by Betina Krahn
But when he looked up at Thera moments later, his vengeful pleasure dimmed. Deep in her eyes, amid the anger and disdain, was a small but undeniable glimmer of distress. He halted, mid-bite, realizing it was evidence that her feelings toward him were not so calculated and indifferent as she would have it appear. But even as a bit of hope bloomed at that insight, it was quelled by the realization that his display of crudity had just undercut his determination to make her deal with him as a man.
Barbarians might not need table manners, but men did.
Dieu—couldn’t he ever get it right? Why did his behavior and his circumstance never agree? He seemed doomed to act nobly when he should have been more tough-minded and mercenary, and to be his most crude and hard-nosed self when a bit of nobility would serve him better! Glowering, he tossed the bones onto the table and shoved back in his chair to lick his fingers.
The strain between them caused the air in the chamber to thicken.
“Most excellent food. A far cry from the rabbits and the oats, eh, Princess?” Gasquar said, watching both Saxxe and Thera. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took another draught of wine. “Do you know,” he said to Cedric and the elders, “that your lovely princess learned to skin and cook a rabbit on the journey?”
“Indeed?” Cedric said with genuine surprise, turning to Thera. “Perhaps you will tell us more of what happened, Princess . . . the story of your rescue and of this remarkable journey. I am certain we would find it fascinating.”
Thera scowled at him. “I told you of the village. There is nothing else to tell,” she insisted. But the whitened knuckles of her hands as they gripped the table said otherwise. And Cedric had astutely caught the brief but intense exchange of glances between Thera and Saxxe, and sensed that an even more important question was in order.
“Indeed?” Cedric nodded politely, seeming to accept her statement. He turned to Lillith, who was seated on the far side of Thera. “And what say you, Countess? Is there anything for you to tell?”
Not a breath was expelled for a full minute after those fateful words died away. Lillith’s face drained of color as every eye in the chamber turned toward her. Most keenly of all, she could feel Thera’s gaze, expecting her to confirm before the elders that nothing of official interest had occurred.
She squirmed in her chair and drew a deep breath, avoiding Thera’s cautioning frown. “There was . . . indeed . . . not much to tell,” she said with deliberation that spoke of words chosen carefully. “There was riding and wind and rain and sun . . . and more riding. The food was terrible and the company”—she tossed an irritable glance at Gasquar—“was worse. I have no desire to make another journey, ever.”
Cedric nodded, then flicked a glance at Elder Audra, Elder Margarete, and ancient Elder Fenwick, who were now on the edges of their chairs, watching Lillith’s ill-disguised discomfort.
“Tell us, Countess,” Cedric said carefully. “Was there anything to count?”
Lillith sat with her eyes downcast, her turbulent silence confirming the elders’ growing suspicion that there was indeed more to report. “What I can say, Chancellor? We slept . . . under the stars . . . together . . . the princess and I . . .”
Thera watched Lillith with growing alarm. “Lillith,” she demanded, “tell them.”
“Well, you must understand that there were s-special c-conditions . . . beyond my lady’s control,” Lillith stammered, halting as murmurs swept the great chamber.
“Lillith?” Thera said, gripping the arms of the great chair.
Saxxe watched in confusion, knowing that Lillith’s answer was important but unable to fathom why. It was Gasquar who saw clearly what was being asked . . . for it was Gasquar who knew that Lillith was the trustee of Thera’s virtue and the guardian of her nights. It took only a logical step to conclude that the elders were asking if Thera had spent nights with her rescuer.
“My lady was washed downstream in a great flood . . . she nearly drowned,” Lillith reported obliquely, struggling with the conflicting demands of her roles as countess and confidante. “Saxxe Rouen rode after her and pulled her out . . . and she was in no fit condition to travel.... and . . .”
“And?” Cedric demanded in a voice hoarse with tension. “Did she or did she not spend nights with this Saxxe Rouen?”
