By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  “Courage, lass,” Gwyneth murmured, weathered hands cupping her head. “This one’s no brute like Maldred.”

  “How can I know what he is?” she whispered. “He’s a stranger. He could be a monster, for all we know.”

  He is a murderer at least, by his own admission.

  “Mary and Jooseph, dry yer eyes! Ye know what they’ll all think.”

  Oh, she knew. They’d expect tears in a terrified maid of fourteen, but misconstrue it in her: a second-time bride, notorious for the lover she’d left behind.

  Katrin straightened her shoulders. “Open the door.”

  Cate rushed to throw it open. Jostling and elbowing, men poured into the room, mead slopping from drinking horns to spatter the floor. Squealing ladies scattered left and right to avoid pinching fingers. Swept along with them came Rafael, and her heart turned over.

  With a sardonic smile the baron submitted to this buffoonery, deftly resisting the hands that would have hastened him out of his finery.

  In the heaving sea of bodies, his brother stood like a colossus from the ancient world. Her gaze touched Borovic’s for a bare instant. His eyes consumed her—all but shouting his lust aloud for the world to see. For a dreadful moment she recalled the overlord’s ancient right, rarely invoked, to claim any vassal’s bride on her wedding night. But Borovic wanted her willing in his bed. Shuddering, longing to be spared this debacle, she turned to Rafael.

  Lifting a dark brow, he pitched his trained voice above the tumult. “My good people, you’ve had your sport. Now you must allow me mine.”

  Here and there, men roared approval. He bowed in wry acknowledgement. “Back to the hall with you, I pray, where the shire’s finest mead awaits. Brother, will you take charge of our guests?”

  Slowly Borovic turned his head. He looked at his brother as though he saw a stranger; then his eyes darted to Katrin, who refused to meet his gaze. The force of his frustrated desire beat at her like a forge-fire.

  “You heard the man,” Borovic told his guests abruptly, with none of his usual charm. “Get out.”

  To her vast relief, he was the first to go. A general exodus followed, the earl’s presence a magnet even when he was wrathful. Rafael took the more reluctant bystanders in hand and beguiled them to the door.

  When the chamber was cleared, Gwyneth smiled encouragement and bustled out. Rafael assisted the last guest through the door with a murmur that had the man choking with laughter, and bolted it.

  Outside a ragged chorus of protest rose, and the courteous rumble of the Anjou knights clearing his apartments.

  All her senses focused on her new husband as he faced the door in silence. His hands curled into fists beside him. Slowly he turned, features wary but resolved. Across the chamber, their eyes met.

  She was wary herself. Neither of them knew enough to trust the other, and he’d no more practice than she did in trusting at all.

  “I hope my brother will retain what wits he has,” he said, the husky consonants of Anjou thicker than usual on his tongue. “Or that mob will burn the place down around our ears. Were you much mishandled?”

  “Not much.” She guessed he too was anxious, though he showed it less than most men.

  Her skin tightened as he shifted into motion. But he avoided the bed for a chair before the fire, folding himself into it to unlace his boots.

  Idly he asked, “Was that Ethelred’s man I saw at the tourney?”

  “Aye,” she said, distracted. “We have my uncle’s blessing and prayers for our happiness.”

  “I didn’t know he was so good a Christian.” Rafael lined his boots beside his chair, neat as any monk in his cell, and rose to unbuckle his saber.

  She clutched the tester to her breasts. Soon he’ll be in my bed.

  “Be not so fearful, madame,” he chided softly. “I’m not some brute like your first husband, apt to terrify you in my bed.”

  Heat crept into her cold skin. “I’m not fearful. But I hope I may be permitted a few bridal nerves.”

  Gracefully Rafael inclined his body, like a swordsman admitting a hit. He made an unlikely figure: glittering with jewels and barefoot, dark curls tumbled like any child’s from the revels. Incongruously young—a boy king with guileless eyes, carelessly plucking the silver torque from his head.

