Three Nights With the Princess

by Betina Krahn

  “Oh, I could never forget this place, demoiselle.” He glanced around him with genuine wonder. “Your palace is like a precious jewel . . . all cut stone, adorned with carvings and set with colored glass.” He swept a hand around him. “And these bathing pools . . . I haven’t seen anything like them since the old Roman baths in Constantinople. Did your own masons do all this?” He grinned at her. “Dieu . . . the bishop of the cathedral at Saint Denis would be green with envy at the sight of your windows.”

  “I could make you a very wealthy man,” she said, sliding her crossed arms down to her waist.

  His smile took on a lusty curl as he strolled a bit closer and let his eyes fasten on the lush velvet of her lips.

  “And I could make you a very satisfied woman, demoiselle.”

  “I am not a demoiselle!” she said, dropping her hands to her sides and bristling. “You will address me as ‘Princess’ or ‘Your Highness.’”

  “You will always be ‘demoiselle’ to me, Thera of Aric.”

  He couldn’t have chosen any words that would strike more terror into Thera’s heart. Against her better judgment, she looked up into his heated golden eyes. The beat of her heart quickened. He began to fill her senses . . . his broad shoulders, his hungry gaze, his pleasurable mouth. A crush of longing went through her. For one brief and terrifying instant she wanted to be just a demoiselle. His demoiselle.

  “Three hundred . . . and not a bit more, Rouen!” she said, recoiling from that dangerous feeling and backing around the bathing pool. “Don’t be a fool. Think what you could buy with three hundred in silver.”

  “Three nights . . . and not a bit less, Thera of Aric,” he answered in husky tones that engulfed her in a deep, swirling tide of temptation. “I have traveled far and wide . . . have learned the pleasure secrets of many lands. Think what delights you would discover in three long nights of passion.”

  Coming here had been a terrible mistake, she realized. At the mere suggestion of delights, her knees were weakening. “I do not intend to spend another moment in your presence, much less three nights!” She started for the door, but he lunged and snagged her wrist as she passed.

  “You count . . . your countess counts . . . even your councilors count. And six is a number you all seem to find most interesting,” he said, searching her tensed frame. “Why is that?” Her eyes jolted wide.

  “All right—four hundred!” She twisted in his grip, trying to divert him. “That is almost half of my treasury. Take it and leave. Forget both me and Mercia!”

  “After our three nights of pleasure, I will leave . . . if you still want me to.” He reeled her closer and, after a brief struggle, caught her around the waist with his free arm and pulled her hard against his body. “But nothing could ever make me forget the feel and the taste of you.” He ran a knuckle down her cheek. “Your skin is like sun-warmed marble, so smooth and sleek.”

  His words snared her senses, holding them for a ransom of pleasure, while his hand slid to her buttock and cupped it possessively, pressing her against his rousing flesh. Wherever their bodies touched, she began to ache for even closer contact.

  “And you taste like Saracen sugar to me.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and dragged his teeth over the sensitive pads of her fingertips. Gooseflesh rose all over her.

  “I want you, Thera of Aric. More than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

  Each word carried the seductive resonance of truth. The feel of his body against hers combined with the relentless persuasion of his voice to overwhelm her beleaguered defenses. When he lifted her chin on his finger, she looked up into his shadowed face and held her breath.

  No, please . . . not this, she thought desperately. Anything but this....

  Then he lowered his head and dropped a kiss on the corner of her mouth, her chin, the tip of her nose and each of her eyes. It was a tender assault . . . meant to enlist her own desires in breaching the walls of her will, and the fears she had harbored about him were no match for that subtle invasion. With a moan of surrender, she turned her face for him, entreating his kisses.

  “And you want me,” he murmured with equal measures of awe and certainty.

  It was true. She melted against him and her arms slid around his neck. She drank in the salty-sweet taste of his mouth, the sensations of his tongue tracing her lips, and the pleasure of being held in his powerful arms.

  “Give me this night, Thera,” he growled, so softly it was almost a purr. “And I will give you Paradise.”