Gasquar watched Lillith squirming, avoiding the truth she had so piously championed at every turn. His eyes narrowed. The little hypocrite! She had scorned his best stories and most inventive lies. Yet now, when she was put to the test, she obviously found the truth a good bit less desirable than she had proclaimed it to be.
“But of course she did!” Gasquar declared in a booming voice, shoving to his feet. Gasps and mutters rose around the table. He snatched up a towel and wiped his beard and hands. “Several nights your princess slept with mon ami Saxxe . . . warmed by the fire in his eyes and in his loins.”
Lillith shoved to her feet, her shock turning to anger as she faced Gasquar. “How dare you interfere?” she cried, trembling.
“I dare because they seek the truth, ma chatte. Truth . . . is that not what you have bludgeoned me for lo, these many days and nights? Now that you hear it, you do not like the way it sits upon your pretty ears, eh?” He cast a canny gaze around the circle of elders, reading the importance of his revelation in their blanched faces, “The princess . . . she slept in mon ami’s arms three nights . . . once to fulfill a bargain and twice more when he rescued her from the flood,”
“I-is this true, Countess?” Cedric choked out, his rounded face crimson. Lillith lowered her eyes, unable to face him or Thera.
“Yea,” she admitted angrily, “it is true,” And she held up three fingers. “I have counted three nights.”
A lightning bolt streaking through the room could not have caused a greater reaction than those fateful words.
“Nooo!” Thera jolted to her feet, and across the ring of tables Saxxe did the same. The elders began to talk all at once, demanding an explanation, and Cedric clapped his hands on the sides of his face in shock.
“Three nights?” Elder Audra declared hoarsely. “But she has promised him three nights. And that would make . . .”
“Six,” Cedric supplied with visible shock.
The word exploded in their midst like a sorcerer’s spell, cutting off every exclamation mid-stream. Abrupt and ominous silence reigned as the elders stared at each other, then turned to Thera, who was suddenly as pale as the silk of her gown.
“But—I did not truly sleep with him!” she declared desperately.
“Oh, but you did, demoiselle,” Saxxe said in his deep, commanding tones. “Three nights. In my arms.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she said with rising panic, turning to the elders near her. “I admit I did share his blankets, but I only did so for safety and warmth.”
Saxxe had glanced at the faces of the elders as Thera spoke. Strangely, it did not seem to be the presumed loss of her virtue which concerned them . . . there was no talk of sin or defilement. They seemed to believe it was her right to spend her nights as she pleased. It was something about the number of the nights that upset them. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he knew it was important to have the nights they had spent together count.
“She speaks the truth,” he said, seizing their undivided attention. “She did share my blankets for warmth and safety . . . at first. But ask her if she also found pleasure in my arms.” He pinned Thera with a penetrating look, and their gazes locked. “Tell them, demoiselle, about the night after the flood when I warmed you . . . and the following night, when we bathed in the stream.” When she remained silent, trembling visibly, he reached for her with his eyes, the way he had that night, baring the desire inside him and calling to hers, daring her to deny what had happened between them.
“On your honor, can you swear that you took no pleasure in my arms?”
She felt his gaze burning into her, reducing her defenses to cinders, summoning remembered sensation. Onc
e again she felt his strong hands on her feet, the cool mud and the warm laughter, the shattering release of a climax that was a little like dying and being reborn. The bittersweet pleasure of those nights was written forever on her heart, and now was clearly readable in her softening countenance. There was no denying it. For the honor of both the woman and the princess, she had to speak the truth.
“No, I cannot swear,” she said in a whisper that sounded like a whip crack in the silence.
The chamber erupted in tumult.
The elders were galvanized by the news. Cedric and the men of the council were astounded by the thought of their choosy, headstrong princess joined in passion to this great strapping horse of a man . . . and the women of the council were appalled to think of their learned, refined future queen being defiled by a crude barbarian.
If Thera refused to satisfy honor and pay her debt to Saxxe Rouen, she would be breaking their revered law and custom. On the other hand, if she fulfilled her pledge, the barbarian would be only one night away from being their king!