  He may be young, but he’s no innocent—not after the way he kissed me.

  “We have Rhenish wine and oranges from Seville,” he said, “which I brought back from Paris. Will you take a morsel?”

  “With pleasure.” She watched him peel the fruit, wielding his dagger with its twining serpent. Her head was still spinning, but the mead had softened her, blurred the edges of her anxiety. “Do you miss your monastery?”

  A subtle tension rippled through his frame. “The life suited me, an orderly existence of contemplation and discourse. And I harbored certain ambitions—foolish though they were. I confess it was no easy thing leaving it all behind for a career of distinguished service as my brother’s bailiff.”

  His tone sharpened with derision. When he brought her the silver winecup, her nerves drew taut.

  He passed her the goblet, cool and beaded with moisture. The gold serpent on his finger coiled and winked. She wrapped both hands around the cup and swallowed the sweet white wine. Over the rim, her eyes lifted to find him watching her.

  Contented at his monastery he may have been, but this was no bishop looking at her now.

  “I too know how it is, monseigneur, being dragged kicking to do my duty. Had I any choice in the matter, I would never have left home—not to marry, at least. But my keep can’t lie in ruins forever, with Vikings bent on villainy passing as they please. So, in the end, the king…persuaded me.”

  He arranged the plate of fruit and dagger on the tester without looking up. “Unlike you, madame, I was accustomed to serving my own desires—too accustomed for a man who claimed a religious calling. In my heart, I never believed I possessed a bishop’s virtue. But then, if you’ve known many bishops, you’ll know virtue isn’t required for the post.”

  Standing beside the bed, he balled his fists.

  “I believed Bannan’s death was God’s way of telling me I was unworthy to be His servant. So I’ve striven to accept my portion. And I’ve always enjoyed the pleasures of this world more than a man should whose eye is fixed on God. To my shame, I’m a slave to the physical senses.”

  His mouth curved in a secret smile. “That should come as no revelation to you. Shall I disconcert you by saying more? Shall I confess that I’ve been your slave since the first day I saw you? So proud and unhappy, so perilously beautiful, with a legion of secrets hiding behind your eyes. Despite your deceptions, your warnings—even your scandalous flirtation with my brother, I’ve thought of little but having you in my bed.”

  His words transfixed her, voice trained to beguile, his dark beauty fashioned by God or the Devil to ensnare. Staring into his eyes, she swallowed and could not speak.

  Without looking away, he reached for the tasseled cord that bound the bedcurtains and pulled until the knot unraveled. The heavy curtains on one side slithered shut.

  As her heart quickened, he prowled to the foot of the bed, turning to keep her within his sight. He released the second cord, and those curtains closed. Finally he appeared again where a cord held the last curtain, and let it slide through his fingers.

  “You dazzle my eyes,” he murmured. “I must shield myself from your light.”

  The draperies fell closed behind him, sealing them into this shadowy lair.

  Gradually her eyes found slender seams of firelight between the curtains. Rafael was a night-black shadow, glittering with precious gems. She tried to slow her breathing as he crawled sinuously onto the bed. On hands and knees he observed her, a predator using all his senses.

  “Do
es this frighten you, Katrin?”

  She moistened her lips and lied. “I’m not easily frightened.”

  “In that case you’re braver than I,” he breathed, creeping toward her. “For tonight I’m terrified by a woman’s power. Behind these curtains, we may indulge any sin with none to know.”

  Now she could smell him in the darkness, sweet cloves and Rhenish wine.

  “’Tis no sin to undertake the marital act,” she whispered.

  “Not when the deed is done for procreation.” Gracefully he straddled her legs. “But I care nothing for siring children. Even if we burn for it, we’ll satiate ourselves with pleasure tonight.”

  Swift as a striking serpent he had her, mouth closing over hers, tart with the taste of oranges. She gripped his shoulders, decadent garments sheathing his tensile heat, lean muscle flexing as he crouched above her.