  Conflict lodged in her throat: the yea her heart clamored for and the nay her reason demanded. She couldn’t speak, and in the interval her body answered, leaning into him, seeking his heat and power. He shifted and clasped her tighter against him, mating his contours with her soft curves. Instinctively she parted her legs to nestle her thighs against one of his, an intimate touch that would soothe the sweet burn beginning in her womanflesh. He was so hard and hot, and his hands were tracing sinuous patterns over her sides and back and buttocks. It was what she had dreamed of, what she had longed for . . . this pleasure with him.

  Neither heard the voice from the half-opened door. But the sense that someone had called her name gradually penetrated Thera’s consciousness.

  “Princess?” It struck a nerve. It wasn’t Saxxe; he never called her that. But it was very familiar.

  She managed to drag her lips from his and turn her head. Cedric stood in the middle of the chamber holding a pair of worn leather pouches and wearing a startled expression.

  “Princess, I . . . well, the door was open and I . . . didn’t expect to f-find . . .” He stammered to a halt, crimson-faced, and simply held out the pouches as evidence of his mission. “These were on Saxxe Rouen’s horse. Mattias brought them to me, thinking he might have need of something . . . clothing, perhaps . . .”

  The shock in his face was like an icy blast against Thera’s heated frame. She was suddenly aware of Saxxe’s arms around her, and of her body . . . so hot and molded so tightly to his that they were nearly fused. Another few moments and Cedric would have interrupted them in the midst of—

  Oh, Lord! The impact of her position—in Saxxe’s chamber—shattered her enthrallment and she pushed back in his embrace. He had done it to her again; beguiled her senses, robbed her of her wits. She gave him a harder shove and freed herself unexpectedly, so that she staggered back.

  “I believe your princess is about to pay part of her debts,” he said, his voice husky with arousal. “If you will be so good as to close the doors on your way out . . .”

  The presumption that they would take up where they left off, after such a humiliation, fanned the flames of her royal pride.

  “He is wrong, as usual, Cedric,” she declared, coming to life. “I only came to—to—” She glimpsed the bathing pool behind him and, on impulse, gave him a hard shove. He flailed with surprise and fell back into the water with a tremendous and satisfying splash. “To make sure he had a bath!”

  Saxxe sputtered and scrambled to his feet in the waist-deep water. It took a moment to wipe the water from his eyes, and by the time he cleared his vision she was storming out the door. The sound of her angry footsteps mingled with the lapping of the water. He looked up to see Cedric’s head shaking as he deposited the bags on the foot of the bed and started for the door.

  “Chancellor!” he called out, halting Cedric. He pushed back his wet hair and vaulted out of the pool. Standing in a growing puddle with his hands on his hips, he fixed Thera’s chief adviser with a piercing gaze. “I want to know about these nights. Will she be forced to wed me afterward?”

  Cedric studied him for a moment, thinking of the sight he had stumbled upon and considering the unlikely match they made, his princess and her fierce barbarian. He took a deep, unsettled breath, deciding to tell him.

  “Nay, Princess Thera would never be forced to wed. Our sacred law declares that a marriage is made by seven nights . . . spent willingly in a lover’s arms. If Princess Thera chooses t
o spend the rest of seven nights with you, then you will be her husband. And you will be crowned our king, even as she is crowned queen.”

  Saxxe felt Cedric weighing him as a man and a potential ruler. “Seven nights,” he said thickly. “We have already spent three together . . . and she has promised me three . . .” Cedric nodded, watching the play of emotion in Saxxe’s face carefully.

  “We have need of a king, Saxxe Rouen. Whether or not you are the one we need, I cannot say. I can only pray that our princess will make the right choice . . . for herself and for our people.”

  The chancellor turned and strode out, closing the doors quietly behind him.

  Saxxe stood for a moment, staring after him.

  King. Despite all his talk of a kingdom, he’d never truly considered it a possibility . . . until this very moment. And he’d never given any thought to what was involved in being a king. Kings presided over populations, customs, and banquets; made decisions and issued judgments; collected taxes and spent money; went to war; and fathered heirs. Done rightly, ruling required courage, cleverness, authority . . . and a certain kingly bearing.

