The King Of Hel (5 page)

Doranis's eyes narrowed, and he countered her question with one of his own. “Which will most readily bring you to my chambers?

Her laughter swelled between them. “Ask me, Sire."

Again he countered her. “Say my name."

"Doranis,” she whispered, the word flowing off her tongue in a loving caress.

His eyes drifted shut for a moment, thick white lashes shadowing his cheeks. When he opened them again, Castil could see eternity in their blue depths. “Will you share my bed, Castil il Veras?"

"Yes,” she breathed, capturing his mouth in a brief kiss. “I will, Doranis of House Alisdane. This night and all nights that you will welcome me."

The morning sky was still covered in darkness when Doranis awakened the first time. He rolled over lazily, reaching for the sleek, warm body of his lover. His eyes snapped open when his hands found empty space, and he peered into the shadows of his room, trying to locate Castil. Shuffling noises from his bathing room reassured him that she had left his bed only to answer nature's call.

He turned on his side, pressing his face into her pillow, content to simply inhale her scent as he waited for her return. Some would likely say he was obsessed, consumed by a craving for a plain, unremarkable woman who was no match when compared to the stunning beauties of the Helenese court, or even the foreign infantas who vied for a place as his second wife. But Doranis paid no attention to their puzzled conjectures. Castil il Veras was the summer sun to him—warm, beautiful, sometimes painfully intense.

He jealously guarded the brief, private hours he reserved for Castil in the library, and all knew that to disturb him during those moments would incite an icy, formidable anger. She was good company, lighthearted and quick to laugh when he told her a humorous tale or offered some caustic, witty comment that sometimes made her gasp or choke on a giggle.

After that heated interlude by the spring, their relationship had changed, and there was no going back to the guarded, simmering longing that always lurked beneath the surface when they dealt with each other. Doranis knew of her continued visits to the burial vault, the troubled shadow that sometimes lurked in her gray eyes, but it did not stop her from embracing him with the same insatiable hunger he felt for her.

In the weeks that followed their first coupling, he took her numerous times, introducing her to the many joys of lovemaking. He taught her to pleasure him with her tongue until he came hard in her mouth, groaning and gasping as she sucked him dry. Likewise, he brought her to climax with the skillful play of his tongue on the sensitive pearl of her womanhood, gripping her hips in hard hands as she thrashed and moaned on the bed.

Long days of craving her were punctuated by even longer nights when he would spread her thighs and bury his cock in her welcoming body again and again until his climax left her drenched with his seed and him reeling with exhaustion. He thought it would lessen as the weeks passed, and the winter days lengthened with the coming of spring. But his need for her remained sharp, lingering. It went beyond the bounds of the physical for he thrived in her presence, felt cheered by the simple knowledge of her sitting next to him in the library, reading through a scroll. And there was no doubting that she loved his son, as much for the fact that he was a loving child as that he was Kareena's.

Doranis drifted off to sleep again, waiting for her to return, and it was much later that he awakened, the sun having risen at least two hours earlier. Castil was not beside him, but he shrugged off the uneasy feeling that began to blossom. It was likely that she'd returned to her rooms.

The disquiet only increased as the hours passed and he caught no glimpse of her in his daily routine. And when she did not appear for their usual meeting in the library, the disquiet became full-blown alarm. He strode out of the room, making a rapid descent into the burial vaults, certain he would find her there. It was silent as always, no living soul to keep the dead monarchs company on that day. The two nursemaids jumped in unison when he burst into Joris's nursery, his eyes bright with rage.

"Where is she?” he snapped and they stared at him in confusion and no little fear.

One, a woman named Ursa, placed the baby gently in his bed and turned back to the angered king with curious eyes. “She came this morning to say goodbye to the babe before joining the caravan leaving for the docks."

Doranis turned abruptly on his heel, closing the door quietly behind him.

Servants flattened themselves against the walls as he passed them, frightened by the savage anger on the king's pallid features. The caravans! He wanted to bellow his rage, slam his fist into the nearest door, or preferably turn a stubborn, misguided woman over his knee and redden her bottom with the flat of his hand!

A servant, suffering from unfortunate timing, crossed his path as he strode to his chambers. “You,” Doranis hissed, and the man blanched in terror, bobbing up and down in a frantic bow. “Get to the stables and have them ready Peresil.” He didn't bother to watch the man sprint down the corridor as if demons snapped at his heels.

Minutes later the king slammed into the stables, cloaked and hooded, his eyes outlined in the customary kohl to protect them from snow blindness. “Where is Peresil?” he roared, growing more furious and panicked as time slipped through his fingers, and the caravan drew closer to the ships.