  God save me, this is indecent—fit for a love affair, but never the marriage bed.

  He was ice and yet he burned her. He was all but consecrated to the church, yet his tongue searched her mouth with the hunger of a worldly man, their kiss a dance of give and take. He kissed her until she dug her nails into his shoulders and sought the wet heat of his mouth in return, as eager for the sin as he.

  With a muffled groan, he surged against her and she toppled back, clinging to him as she fell into darkness. He caught his weight on his hands and crouched above her, seized her throat in his teeth and growled. His beard and lips were sinfully soft, caressing where his teeth had stung.

  He frightened her with his fierceness, barely contained. She frightened herself with the wicked surge of pleasure that rolled over her in response.

  “Belmaine—”

  He spoke muffled against her throat. “I want you to tell me what pleases you, Katrin. Tell me what makes you waken, wet and wanting in your bed at night.”

  Flaming in the darkness, she turned her cheek into the cool pillow. He gentled, tongue caressing the curve of her throat, licking the salt dew of fear from her skin. With infinite care, his teeth closed around her earlobe. “Tell me what you’ve always dreamed of having from a lover, but were too ashamed to ask.”

  She shivered from head to foot. “I have no such dreams, monseigneur.”

  He laughed into her hair, rubbing his face against it. “I wonder if you’ll still insist on calling me ‘monseigneur’ when you’re crying out with passion beneath me.”

  Leaving her transfixed by that image, he uncoiled to sit, trapping her between his knees. In the dim light he peeled his tunic away. Vivid memory supplied what her eyes couldn’t: the vision of his sinewed body in his bath.

  A wife’s place was to lie passive in a husband’s bed. Still, she couldn’t resist running her hands against the hot silken skin stretched over his ribs. He went absolutely still beneath her touch. Next her fingers slid over his flat abdomen, twined in the soft curls that dusted his chest. He held his breath beneath her careful exploration, heart leaping against her palm. When her fingers grazed his nipples, he groaned behind clenched teeth.

  Protected by the darkness, she bit her lower lip and pinched the small hard nubs of his nipples. His ragged breath exploded. “God’s angels, you’re a witch just as they say.”

  Stretching his supple frame beside her, he grazed her silk-sheathed body with one hand. When he found her breast, her world split in two. One part was pure sensation, flesh swelling beneath his touch, nipple rising hard against his palm. Another part squirmed in guilt. She’d loved another man once, yet she burned beneath this one’s touch.

  Instantly Rafael sensed the change. His thumb coaxed the taut berry that rose beneath the silk until chills swept through her, a delicate back and forth of flickering torment. Despairing, delighting, she felt her defenses crumble.

  “I can’t, not when I—”

  She choked back the words, but now he was watchful. Silently she cursed herself; he was entirely too perceptive.

  He explored her other breast, finding her already swollen and ready. “Aye, madame? You were saying?”

  “I said nothing.” Her voice went ragged as he circled her nipple in teasing arcs. The sensation tugged deep inside, stirred a tingling ache between her thighs.

  “It can hardly be nothing,” he growled. “Of whom are you thinking—your sword-theyn or my brother?”

  Her indrawn breath gave it all away, but still by instinct she lied. “I’m thinking of you, monseigneur—”

  “My name is Rafael,” he said shortly. “And if perchance you’re not thinking of me and only me, you’ll soon find room in your thoughts for no other.”

  Swiftly he released her and rolled upright. When she glimpsed the cold gleam of his knife, forgotten among the oranges, alarm spurted through her.

  “My dread lord, what are you—?”

  “Rafael,” he reminded her, gathering her nightgown in one hand. She nearly screamed in terror when the knife flashed toward her and slashed through the fabric.

  It parted with a hiss as he sliced through it, never touching her skin. He rent the garment open from throat to breasts to thighs, all the way to the hem, while she quivered beneath his sharpened steel, afraid even to breathe. Now the two halves of the gown barely covered her, parted by an inch of white skin that began at her throat and gaped all the way down.

