The Princess and the Huntsman (2 page)

Brandywyn separated the two sides of her slit and touched one finger there. A jolt of spiky pleasure was her reward. Bending a little at the knees, she moved her fingers down further between her legs. She was wet! It was slippery as melted butter on her fingers. Following the movements of the prince, Brandywyn pushed a finger inside her, and once again, that pleasure raced up her belly, leaving her hot and achy with something she had never experienced before.

The prince was mounting the woman next door. He got between her thighs and Brandywyn watched as he guided his pole into the woman until it was invisible to Brandywyn’s lascivious gaze. He began to move, and Brandywyn tried to imagine what the thick rod would feel like, pressing into her like her own fingers were doing.

He moved faster after a minute, and Brandywyn increased the pace of her frigging, occasionally touching her little, hard nubbin at the top of her slit. It made her tremble through her limbs and gasp. She gasped so loudly, in fact, that she was afraid the occupants of the next room would hear her. Brandywyn moved her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry, smelled the wetness from her quim, and licked her lips where her fingers had touched. She tasted strange and sweet. Blushes heated her face and neck, but that didn’t stop her from moving her wet hand back down to touch her nubbin again. The pleasure she felt was strong, nearly overwhelming, and her knees trembled.

Inside the room next door, the prince was moving faster on the serving girl, poking her deeply and then withdrawing, only to poke her again. The woman was thrashing around. Did it hurt? But, no, she ran her arms gently over the prince’s shoulders, and her hands eagerly down his back, pulling him in closer, tighter. It definitely didn’t hurt.

Brandywyn longed to feel that coupling. It looked like sensual fun. And in the prince’s case, it surely would never lead to marriage with a servant. It was sinful, but men were randy people. She had learned that by overhearing what was said in the great hall during supper and around the palace. Maybe she, herself, was a randy person, too, because that roiling sense in her middle was growing apace.

The prince used more force and then pulled out entirely, putting his hand on himself and pushing, pulling it, until it spurted white spatters over the woman’s belly.

Brandywyn was overcome at that point, as he found his pleasure; she was shocked and so excited that her fingers raced over her slit. Pressure exploded into something so good, so delicious, that she moaned with pleasure.

The prince collapsed on his lover’s body, and after a moment, he rolled off, lying on the big bed with an arm over his eyes, breathing hard. The woman in the bed looked tired, and not particularly happy. Maybe her body hadn’t reached that climax that Brandywyn had.

Brandywyn, her breath calming, dropped her skirt back in place and watched for another minute. Nothing much happened, so she pulled back away from the peep hole.

As she placed the picture back over the hole, hiding it carefully, she thought about what she had seen, what impact it might have upon her decision to accept a prince as her mate. Maybe this prince… but no, he had left the serving woman unfulfilled. That did not seem fair, and did not appeal to her at all. Maybe all men did that, in which case, Brandywyn would be better off with her own fingers.

Once again, Brandywyn hardened her heart against marriage. She would rely upon her own resources and not become dependent upon another, especially someone who could hurt her so deeply should she fall in love with him.

* * *

Later, in her well-appointed music room, Brandywyn looked around for her harp. Spying it back in its place, not where she had left it, she frowned. The servants again. They were wont to organize her life in the most infuriating ways. Could they leave nothing alone?

“Tarntra!”

A door opened, and gently closed, as Brandywyn’s old nurse entered the room. “Aye, Princess?”

“Why is my harp moved? Have I not told the servants to leave my things alone?”

Tarntra nodded sagely. “Aye, you have. I told them otherwise.”

Rounding on her one true friend in anger, Brandywyn prepared to take her to task, but her fury was lost when she saw the concern and love on Tarntra’s lined face. Ever kind, despite Brandywyn’s rages, ever gentle with her, and yet implacable when Brandywyn felt most out of control, her Tarntra was like the mother she had lost. Faced with that unconditional love, Brandywyn broke down in tears.