  He hadn’t been born to the crown, as Thera had; it wasn’t in his blood. And he certainly hadn’t been reared in a palace or fostered in a royal house or trained in the things he supposed a ruler might be. He thought of Thera tonight . . . the effortless authority of her tone, the grace of her bearing. What made him think he could ever be a king?

  He grabbed the cover from the bed to wrap around his wet body and the leather pouches Cedric had brought fell to the floor with a thud. They had jarred open in the fall, and when he picked them up, a golden spur fell onto the stone floor with a clink.

  He stood looking at it, then picked it up and sat down on the bed, turning the spur over and over in his hands. It brought painful memories boiling to the surface. But instead of shoving them back into his core as he usually did, he allowed them to take shape and substance in his mind.

  Long ago, in another lifetime, he had lived in a different world . . . among titled men and refined women. He had been born the younger son of a noble house, lived as a nobleman, and won his spurs as a knight. And though he had long ago ripped the spurs from his boots, not even long years of desperate, violent living had been able to rip the knightly code from his heart. Forever hindered by those wretched noble impulses, he had made a mediocre mercenary. But was there enough of the knight left in him to resurrect? Enough to make him into a proper king?

  In the long night that followed, he lay in bed, looking up at the billowing silk overhead and searching for answers. Just as those silken folds were gathered to a point far above him, he saw his entire past narrowing and focusing toward one fateful encounter in an alley behind a tavern . . . toward one proud and headstrong young princess. And in that same instant, he saw that the rest of his life would be shaped by that same determined and utterly irresistible woman . . . by her acceptance or rejection.

  It all came down to Thera.

  He wanted her with everything in him. And barbarian or hire-soldier; crude, greedy, or opportunistic—whatever she thought him to be, she still wanted him. He couldn’t let her dismiss him from her life. He had to claim the three nights she had promised and use every bit of pleasure in them to reach her heart.

  It wouldn’t be easy. She could be unholy stubborn and she had more than a queen’s share of pride. He would have to be utterly mercenary about getting her into his bed . . . then noble enough to get her to stay there for the rest of their lives.

  A noble mercenary. His scowl slowly faded into a wry smile.

  Perhaps he was just the man for the task.

  * * *

  On the hilltops overlooking the city, two pairs of eyes watched the dawn rising over the valley. For much of the previous afternoon, the Spaniard, El Boccho, and his countryman had prowled the hills above Mercia, looking for some trace of the travelers they had been trailing. After several frustrating days of staying concealed and being forced to keep their distance, they awoke to find that the women and their watchful escort seemed to have vanished with the morning mists.

  The pair had finally discovered a design cut into stone next to a path, and followed that trail up onto the mountaintop, trying every possible pass until they found a route through the stone passages to a thickly forested valley. It took them still longer to discover a route through the trees which bore the marks of recent passage, and to follow it to a second high ridge topped by a maze of deeply fissured rock.

  By sunset, they had left their mounts to climb over the craggy summit on foot. And in the distance, shrouded in evening haze, they finally spotted the winking lights of a small city.

  “Christo y Diablo!” El Boccho muttered. “Who would have thought to find such a place here? Look at it . . . a spire . . . bell towers . . . many houses and shops.” He pointed to the church and the palace. “Even great domes. It is a full city.”

  His accomplice nodded, adding: “A city . . . but without walls.”

  “By the Devil’s beard . . . the duc will be pleased indeed.” El Boccho rubbed his grizzled chin and his ferret-quick eyes darted in calculation. “We have not only found his woman, we have found him a rich prize. We must search out a better way into the valley. When he marches into Brittany, we must be ready to lead him straight into the heart of this city.”

  * * *

  The palace was astir early that morning. By the ringing of Prime, at sunrise, the palace kitchens had long been bustling with activity. Into that organized chaos stepped Saxxe Rouen, his hair still damp and his face and hands freshly washed. He strolled through the kitchen with his thumbs tucked into his belt, staring at the great stone hearth with its hooks and spits and griddles, then at the baskets of wintered vegetables, crocks, barrels, and grain sacks that lined the walls.