  He laid the knife aside and slid out of his trews. She averted her gaze, still striving for modesty, as he crawled toward her. When he gathered her gown in both hands and tugged, the silk slithered aside, parting to reveal her belly and breasts, coral nipples framed by her curling russet mane. Then the fabric fell away to bare the rest of her.

  She was fiercely grateful for the shadows that veiled her, though she knew he saw like a cat in the darkness. Already aroused and tingling, she pulsed as his hands closed around her feet, tickling her twitching soles and pressing into the arches. Her toes curled as his hands eased upward, gliding over the taut muscle of calves and tender knees. When he reached her thighs she released a shuddering breath, struggling to lie pliant beneath his touch.

  Light as butterfly wings, he grazed her inner thighs, then eased them gently apart. She barely managed not to squeeze her legs together, but reveled like Jezebel when he spread her wide, the smooth petals of her body warm with longing.

  He blew gently against her exposed secrets. To her mortification, her own body betrayed her, preparing her for his attentions.

  This is beyond anything. But I can’t bring myself to deny him. With a sigh she stretched her arms above her head, giving him all the access he wanted.

  He nuzzled her inner thighs, dipped his tongue into her navel. At last he parted her delicately, opened the small heated mouth where moisture gathered—absolutely nowhere to hide from his intimate perusal or the musk of her own arousal. His whiskers brushed her trembling skin, then the shocking upward sweep of his tongue.

  Katrin exclaimed in scandalized pleasure, her entire body igniting. Was this some decadent French fashion in loveplay? He must stop, or she’d betray herself.

  Deftly he lapped at her, tongue dipping into her channel. When he withdrew, leaving her aching, her world fell apart.

  Urgent, she reached for him, every particle of her being straining for more, restraint falling away like her shredded nightgown. Catching his head between her palms, she held him against her while he stroked her, finding the rhythm by her shameless movements. She was disintegrating beneath him, and he was determined on his course. Abruptly her world exploded, fire flaring behind her closed lids.

  “Rafael!” she cried, shuddering in his arms.

  While the pleasure thundered through her, he fit his length against her and buried himself deep, gripping handfuls of her hair as he drove against her. “Whom do you think of now, Katrin?”

  She panted his name once more, waves of sensation cresting again and again, dyin
g beneath the thrust of his body, gripping him with arms and legs and every inch of her slick passage.

  “That is well,” he growled, taut as a strung bow. “For I’ll have no other man in our bed.”

  Then he went rigid in her arms and voiced his own crisis, claiming her mouth with salty-sweet lips. He swallowed her desperate noises like wine as he flooded her with his essence.

  Then the waves closed over her head and she was drowning, spinning downward like a cork, like the plummet of her soul as she fell from grace.

  * * *

  Katrin surfaced slowly from the dark sea of passion. She lay sprawled on her back, limbs akimbo, Rafael’s slender weight flung across her.

  He compelled her surrender even now, when he lay as though she’d slain him, chest pressed against her cheek, his heart beating too quickly in her ear. She was grateful for the darkness that concealed her. Even the Sacrament couldn’t possibly redeem her wanton conduct, no matter how heavy a penance the priest laid on her.

  As if he heard her thoughts, Rafael inhaled sharply and rolled off to lie beside her. He closed one hand around her wrist and held her tethered, a gesture of casual possession that made her tingle, womb still burning from the force of their shared passion.

  “I’ll wager you didn’t learn those things in your monastery,” she whispered.

  His hand tightened around hers. “I didn’t.”

  “Do you think it’s quite…seemly?”

  “Seemly or not, don’t even attempt to pretend I didn’t please you.”

  “You…pleased me,” she said, on fire in the darkness. “I hope you were also pleased?”

  He chuckled. “I’m utterly undone by you, witch. Can you possibly not know it?”

  “Indeed I don’t know it.”

  “Come here. Without seeing your face, it’s too difficult to discern when you lie to me.”