by Nina Mason
Robert bowed his head in deference. “I shall make a point of attending if it pleases Your Majesty.”
“It does,” said the king, his heavy-lidded deep blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight, “as does your service to me. To speak truth, the reports I heard of your former life in the court of my brother concerned me gravely. You were a determined reveler, my sources informed me, and quite as depraved as Lords Buckhurst and Rochester, with whom you were friends, if my intelligence is accurate.”
“I own that I did run in that circle,” Robert said, “but can assure you with the utmost sincerity, I have matured considerably since my marriage to your daughter.”
“Have you?” The king looked skeptical. “For Lord Mulgrave here has lately informed me that you have been up to your old tricks in my court—and, worse, have involved my daughter in your depravities.”
Robert gave Numps the stink-eye, being careful not to let the king see him do it. Lord All-Pride had circulated vicious stories about Lord Rochester back in the day, too, including that he had run away from a duel. Not that Mulgrave, the target of many of Lord Rochester’s cruelest lampoons, did have good cause for spreading the defamation. On the other hand, calling Mulgrave arrogant might be insulting, but it also was true, while calling Rochester a coward was a slander that did permanent damage to the earl’s reputation.
The truth of it was, King Charles had forbidden Lord Rochester to fight, just as King James had once forbidden Robert.
“I have no idea what you mean, Your Majesty, or what Lord Mulgrave hopes to gain by circulating such calumnies against me.”
The king waved his hand dismissively. “’Tis no matter. You have passed all my tests with colors flying, proving yourself worthy of my trust.”
So, that answered his question about the king’s motive for sending him to Scotland. His Majesty doubted his integrity because Mulgrave, of all people, had raised doubts about his character by design. The realization made Robert’s blood boil. It also made him despise the odious tarse more than ever. One way or another, he would make him pay for his perfidy.
“I am grateful for the opportunity to restore your faith in me, Your Majesty, and pray it will never again be shaken.”
“As do I,” said the king. “Now, let us turn to my reason for calling you to my chambers this evening. Since you were in Scotland when my nephew was apprehended, I thought you might like to hear the particulars—from Colonel Churchill, who, like yourself, played an essential role in thwarting the revolt.”
Robert nodded toward Colonel Churchill, long the fair-haired boy of his royal patron. Admittedly, he cut a dashing figure in his scarlet-coated uniform. Reputed to be as capable as he was handsome, he’d been given a command in the campaign to crush Monmouth’s rebellion. According to the reports Robert received on the road, Churchill’s tactical skill and courage in battle had been pivotal in the victory at Sedgemoor.
Turning back to the king, Robert made a small bow. “I would be honored to hear the tale, Your Majesty.”
The king smiled in a way that looked like a sneer. “And, perhaps you will be good enough to return the favor by regaling us with your recent adventures with the lately departed Lord Argyle.”
“It would be my pleasure to tell you as much as you care to hear.”
“Capital.” The king rose from his chair and gestured toward the sofa. “Let us take our ease for the telling. Shed your coats, my lords, pour yourselves a drink, and find somewhere to sit. I have a feeling this is going to be a rather long evening, so I urge you to make yourselves as comfortable as possible.”
As Robert followed the other men to the king’s store of strong drink, his hopes withered with regard to a passionate reunion with Maggie. By the time he returned to their apartment, she would likely be out for the night.
As Mulgrave poured himself a generous glass of port, Robert wished he kept a vial of poison upon his person. Then, he got an even wickeder idea. Perhaps Gemma Crosse could assist him in remedying the deficiency.
Next time, he would be ready. Not with poison—tempted though he was to murder the prick—but with a tonic that would bring on some miserable malady. Violent diarrhea, disfiguring pustules, or something equally embarrassing and debilitating. Then, Lord All-Pride would know how galling it felt to be the unwitting dupe of someone else’s malicious scheme.
Robert and the king took the chairs flanking the fireplace whilst Churchill and Mulgrave settled into opposite corners of the divan.
