child. Five, maybe six. In some ways she felt like that again: small, vulnerable, but also cared for. She hoped it would last.

  The dizzying smells and warmth from the bath and the softness of the rose petals as they drifted against her skin made her believe the king wasn’t like his father. If his intention was to harm her, he would have ordered her into the shower, then thrown her down and had his way with her. He wouldn’t be sitting beside the tub brushing her hair, using the good oils in her bath. Even Abigail knew that much.

  She sighed and sagged against the tub, finally letting the last bits of anxiety slide out of her. Then she thought of her family again, and the tears came back.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice was a deep sound she could happily listen to for eons as it rumbled over her.

  “I know.” It wasn’t a lie. Somehow she did know. “It’s my family. They’ll be worried. They’re waiting for me to bring food.”

  “Don’t fret about them. I’ll
take care of it.”

  Abigail tensed again, but there was nothing sinister in his tone. A knock sounded on the main chamber door, shattering her thoughts. The king left her alone, and she leaned against the tub, taking in her surroundings.

  Candles lined the walls, but all of them were unlit. Abigail stretched and looked at the designs on the ceiling and the light-colored stone of the walls around her. Cool air blew inside through a vent. Only the rich had the power or the right to control the temperature of the air indoors. It felt obscene and decadent, as if they were playing god by overcoming the power of the weather.

  The king returned several minutes later and held out a robe. “Dinner is here.”

  In her fear and panic, Abigail’s hunger had briefly disappeared. Now it came back as an angry gnawing feeling that seemed to climb out of her stomach all the way up to claw at the back of her throat, demanding satisfaction. The feeling made her light-headed, and she had trouble standing on her own.

  “Careful now,” he said, grabbing her elbow to steady her. His touch on her arm felt strong and stable. Despite the situation, it felt like safety. If she could stay on his good side, she was convinced nothing could ever harm her. She wanted to feel his powerful arms around her. She wanted to feel shielded from the outside world for the first time, cocooned in the peace and warmth of the castle.

  She hid the unexpected flood of emotion at such a simple gesture with a weak smile as she stepped out of the tub, and the moment dissipated like the steam rising off the water.

  She gratefully put on the robe. The king pulled the plug on the water and headed back into the main room. Abigail trailed behind him, trying not to linger in the memory of his touch.

  She shouldn’t long so deeply for his hands to be on her, should she? In person, he seemed so counter to all she’d heard about him. She’d expected him to be vicious and ruthlessly violent, but the way he’d been with her had been a tempered, gentle kind of strength. It was hard to reconcile that image with the way he’d been in war.

  Next to the bed was a table with two soft, high-backed red chairs. The king pulled a chair back for her and she sat, feeling awkward and strange accepting an almost subservient gesture from the top tier of royalty. To hide her discomfort, she focused instead on the two glimmering silver domes on the table.

  The king made no comment. He sat across from her and removed the coverings to reveal the food. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted meat, or even vegetables. Mostly her diet had been stale bread, water from a nearby stream, and a few roots and berries.

  Even as hungry as she was, she stared at it for a long time, not daring to believe it was real. She was certain she’d soon awaken on the pallet in the corner of the small hut her family shared. But a minute passed and then two, and she didn’t wake up.

  “Eat,” he said.

  Abigail didn’t have to be told twice. She began tentatively, dipping a piece of the bread in the sauce drizzled over the vegetables. She looked up, unsure if this was improper, but he didn’t seem fazed or bothered by how she ate.

  A soft moan escaped her lips. She’d never had food this good. The weakness that had eternally lived inside each muscle was fading already—even with just a few bites of truly good food. If he fed her like this every day she could imagine having energy and vitality, actually feeling good for a change, instead of like an old hag trapped in the body of a much younger woman.

  When she finally finished the meat and vegetables, she looked up to find the king had been finished for awhile. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, observing her.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said almost automatically. Giving him the address he wanted was so easy, so natural to her that she briefly fantasized belonging to him had somehow been her destiny. She had a feeling she’d be thanking him for every little crumb he threw her way.

  The king pushed his chair back, and Abigail’s gaze followed as he went to the bed, her eyes widening at the sight of the clothing. She’d been so hungry she hadn’t noticed it. It must have been brought in with the food.

  She’d seen slave girls dancing for the last king during festivals held in the open square. But she’d only seen the women from a distance, always careful to stay hidden on the fringes so she wouldn’t be spotted by the gypsy-hating monarch. She’d been in love with the garments the harem wore from the moment she first saw them glistening in the brightness of the day.

  The tops were like the fancy ladies’ undergarments Abigail had heard the rich women wore under their dresses. They were encrusted with thousands of colorful beads and tiny jewels that reflected brilliantly in the sunlight making them look like goddesses. The tops cinched their breasts together, displaying ample cleavage. Their bellies had been bare with a single gold and diamond chain that went around each of their waists.

