The Devils Who Would Be King (Royal Pains Book 4)

by Nina Mason

  In fact, their physical attributes differed in but one way, so far as he knew: Juliette had a tiny penis where Maggie had a clitoris.

  As he looked her over, an idea came to him. He jumped down from his horse, swept Juliette into his arms, and covered her mouth with his. With one hand, he held her body firmly against his as she struggled to free herself. With the other, he squeezed her throat.

  He felt eyes upon him. Shocked stares for his vulgar public display. Good. Let them think him a libertine instead of a spy.

  When Juliette went limp against him, he scooped her up, threw her over the front of his saddle, and remounted his horse. As he started to ride off, he tipped his hat to the spectators and said, “Am I not greatly blessed to have a wife who still swoons when I kiss her?”

  Without waiting for their answer, he reined his horse toward the road and set off at a gallop. Moments later, he passed Spence and his companion with nary a sideways glance. He rode hard to the inn where he’d taken a room. He’d lost valuable time subduing Juliette, but still might reach the bishop in time if he was quick.

  At the inn’s hitching stone, he jumped down, collected his prisoner, and hastened toward his room. He’d deliberately chosen one on the ground floor out of sight of the landlord.

  Inside, he dropped Juliette on the bed, closed the drapes, and used their chords to secure her limbs to the bedposts. That done, he went to the chest of drawers on the opposite wall and withdrew two embroidered handkerchiefs. The first, he used as a blindfold; the second, as a gag. When he was finished, he stepped back and looked her over. The sight of her spread-eagled on his bed gave him wicked ideas. She looked so much like Maggie. How tempting she looked, and how easy it would be to… No! He might not be a saint, but neither was he a rapist.

  What, then, should he do with her? He had no idea. He only knew he was running out of time. Spence and his companion were drawing closer to Kirkwall by the moment. If he delayed any longer, he would lose the race, despite the advantage of horsemanship.

  There would be time enough to decide what to do with his prisoner after he called upon Bishop Mackenzie.

  * * * *

  Wee Jamie had calmed down by the time Maggie’s sedan chair came within view of the red-brick face of the gatehouse and turrets of St. James’s Palace. She smiled at the welcome sight. Her apartments here were just as stately as those at Whitehall, yet far homier. In many ways, they reminded her of Balloch Castle, her residence back in Scotland. So much had happened there, good and bad, but the fond memories far outweighed the painful ones—and were vastly more precious to her than gilded splendors and regal pomp could ever be.

  Would she ever see her home again? Would she ever see her husband?

  She bit her lip and flung the questions away. She mustn’t entertain such troubling thoughts. She must trust in the Lord’s wisdom and timing. She must be patient, even if it seemed she did little else of late but wait.

  Apart from weeping, praying, and wringing her hands, of course.

  She waited for Robert to return to her, and prayed he was alive and well.

  She waited for the child growing in her womb to make itself known, and prayed she would carry it to term.

  She waited (with dread) for Lord Mulgrave to trouble her again, and prayed she would never be forced to share his bed.

  She waited for the rebels to make their move, and prayed the Duke of Monmouth would fail in his campaign.

  She waited for her father to enact his unpopular policies, and prayed the Whigs would not storm the palace and murder all within its walls.

  She waited for the next letter from Princess Anne to Princess Mary, and prayed her scheming half-sisters would soon awaken to their hypocrisy. For how could they claim religious superiority to Catholics whilst daily breaking so many of God’s Commandments?

  And now she would add to that already too-lengthy list waiting for Jamie to develop symptoms, and praying he would recover.

  Motherly affection inflated her bosom as she looked down at her son. He was such a beautiful boy with his plump cheeks, cherubic mouth, and dark curls. If it should please God to take away her dear boy, she knew not what she would do. The very thought pierced her to the depths of her soul.

  Please, Heavenly Father, do not allow me to survive my children—or their father.