They all sipped their drinks in silence for several uncomfortable minutes before Churchill said, “Shall I start with the landing or go further back?”
“The landing will suffice,” said Mulgrave, self-importantly. “We all of us know what came before.”
Churchill cleared his throat. “Very well, I shall begin with the landing at Dorsetshire, which occurred on eleven June. Though there were cruisers in the channel and a few militiamen in the town, they were unable to stop the rebels. As Monmouth disembarked, the townspeople welcomed him with cheers and shouts, after which his standard was set up in the market-place, and a proclamation—of which Fergusson, the commissioner, was said to be the author—was put forth to all assembled. The proclamation recited various charges against His Majesty.”
Churchill paused there, as if unsure he should continue, and took a long drink from his glass.
The king said to Mulgrave, “Make a note of the name—Fergusson, was it?—for when the assizes begin.” Then, he turned to Churchill. “Pray continue, Johnny. I wish to hear their grievances, unfounded though they must be.”
The colonel looked anxious. “Are you sure, Your Majesty? I would not wish to upset you.”
“I am perfectly able to keep my temper, I assure you,” said the king, looking irked. “Must I remind you that, in my naval days, I was widely admired for my ability to remain composed under fire?”
“Of course not, Your Majesty,” Churchill said. “I am better aware of your unflappability than most, and in no way meant to imply otherwise.”
Robert blanched at Churchill’s obsequiousness. But then, it was his skill at diplomacy as much as his courage that had gotten him where he was. And were not diplomacy and brown-nosing two sides of the same coin?
“Then, pray, continue,” said the king.
Churchill, appearing ill-at-ease, took another drink and cleared his throat. “The proclamation accused you of endeavoring to subvert both the Protestant religion and the English constitution, of causing the great London fire, of originating the Popish plot, of assassinating the Earl of Essex, and of poisoning your brother, the late king.” The colonel licked his lips before adding, “The proclamation asserted also that Monmouth was the legitimate son of your brother and, therefore, his rightful heir.”
“Lies!” The king slammed down his fist on the arm of his chair. “Every word. I had no hand in the fire, the fraud perpetrated by Titus Oates, or Lord Essex’s suicide. Nor did I play the least role in my brother’s death! Upon my soul, I loved Charles and grieve for him still. Why would I wish to hasten his demise?” He shook his head. “And as for their charge that I have attempted to subvert their religion, well, that is utterly false. It is they who have subverted every other faith. All I have tried to do is make things more equal, so that all of my subjects can worship as they please and serve their king and country the same as any Anglican.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Mulgrave said with a snort. “The ignorant peasantry—the majority of Lord Monmouth’s supporter—also blame you for the dry summer, the cold winter, and the long drought that has ruined their crops.”
“Too true,” said the king, shaking his head once more.
After a few more disparaging comments about the peasantry, Churchill picked up his story from where he’d left off. “At that point, Monmouth’s only opposition was the half-trained militia garrisoned at Bridgeport. The duke detached Lord Grey from Lyme to attack the town, placing under his command some four hundred infantrymen and the whole of his ca
valry. The militia, about three hundred strong, marched out of Bridgeport to meet them, whereupon an indecisive engagement ensued. The militia first wavered, then stood firm, which sent the rebel horsemen running back to Lyme.”
As the colonel went on with his account of the battle, Robert’s thoughts wandered and his heart grew resentful. How could the king trust men like Churchill and Mulgrave, but not him? He was a Catholic and they were Protestants; he was married to His Majesty’s only loyal daughter, while they were both aligned with Princess Anne, who was conspiring behind her father’s back with her sister in Holland.
Was the king really that blind to deception? All evidence seemed to suggest he was—to his detriment.
Simmering with resentment, Robert made a list of all the royal ministers and advisers he believed would jump the fence at the first sign of trouble. The roster of likely turn-coats was depressingly long. And yet, His Majesty trusted all of them more than him, when he was more loyal than all of them put together.