Thera realized it too. Three nights counted and three promised—dearest Lord!—she was three-sevenths married ! With as much dignity as she could summon while in a royal panic, she lifted her chin, picked up her skirts, and sailed out the doors.
Lillith gasped and stammered and tried to explain the unusual and extenuating circumstances, but the chaos caused by her admission was too overwhelming. When she caught sight of Gasquar’s insufferably smug expression, she snatched up the trailing hem of her tunic and headed straight for Thera’s quarters.
Saxxe watched Lillith go and caught Gasquar’s arm, motioning toward the door. Together they strode out after her. Adopting an instinctive stalking gait, they surprised her in an arched colonnade that led to the west wing.
“Ohhh!” she gasped and pressed back against a stone column, her eyes luminous in the moonlight as they closed in on her.
“A word, if you please, Countess,” Saxxe said, edging closer, easing his stance.
“I have no words for you, sir,” she hissed, then gave Gasquar a fierce glare. “Nor for you . . . except that, if you so much as touch me, I’ll scratch your eyes out!”
“I have only one question.” Saxxe propped one arm against the stone pillar beside her, blocking her last route of escape. “These nights . . . what do they mean?” She remained stubbornly silent. “Why did you count the nights we spent together? Why does the number of them matter more than the pleasure in them?” Lillith stiffened noticeably and Saxxe knew he had struck the heart of the matter. “What will happen if I claim these nights she has promised me?”
“That is not one question, Rouen . . . you count no better than your friend does,” she said furiously. She tried to duck under his arm, but he dropped it to prevent her escape.
“What will happen if she spends six nights with me?” he asked, lowering his voice to a husky, persuasive stroke. Then it occurred to him that there was one traditional consequence of nights of passion that Thera and her elders might find equally appalling: “After the six nights, will she be forced to wed me?”
The catch in Lillith’s breath was slight, but it resounded thunderously in Saxxe’s mind, answering his question as surely as if she’d spoken aloud. He slid his hand from the wall and straightened. With a groan, she snatched up her skirts and darted around him, running for the doors at the end of the colonnade.
Saxxe stood with his arms dangling at his sides, staring into the moonlit garden. The ramifications hit him like a war hammer in the gut. It wouldn’t take a miracle to make her marry him at all. It would only take three nights. And if he married her, he would be king.
* * *
“Did you see the way he ate? Snatched the food right off Hubert’s trencher!” Audra cried to a chorus of feminine support. “And Heaven knows what more he’ll snatch before he’s through with Mercia. I say we have Hubert escort him out of the kingdom at once!”
“It is not for us to break Princess Thera’s word, woman!” Mattias answered, echoed by a predominantly male contingent of the council. “I take it you found nothing in the sacred scrolls that might release her from her pledge.”
“We have not yet finished our search,” Audra said irritably.
“Just as I thought,” Mattias said. “You found nothing because there is nothing. She is bound by her word, and breaking her pledge would certainly bring a greater disaster upon us than keeping it. I say, let the princess deal with the fellow herself.”
“He’ll make a morsel of her!” Jeanine protested.
“Princess Thera? A morsel?” Old Fenwick gave a crusty laugh. “She is a queen in all but name. Have you forgotten how stubborn she can be? I say, let her decide whether to give him the nights or not. After all, they are hers to give. And if he manages to claim them . . . then perhaps he is a better man than we know.”
“Wise counsel!” Mattias declared with a smile.
“Foolish counsel!” Audra objected, a sentiment shared by a number of the leading women. “Can you honestly imagine that uncouth barbarian as our king? Sitting on the throne occupied by generations of orderly and dignified kings . . . belching, scratching, and licking his fingers? Good King Aric would turn in his grave.” She turned on Cedric. “If you will not do something, I will!”
Audra and her party excused themselves and headed straight for the kingdom’s archives, determined to find some way to relieve Thera of the burden of keeping her royal word. If there was nothing in the sacred law, they decided, there would surely be something in prophecies.