  She instructed the chairmen to take her around to the entrance leading to the state apartments. Once inside hers, she retreated to her bedchamber, where she nursed her son until he dozed off. Leaving him in his cradle to sleep, she went into the grand front parlor, which, despite being crowded with fine furnishings, felt empty. Lighting upon the damask settee, she took up the embroidery she’d been working on for weeks: a panel depicting herself and Robert with Balloch Castle in the background.

  As she worked the floss through the cloth, Maggie’s thoughts drifted to Mrs. Crosse. She saw the voluptuous widow on her hands and knees on the bed as she fucked her from behind with her tie-on glass dildol. God, but it had been thrilling. And so very, very wicked! She still could not think on that sordid evening without being shocked by her behavior.

  And yet…

  As much as she loved and desired her husband, there was an itch inside her he could not scratch. Gemma Crosse, however, could. Henceforth, I shall place myself at your beck and call. The apothecary’s words sent a thrilling shiver through Maggie. Suddenly, she could not wait to take her new friend up on her offer. Should she send for her now, tonight?

  She took a minute to think, but saw no reason to delay. Wee Jamie was sound asleep and would not exhibit symptoms for at least another week. Once he grew ill, she would be too preoccupied with nursing her son to think of herself—and far too exhausted for entertaining.

  Anticipation built inside her like steam in a kettle. She was sick and tired of waiting and praying. She needed diversion and amusement. She needed to release the pressure and scratch the itch inside. It was like a sickness, eating away at her unseen.

  Rising from the settee, she went to her escritoire, took a seat in the delicate brocade chair, and pulled out a sheet of vellum. Opening her inkwell, she dipped her quill and scrawled a succinct note.

  My dear Mrs. Crosse,

  Come to me tonight at the palace, if you are willing and able. Do not be alarmed. All is well with me and my son. I simply desire your company this evening, and wish to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, an Italian diplomat by the name of Signor Dildol.

  Your affectionate friend,

  M. A.

  When it was done, Maggie blotted the ink before folding and sealing the letter with a dollop of wax and her personal signet. Leaving the invitation on the desk, she pulled the servant’s bell and returned to the sofa. When the maid came, she instructed her where to deliver the message and to bring back the receiver’s reply.

  Then, she took up the panel again and gave every appearance of being productively employed with her needle and floss. Just as she began stitching one of the stylized background flowers, a knock sounded upon the door. Assuming it was the maid returning with Gemma’s answer—or Gemma herself!—she set down her needlework and hurried to the door, giddy with excitement.

  She got a surprise upon opening the door. Her caller was not the servant, as expected; it was Viscountess Barbara Fitzhardinge, one of Princess Anne’s ladies-in-waiting. As Maggie looked her caller over, she fingered the string of pearls at her throat. They had belonged to Robert’s mother and were her most precious possession.

  Barbara Fitzhardinge looked as stylish as ever in her low bodice draped with muslin, and a purple robe over an orange petticoat. Around her neck hung multiple ropes of pearls and cameos. Her hair was dressed high and adorned with yellow ribbons.

  In her hand was a letter, fan folded, carefully sealed, wrapped in silk floss, and double sealed.

  The letter, Maggie presumed, was another Catholic-bashing communique from Princess Anne to Princess Mary, her piously Protestant sister in The Hague. Robert had asked Lady Fitzhardinge to
deliver their correspondences to Maggie in his absence.

  With a smile, the viscountess pressed the note into Maggie’s hand. As she examined the tiny bundle, a spark shocked her heart. The direction written across the front was not to her half-sister in Holland, as presumed. The letter was addressed to her in Robert’s elegant cursive!

  “Your husband put it inside a message to the king,” the viscountess told her. “Knowing we are friends, His Majesty entrusted its delivery to me.”

  Were they friends? Maggie was too overcome with curiosity and joy to give the matter consideration. Breathlessly and with trembling hands, she tore away the letter’s restraints, unfurled the meticulously folded sheet of paper, and eagerly read her husband’s words.