His loyalty was unshakeable for five very good reasons. First, James Stuart had saved his life; second, they were related by marriage; third, they were both Catholic; fourth, they shared a belief in religious freedom; and fifth, he was the bloody king, and an honorable man did not withdraw his allegiance simply because his sovereign did things he did not condone. No more did he turn against God for similar reasons.
Churchill was saying, “Monmouth left Taunton, where he built his army to six thousand men, one thousand being cavalry, and marched to Bridgewater. From there, he proceeded to Glastonbury, thence to Wells, and from Wells to Bristol, which was alleged to support his cause. But Bristol by then was occupied by Beaufort’s militia, so the duke retreated in the direction of Bath with me and my Blues in hot pursuit…”
Robert, bored by all the tedious military maneuvers, turned his thoughts to more inspiring matters, such as what he was about to do to Maggie before he’d been so inconveniently interrupted. Would she still be game for an amorous reunion when he finally returned? Would he be? Much as he wanted to swive her senseless, he doubted his bollocks could take much more abuse. After nineteen straight days in the saddle, they felt like scrambled eggs.
His imagination, on the other hand, was more than game. Fortunately, his waistcoat was long enough to hide his body’s response to his fantasizing. Eyes open but glazed, he called to mind a scene he’d imagined many times before. Maggie down on all fours whilst he zealously enjoyed the one orifice she denied him.
Her tantalizing anus.
He pictured Maggie tied by her wrists to the bedpost back in his bedchamber at Balloch Castle. They both were naked and he was behind her, gripping his cockstand.
“I intend to fuck you up the arse,” he growled, pressing his erection into the crack of her buttocks. Clutching the be-veined pillar of flesh, he rubbed the empurpled head up and down the crevice he’d been denied for too bloody long.
Forbidden fruit was always the sweetest, was oft said, and he could not wait to take his first juicy bite.
First, he oiled up his tarse until it shone like polished marble. Next, he knocked at her back door. The sight of his glistening erection poking the ruched ring of her anus was so arousing he began to shake. Then, he entered her slowly, inch by glorious inch, until he was fully seated in her ass. God, she was tight. So tight, it was painful—in a good way. He groaned in satisfaction and triumph as he gripped her hips and drew back. When only the head remained embedded, he paused to admire the view. The sight of his engorged column buried partway in her sphincter was almost too good to bear. He took a breath to steady himself, then, once again, sank his cock to the root.
She moaned, pushed back, and circled her hips. Good girl. The feeling was so sublime, he nearly spent himself. He slapped her arse with a satisfying crack, branding her pale cheek with an alluring pink handprint.
“Patience, you wee vixen,” he growled. “Do not be so eager to cut short my pleasure. I intend to take my time.”
Once again, he withdrew until only the tip of his tarse was still submerged before slamming into her with jarring force. She gasped and let out a little cry, stoking the fire crackling in his cods. Reaching around her, he kneaded her breasts and pinched her nipples.
When she arched against him, he slammed into her, driving deep and holding. Shuddering as his climax ripped through him, he spilled himself into her colon in heavenly bursts of hot semen.
Blinking the image away, he found himself back in the king’s bedchamber with a raging hard-on uncomfortably bent in his breeches. He shifted in his chair to give his erection room to stretch its legs. Meanwhile, Colonel Churchill was still droning on about Monmouth’s defeat.
“The main body of our army had now reached Sedgemoor, where they encamped. Monmouth, in a bold and foolish move, made to attack our army whilst they slept. He got only as far as the edge of the rhyne fronting our encampment, which took time to cross. When some of the rebel forerunners startled our guards, shots were fired, rousing the sleeping men. Making a detour, the infantry set upon the insurgents whilst my horse guards cut off their supply wagons.”
Colonel Churchill paused, presumably to invite praise from the king. Receiving none, he took a drink and pressed on. “Monmouth, seeing all was lost, fled at dawn with Lord Grey in the direction of New Forest. Abandoned by their leaders, the insurgents endeavored to disband. Colonel Kirke, at the head of his Tangiers troops, pursued, showing no mercy to those they caught. The villages all around also were searched and any found to be harboring the enemy were put under arrest.”