A groom rushed out from the safety of one of the stalls, the big bay stallion trotting behind him. He barely had time to leap out of the way as the king mounted the horse and kicked him into a hard gallop through the open stable doors and out into the courtyard.

Peresil's long legs ate up the distance in effortless strides, and his breathing remained even as his master kept him in a steady gallop. Soon, the tail end of the caravan came into view, a straggling, haphazard line of wagons and shaggy mountain ponies dusted in a light snowfall.

There were exclamations of surprise and cries of welcome as many of the Helenese recognized their monarch. Wagons were pulled to a creaking stop, ponies brought up short on their reins as the tradesmen and dye masters halted to bow their respects to the king. Doranis paid them little attention, his kohl-darkened eyes sweeping the line of carts in search of a small, dark-haired woman.

"Castil il Veras!” he shouted. “Show yourself!” There was a short, uneasy silence before Castil, wrapped in her thin southern cloak and scarves, jumped down from the back of one of the dye wagon and walked slowly toward him. Her eyes were both sad and questioning. She bowed briefly.

"Why are you here, Doranis?"

He guided the stallion closer, reaching down to lift her onto the saddle in front of him. The caravan leader wasted no time getting the line moving again. Whatever went on between the king and his foreign consort was no concern of theirs. They had dyes to deliver.

Doranis watched as the caravan moved again, this time without the fleeing Castil. He leaned over her, cupping her chin in his hand and raising her face to his. “How dare you,” he breathed in a hard, bitter voice.

Her eyes closed against the anger and the pain in his eyes. “I don't belong here, Doranis. My home is to the south, my place at a scribe's table."

His frustrated sigh lifted the stray tendrils of hair clinging to her cheeks. “Why will you not make your peace with Kareena? She is dead, Castil,” he snapped. “I meant nothing to her. Why do you persist in feeling this guilt?"

Castil turned her face away, grasping the fingers that held her chin. “This isn't about Kareena, Sire. This is about you. You are a king, bound to your station as I am to mine. You will marry again, and that is something I have no wish to witness."

So that was it. Foolish, foolish woman; one he loved more than life itself. He looked skyward, suppressing the smile that threatened to curve his lips. When he looked down again, it was to see Castil's features white with anguish. It sobered him instantly. She leaned into his hand as he curved it against her cheek.

"I am bound, Castil, but as king I have fulfilled my duty. I married for my country, gave it another heir. The woman I next take to wife will be of my choosing. And she is an untrusting sort; beautiful but quick to judge and find me wanting. Still, I find myself loving her despite her doubts concerning my character."

Doranis felt her sag in his arms, whether from relief or despair, he couldn't tell until he raised her chin again and stared into her shining gray eyes. He ran his thumb gently across her lower lip. “You will return with me to the fortress.” His voice was quiet, brooking no disobedience.

Castil kissed his thumb, smiling even as she sniffled. “Are you asking or commanding?"

His lips twitched in amusement. “Which will most readily bring you home with me?"

She slid her arms around his waist, hugging him to her in a hard embrace. “Either, my love. Home is where you are."

Castil watched in excitement as the
Estarta
sailed into the harbor, her hull sitting low in the water with the weight of her goods. From her vantage point on the pier, she could see a figure standing on the deck, waving frantically. She waved back, laughing with joy as her father greeted her from his place aboard the ship.

"He will not approve of our current arrangement."

She looked over her shoulder at Doranis, his pale features half hidden by the hood he wore. Despite the protective covering, he still squinted against the bright sun flashing off the surface of the water. “You are king. What can he say?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. “And he is your father. I think he will insist that you be moved to another bedchamber entirely until we are wed."

She laughed. “Well then, mayhap you will finally awaken in my bed for once."

His smile was mischievous, full of promise. “I am certain that can be arranged."

He rested his hand on her waist, pulling her back until she rested against him, and they both watched as the
Estarta
cut through the waves toward them. The sea air was cool, heavy with the scent of salt and fish. Doranis stiffened for a moment, surprised by the gentle breeze that seemed to swirl around them. He sniffed audibly. “Do you smell that? It is familiar though I know no such flower grows here."

There was no mistaking the smile in Castil's voice, or the faint sadness. “It is sea rose, my love. A parting gift from a beloved friend."

Grace Draven is a Louisiana native, living in Texas, and is a financial analyst by trade. She is the member of a large on-line network of writers, as well as a member of a site that archives fiction works. In the spare moments between working a full-time job and caring for three small children she writes romantic fiction. Grace has lived in Spain, honeymooned in Scotland, hiked through the Teton Mountains, ridden in competition rodeo and is the great, great-granddaughter of a Nicaraguan president. She is an avid fan of medieval history, Renaissance faires, Russian culture and the culinary arts.