As Cedric and the rest of the councilors departed the chamber, the wide-eyed servants began to remove the remains of the half-eaten supper. Later, they departed to their houses, hearths, and taverns in the city, and the word radiated from the palace like ripples on a pond:
Mercia had three-sevenths of a king!
Chapter Thirteen
In her quarters, Thera paced and wrung her hands, struggling to contain her reeling emotions. It was bad enough that her councilors knew she had spent three nights with an unwashed soldier for hire who ate like a starving army and licked his fingers afterward like a hound. But to have to admit before her dignified elders that she had taken pleasure from it was too embarrassing for words.
Now she faced three more nights with him in order to redeem her royal pledge. And he had served bold notice that these three nights would be filled with passion. She shivered and clasped her shoulders. Saxxe didn’t belong in Mercia; his behavior tonight proved that. And he had already broken through her princess shell and stolen her desires and part of her self-control. What more would she lose to him in three tumultuous nights of pleasure? Part of her kingdom? The rest of her heart?
The trust of her councilors and her people’s welfare were at stake; she had to find another way to settle this wretched debt. The longer he stayed and the more he saw of Mercia, the harder it would be to get him to leave . . . and the harder it would be to watch him go. What would it take to make him go and forget he had ever set eyes on her and her kingdom?
There was only one way to find out.
Lillith came rushing into her quarters, out of breath and visibly distraught. “I am so sorry, Princess . . . I didn’t want to tell. I mean, he asked me . . . I didn’t really say, but he guessed . . .”
“What’s done is done, Lillith,” she said, assuming Lillith spoke of her revelations to the council and waiting to hear no more. Shedding her surcoat, she placed her coronet in Lillith’s hands and headed for the doors.
“Wait—where are you going?”
“To beard a badger in its den,” she declared. “If I am not back in an hour . . . call out the palace guard.” And she sailed off, leaving Lillith clutching the crown with a look of horror.
“Palace guard?” Lillith said in a choked whisper. “You mean Elder Hubert and his two nephews? What could they possibly do against Saxxe Rouen?”
* * *
Saxxe lay on the bed in his quarters, his hands propped behind
his head, staring up into the sumptuous silk that formed a soaring canopy overhead. The golden light of two oil lamps flickered over the bed drapes and the silk hangings on the walls, and a light breeze wafted through the open door to the courtyard garden.
“Dieu, Rouen,” he swore softly, bewildered by his luck. He glanced around him and wondered if he was indeed in some sort of trance, from which he would awaken abruptly if he began to enjoy it too much. “Excellent foods and wines . . . fine, soft beds . . . the promise of three long, steamy nights of pleasure. For once in your wayward life you’ve a chance for something of value. What more could a man ask for?”
But there was a thorn as well as a rose in his blossoming fortunes, and both bore the name Thera. His grin faded as he thought of the way she had looked at him tonight . . . as if his crude manner and rough ways had just crushed whatever tender feelings she might have had for him. She was not only a princess, she was the ruler of this kingdom, and he was beginning to appreciate just what that meant. What if she truly had changed? What if she honestly didn’t want him now?
The doors were flung open just then and he vaulted over the side of the bed, his hands going for his daggers before he even glimpsed the invader. A heartbeat later he found himself crouched defensively and facing Thera with his blades drawn. The sight of her sent a surge of pleasurable confusion through him. In the golden light, her skin seemed warm and touchable, her jewel-clear eyes radiated a soft, womanly allure, and her hair shone like a halo. She was a vision. And, standing there without her coronet and glittering royal robes, she was an approachable vision . . . a demoiselle once more.
But was she still his demoiselle?
“Welcome, ma chatte,” he said with a flicker of a smile, straightening and replacing his daggers in their loops.
“I am not your cat, Rouen. I am the Crown Princess of Mercia.”
“So you are. A detail you managed to overlook when telling me who you were,” he charged.
“What is your price, Rouen? How many pieces of silver will it take to make you leave and forget you ever set eyes upon Mercia?”