  My Dearest Worldly Treasure,

  I wait to return to you as soon and as well as I am able. Until then, I will pray you are well, happy, and bestowing your many virtues upon those around you (but not all of them, pray). I think of you endlessly, miss you excessively, and, devil that I am, dream of you explicitly. If I close my eyes, I can still see you, spread before me like a sacred offering. Your eyes, your lips, your breasts, your cunny—mine and only mine for the taking. You are so beautiful and desirable, my darling, I set upon you like a beggar at a banquet. I must have all of you—body, heart, and soul—as you have all of me.

  Do you remember that day outside the garden gate at our castle? When we lay together under the trees on the grass? You were so innocent then, so modest and sweet. If I have brought about your ruination, may God forgive me. He chiseled you from divine marble and made you more perfect than a Michelangelo masterpiece. I had no right to covet you, but could not help myself. I am only a man, after all, whereas you are a goddess.

  Do you see what you do to me, my darling? Do you see how I worship and adore you? Even now, as I write you these words, my hands are atremble, my heart is heavy, and my loins are aflame with need. God, how I miss you. God, how I want you. God, how I begrudge our separation. For three weeks have I suffered your absence. How many more lonely days must I endure before I am in your arms again? If God is merciful, it will not be many.

  My sweet Rosebud, my darling Maggie, my most cherished treasure. Know that your adoring husband will remain ever loyal, however great the temptations it pleases the Lord to put in my path. I hope this letter finds you and wee Jamie well. I do not know when I shall be blessed with the opportunity to send another.

  Until then, I remain your devoted husband and servant,

  R.

  Maggie, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted off her chest, pressed her lips to the page, hoping he might somehow feel her kiss across the distance separating them.

  Observing this, the viscountess said, “I deduce from your reaction it is a good letter.”

  “Oh, yes.” All at once, Maggie’s heart was as light and bubbly as champagne. “Quite possibly the best ever written.”

  “Does he write to you of his return?”

  Maggie, embarrassed, averted her gaze. “Nay, only of his constancy.”

  “Does he? How good of him. He has sent you a love letter, then?”

  “He has indeed.” Maggie’s face grew warm. “An exceedingly passionate one.”

  “How fortunate you are to have such a doting husband. I must own being positively green with envy.”

  Maggie deduced from the comment that the viscountess’s husband—John Berkeley, Fourth Viscount Fitzhardinge of Berehaven—was no great prize in the romance department, but knowing so little of him, she could not form her own opinion. This much Maggie did know, however: The viscountess was rumored to have stolen the affections of Sarah Churchill, a fellow lady-in-waiting, away from her mistress, much to Princess Anne’s vexation.

  She also knew, by her own admission, that Lady Fitzhardinge was a closeted royalist who’d made her home in a den of Anglicans. Not only did she belong to the court of Princess Anne, she was a governess to Prince William of Orange, who had taken her sister, Elizabeth Villiers, as his acknowledged mistress (to his abused-albeit-devoted wife’s devastation). The viscountess also was a first cousin to Barbara Palmer, the first Duchess of Cleveland and Countess of Castlemaine, the most notorious of King Charles II’s many mistresses. The mother of five of the former king’s illegitimate children, Lady Castlemaine had been known around court as “The Uncrowned Queen.” She’d also been known for her extravagance, foul temper, and promiscuity.

  Maggie shot anxious glances up and down the hall. The maid should be back at any moment with Mrs. Crosse’s reply. If she could not rid herself of Lady Fitzhardinge soon, she would be forced to invite her to join them—assuming, of course, Mrs. Crosse had accepted her invitation.

  Sudden worry gripped Maggie. What if Mrs. Crosse could not come? Lady Fitzhardinge might do as well. Should she invite her to take the apothecary’s place in her bed? Maybe, but both together would be too much. Last time, she had Robert here to help her. Last time, she had adopted her domineering alter ego, Mistress Margaret.

  Tonight, she was her usual mild-mannered self. Tonight, she wanted to be on equal footing with her bedmate. Tonight, she craved tenderness and comfort, not games of domination and surrender.

  She worried her lips whilst weighing her options. Deciding to take her chances on Mrs. Crosse alone, she said, “I would invite you in, viscountess, but I am expecting a guest.”

  Lady Fitzhardinge fingered the pearls at her throat. “Please tell me you are not entertaining King John in your rooms unchaperoned!”