“Capital,” said the king, looking exceedingly pleased. “But what became of Monmouth and Grey?”
“Well, sire,” Churchill said in reply, “when their horses were worn out, they continued on foot disguised as countrymen. Within a few days, they separated. Lord Grey was apprehended almost at once, and Monmouth was taken the following day. We found him hiding in a ditch, disguised as a shepherd and half dead from want of food. Both prisoners were dispatched at once to London, and the rest you know better than I, Your Majesty.”
“Quite so,” said the king with a nod. “Upon being brought before me, my nephew made the most degrading appeals for his life that ever were heard. I, however, took no pity upon the wretch. I said only this, ‘If I do not kill you now, you will soon kill me.’” With blazing eyes, he added, “Let us pray these events and tomorrow’s execution put the fear of God in any who might yet contemplate high treason!”
Robert retreated once more into his fantasies. This time, Maggie was on the bed on all fours and he was kneeling behind her, smacking her arse whilst he fisted his cock. When her buttocks were the perfect shade of rosy red, he moved his hand between her legs. As he teased her clitoris, he thumbed the tip of his glans, which was slick and sticky with his pearlescent emissions.
“Please, Lord and Master, fuck me. I want to feel your big, hard cock buried deep in my cunt.”
Her filthy plea made him shiver with delight. Not caring to deny her, he dug his fingers into her hips and entered her with one ardent thrust. He proceeded to pound her with wild abandon, driving deep, slamming her hard. The sound of her cries and the slapping of their sweaty flesh only made him hotter. Her quim was so hot and juicy and her arse was such a lovely shade of crimson, his cods were cocked and ready to fire…
“Lord Dunwoody, are you ready to brief us on your exploits in Scotland?”
Oh, shit. Robert’s eyes snapped open, he shifted in his chair, and his face grew as warm as the bulge in his breeches. “Of course, sire. I have never been more ready in my life.”
Chapter Eleven
Robert, having returned to his suite of apartments at long last, let himself in, his heart brimming with the hope that, despite his urgings, Maggie had waited up for him. That all the candles were yet burning seemed a good sign. The sight of his wife on the sofa still in her gown promised even more. She was lying on her side and her eyes were closed. Was she deep in sleep or simply dozing?
Whic
hever she’d been, she stirred when he closed the door, despite his endeavors to be quiet.
She sat up and smiled at him sleepily across the dimly lit room. “What time is it?”
“A wee bit after midnight,” he told her.
It had taken nigh an hour to give the king his account of his exploits in Scotland, leaving out the bits about Juliette, his self-flagellation, and the burning of his final reports. He took off his coat and hung it on a peg. He was ripe from the road and longed for a wash, but it was too late to trouble his valet, assuming Duncan had turned up in his absence.
Maggie yawned and stretched. “Have you been with my father all this while?”
“Aye,” he said. “He wanted to hear about my exploits with the lately beheaded Archibald Campbell.”
“Was that all he wanted you for?”
“More or less.”
“Good.” She gave him a seductive smile and patted the spot beside her. “Come, have a seat and kiss me like you missed me.”
“That will not be difficult,” he said, striding toward her. “I did miss you, my darling. Fiercely.”
He might be physically and mentally exhausted, but his libido remained wide awake. He claimed the offered seat, took her by the shoulders, and pressed his mouth against hers. The joy of being able to kiss her again, to touch her again, to smell and feel and taste her again, was so elating, he began to tremble.
He could not bear to stop kissing his wife long enough to suggest they move into the bedchamber, so he scooped her into his arms and, with their lips and tongues still entangled, he carried her to his room.
No sooner had he set her down than she reached into his breeches. He made a small whimper when she gave his cock an enthusiastic squeeze.
Her grip was too hard for comfort, so he broke away from her and cautioned, “Be gentle, my love. I have been in the saddle for more than a fortnight—and have the strong smell to prove it.”