  Every hand froze and every eye widened as he passed the huge worktables, headed toward the glowing hearth. This was the one they had heard of, the barbarian who had rescued their princess, the one who was three-sevenths king. When he paused to survey the great stone chamber, they regarded him and the huge daggers at his sides with a mixture of awe and anxiety.

  “I’ve come to see the one responsible for that sage-dusted brewet last night,” he declared. The servants nearest him scurried back, their faces blanching. Every eye still capable of moving turned to a large, thickset woman with cheeks like polished apples.

  “Yea, sir?” she said in a voice Saxxe guessed would never be so timid in addressing another. “I am head cook, Genvieve . . . it was my seasoning in the brewet.”

  “Then I must tell you, good woman, that I had a vision of Heaven itself, the first drop I took of it.” A broad smile unrolled across his face. “I have eaten the foods of many distant lands, but I have never tasted a finer dish.” He gave her a bow that dropped her jaw and set the kitchen sculls behind her tittering.

  “And I was wondering if you’ve any of it left . . . to line my belly this morning?” he asked with a flattering light in his eyes.

  “None left, Yer Grace,” she declared hastily, “but I got plenty of other tasty fare with which to break yer fast.”

  Shortly he was seated at a worktable with a tankard of fragrant ale and a heaping platter of sausages, bread and butter, and several whole boiled eggs, which the cook thoughtfully sprinkled with a pinch of ground black pepper. He groaned and rolled his eyes with pleasure, and began to speak of dishes he had eaten in his many travels.

  The cook and her helpers collected around him . . . albeit at a safe distance . . . marveling at him and his talk of spices, almonds, dried figs, and olives heaped up like mountains in the halls of the Arab spice merchants in the east.

  By the time he departed to examine the rest of his potential realm, the kitchen was aglow with flushed faces and excited whispers. This barbarian, the kitchen folk decided, was a wondrous man indeed; they could see why Princess Thera had chosen him to be their new king.

  More than three hours later, Thera sat at a parchm
ent-strewn table in her chambers, listening to Cedric’s report of what had occurred in Mercia during her absence. Birthings, tilling and planting, deaths and tree harvesting . . . she heard it all with half an ear. In truth, it was another report that occupied her mind . . . Lillith’s report on Saxxe Rouen’s whereabouts.

  “What? Sneak and snoop and pry?” Lillith had protested when Thera dragged her out of bed at dawn that morning with orders to spy on their unwanted guests.

  “Exactly. I should think it would be second nature to you by now,” Thera said with a narrow look. “I want to know what he does and where he goes, and the instant he tries to leave the palace.”

  She did not have long to wait. Mid-morning, just after the bells had rung Tierce, Lillith came rushing into her chambers, red-faced and out of breath. “Saxxe Rouen . . . he’s poked and peered into every corner of the palace . . . the kitchens, the wine cellars, the cisterns and drains, the workrooms and gardens . . . even the audience chamber. Now he’s left—headed for the streets!”

  Alarmed at the prospect of Saxxe abroad in her fair city, knowing his admitted greed and his alarming propensity for violence, she grabbed Cedric and Lillith by the sleeves and dragged them out of the palace, across the terraces, and into the streets, searching for Saxxe.

  She found him in the central market square. His dark, shaggy head was visible well above the crowd that ranged before him and trailed after him. From cart to stall to shop door he went, inspecting the wares and speaking with the merchants and craftsmen. Even from a distance she could see the sparkle in his eyes and the brilliant flash of his smile . . . and she knew too well what a devastating effect those devilish agents could have on a person. Her knees felt a little weak at the thought of confronting them again.

  When she could tear her eyes from him, she examined the people around him. Men, women, and children alike . . . their faces glowed with excitement They almost never saw strangers and, Heaven knew, they had never seen anything even remotely like Saxxe Rouen. They gawked unabashedly at his long hair and beard, his huge sun-browned chest and powerful arms, and his wicked-looking daggers. Whichever way he stepped, they scurried out of his path, and whenever he spoke they strained to hear.