  Maggie, unsure who she meant, blinked at her. “Pray, who is King John?”

  “Lord Mulgrave, who earned the moniker after his audacious play for Princess Anne, who was then the unmarried Lady Anne. Upon my soul, the man is so full of himself, he will not be satisfied with a wife who has aught less than royal blood.”

  “Royal blood?”

  “Quite so,” said Lady Fitzhardinge. “What else is one to suppose when he first sets his sights on Anne—a miscalculation that cost him his position at court, I might add—and now seems determined to have you. The court is humming with talk of his bravado…and how he persuaded the king to send your husband on a mission from which he is unlikely to—” She stopped abruptly, crimsoned slightly, and offered Maggie a forced-looking smile. “Pray, forgive me. I am quite sure all will turn out well.”

  Maggie considered telling the viscountess about having seen the earl and the princess doing the deed in the royal chapel, but decided against it. Though she listened to court gossip as readily as anyone, she tried not to be a teller of tales. The sisters who raised her made examples of the girls who spread rumors by birching them in front of all. With each whistling lash, they were asked to recite a Bible passage condemning gossip. Those who hesitated too long received ten extra strikes. Fortunately, there were plenty of verses to choose from. God, apparently, had no tolerance for twattlers.

  “I have no interest in Lord Mulgrave, and if—God forbid—anything should happen to Robert, that pompous ass is the last man I would consent to marry, whatever my father might desire.”

  Lady Fitzhardinge’s eyebrows shot up. “Does the king desire you to wed Lord Mulgrave?”

  “Though he has never said as much to me, his behavior seems to suggest…” Maggie released a sigh. “Well, never mind. As long as Robert returns to me, I am safe from their schemes, am I not?”

  Lady Fitzhardinge gave her a sympathetic smile and touched her forearm. “I will continue to pray that your duke returns safely and soundly—for your sake primarily, but also so we might enjoy another evening like the last. I did have such a glorious time being spanked and ordered about like a naughty child, and do hope Mrs. Crosse can say the same. Have you, perchance, heard aught from her since?”

  Maggie felt herself blush. “As a matter of fact, I called upon her earlier today.”

  The viscountess looked pleased. “Did you? How splendid. And how does she fare?”

  “Extremely well, from what I observed.”

  The ba
by began to fuss, giving Maggie the chance to excuse herself without giving offense. “Do forgive me, Lady Fitzhardinge, but I must see to my son before my company arrives.”

  The viscountess patted her arm. “Of course. Tend to your child. We can continue our discourse another time.”

  Maggie, relieved to be rid of her, took a step back. “Goodnight, viscountess. It was very good of you to bring me my husband’s letter.”

  “Not at all, duchess. I am so pleased it contained good tidings.”

  Maggie, clutching the letter to her bosom, shut the door and hurried to the cradle, where wee Jamie had graduated from fussing to mewling. His eyes were teary and his face was positively crimson. ’Twas too early for symptoms to appear, but, just to be sure, she put her hand on his forehead to check his temperature. He felt normal, God be praised. He probably only needed his napkin changed. If she made haste, she could have him cleaned up and down for the night before Mrs. Crosse arrived (if, in fact, she would come).

  As she attended the baby, Maggie meditated upon the reports circulating about Lady Fitzhardinge, Sarah Churchill, and Princess Anne. If so many ladies of the court were sharing each other’s beds, why should she be left out? Robert would not mind, she would break none of God’s commandments, and she was so terribly weary of waiting, praying, and sleeping alone.

  Chapter Three

  The cloud cover looming over Orkney seemed oppressively heavy. As Robert rode toward Kirkwall, he could feel it pressing down on his shoulders like Atlas’s globe. He had trailed Spence and the other man to a private residence and now was on his way to see the bishop. Frustration pounded in his temples as his hefty horse plodded along the narrow, pebbled road. Try as he might, he could not coax the nag into a swifter gait. Meanwhile, he remained sorely aware of the urgency of his errand. If he could not alert the bishop before the two rebels returned to their ships, his mission would fail before it even began.