  The chain wasn’t merely decorative. It displayed their status, that they were the personal property of the king and only to be touched by others with his permission, which he tended to give freely to nobles and visiting dignitaries. The rumor was that the slaves liked being passed around. And why shouldn’t they? No one inside the upper echelon of the kingdom had ever been brainwashed with the idea that sex or nudity was dirty or shameful, or even particularly private.

  Just below the navel was a similarly bead and jewel-encrusted belt. From the bottom of the belt hung hundreds of strands of beads and jewels, along with a few ribbons of rich brocade fabric interspersed at various intervals in between. When they moved, their legs cut through the strands of beads and fabric like a parting curtain. On their wrists and ankles were matching gold and diamond chains. Their throats remained bare of ornamentation because only the noble free women wore necklaces.

  When she was a little girl, before she’d really understood who these women were and what they did for the king, she’d wanted to be one of them. Her father had gotten angry, saying that no gypsy woman would ever debase herself in such a manner, no matter how honored the position was in the local culture.

  She’d never mentioned it again, feeling shame rather than the old awe whenever she caught a glimpse of the women.

  The garment and jewelry on the king’s bed was a jade green that would bring out her eyes. He picked up the clothing and draped it carefully over a chaise lounge in the corner.

  “You will wear this tomorrow. Someone will attend to your bath and help you dress after breakfast. Tonight you’ll have no need for clothing.”

  Abigail swallowed hard around the lump forming in her throat. Of course she’d have no need for clothing.

  He offered his hand, and she took it and stood. She held herself still as a statue as he pushed the robe off her shoulders and let it fall in a whoosh to the floor. Although he’d watched her walk naked to the shower and observed her as she’d bathed for him, there had been an activity for her to focus on then. Now it was just her body and his eyes drinking in her curves.

  “Lie down on the bed.”

  She carefully climbed the steps beside the ornate bed. She tried not to sigh at how firm yet comfortable it was. The sheets and blankets were so soft, she couldn’t imagine how the king got up in the morning. In her head he was always the king. Before he’d taken the throne and had led their people in battles, he’d been the prince. She was aware his name was Niall, but she couldn’t bring herself to think of him by anything other than a title. It felt too intimate even lying in his bed.

  She wanted to ask what he’d meant by taking care of her family and when he might do it. He could mean anything, but she hoped he intended something benevolent. If they could just get a regular delivery of bread, she’d be grateful. She was afraid one of her brothers or sisters or her parents would get too weak or sick and die without proper nourishment soon. Although she couldn’t help, given the circumstances, she felt guilty they were starving while her belly was full and finally content.

  Abigail tried not to gawk as the king undressed. She could never forget he’d led battles or the reputation that had follow
ed him in his conquests. His thighs were thickly corded with muscles, and his stomach, chest, and arms were the same. When he turned away from her, she took in a sharp breath at the impressive expanse of his back. He chuckled in response.

  The king had many scars, clearly from battle. One wrapped around his stomach to end at his lower back. It was the type of injury that should have killed him.

  Abigail wondered how much worse her situation might be now if he’d died in that battle and a king less merciful had been awakened in the middle of the night by her screams. She couldn’t imagine things would have played out this way. She was still having difficulty reconciling the ideas she’d had about him before, when the prince was said to be vicious on the battlefield. She’d imagined someone cruel and unforgiving like his father. Whatever he may be in war, it didn’t seem to extend to his bedroom.

  Abigail’s gaze finally landed between his legs. He was already firm and hard, leaving no question as to his desire for her. Although she wasn’t a virgin, the few lovers she’d entertained weren’t as large. He was both longer and had more girth than she remembered encountering, and it made her a little nervous, worried she wouldn’t be able to accommodate him without pain.

  When he touched her, it was with such possession that if she’d doubted he truly meant to keep her, she held no such uncertainty now. From the moment his fingers dug into her hip and his mouth closed around her breast, she knew she belonged to him. It wasn’t his pronouncement that made her his, it was the possession in his eyes and in the way in which he held her. It was something inside him that called out to the thing inside her that longed for that possession even as she feared it.

  Her fantasies of being one of the king’s women came back now, blooming to life in spite of her father’s disapproval. Only this king wasn’t old and past his prime. He was still young and strong and in control.

  If it had been anyone but this man, she might have felt in some way violated, but the certainty of his ownership was so complete and the improved accommodations and food were so drastic, that it didn’t once cross her mind that she was being taken against her will. Her only fear, besides his size, was that it wasn’t real or that he would turn dark and cruel on her. As his fingers kneaded her breast and he kissed the hollow of her neck, those fears began to shrivel and die.