“Oh, Tarntra, oh, I am so unhappy.”

Tarntra took her in her arms and held her tightly. “I know, precious girl. I know. Time will heal it, but you must cooperate.”

“I do not want to cooperate. I want to be left alone.”

“To wallow in your misery and bitterness? Will that bring your mother back?”

Head resting on her nurse’s plump shoulder, Brandywyn shook her head. A spill of light yellow curls bounced against Tarntra’s breast. Brandywyn hated her curls, despite the fact that so many complimented her on her looks. She hated everything about herself. The gods had deserted her, left her motherless. She knew she was unpleasant to be around. Yet, she could not stop her bad behavior. She needed it to keep people away.

“Shh. Shh, love,” Tarntra soothed, seeming to know her thoughts. “Take yourself in hand and give yourself a stern talking to. Leave all that anger behind and start a new day.”

It was the same thing Tarntra had told her from the time the queen had died. Brandywyn had tried, she truly had, but she was so resentful about losing her mother so early in her life. Why had that happened to her? How could the gods be so cruel? She could not cope with the loss, and slowly, her behavior had changed into what it was now.

Brandywyn felt doomed and alone in the prison she made for herself, a prison of tears and anger. It seemed hopeless.

* * *

Three mornings later, Brandywyn was called from her voice lesson to attend the king in his audience chamber. And so it began again. She knew it had to be a new suitor, some rich young man with a smiling face and nothing but an interest in her inheritance and the future throne of the Isle of Ring. Her father was persistent, if nothing else. Brandywyn pressed a hand to her flattened bodice and smoothed down the finely embroidered fabric of her gown. Mentally, she girded herself for another fight.

Fully prepared to throw a tantrum, she pushed herself past her father’s guards and stalked into the room. A fellow stood on the red carpet, watching her as she made her way toward her father’s throne. It was the man from the peep hole! There he was, smiling at her, and yet she knew what lay beneath his showy costume, and the thoughtlessness of the way he took his pleasure with the maid, giving so little in return. Brandywyn’s anger and resentment was nearly overwhelming.

She knew protocol forbade her from speaking first, but she was so tired of this game, she gave in to her inclination to stop the charade before it began. Sparing nary a further glance at this new suitor, she speared her father with her green gaze, hoping her eyes sparked as highly as her temper.

“What goes, Father? I thought this matter settled!”

Immediately, King Dent’s gray eyebrows drew together. “Castigate me not in my own house, Daughter. ‘Tis not polite.”

Well, that was true enough. Brandywyn stood down, burying the rant she had prepared. Her father meant well, even if he was meddling. She turned to look at the nobleman nearby. Dark haired and broad-shouldered, he was a very handsome man. His brown eyes twinkled merrily, apparently unfazed by her temper tantrum. He gave her a slight nod, not the courtier’s bow she had expected. Who was this tall rascal?

“Prince Gammon of Carlisle, may I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Brandywyn, my daughter.”

The young man, perhaps eight or ten years older than Brandywyn, stepped to her and took her hand, kissing the back of her knuckles politely. His touch was not too intimate; she could find no fault in it, though she would have liked to. “Your Highness,” he said. His voice was a little higher in register than she had expected, but not unpleasant to the ear. “I am greatly honored to meet you.”

Where was Carlisle? Brandywyn tried mightily to recall where that country lay. As she withdrew her hand, she remembered. It was on the neighboring continent, southward, and had several sea ports where the Isle of Ring and Carlisle did business together. It was a prosperous country, and a ripe apple for picking. However, Brandywyn had no interest in apples. Especially not this one, the prince of which was too attractive by half and selfish by half again.

“Thank you. I am sorry, but I cannot say the same.”

His eyes glittered. Was that merriment or anger?

“Daughter!” chided Dent.

“I have no interest in this prince,” she told the older man. “Nor any other prince, for that matter. I care not for this game and I shall not play it.”

“Princess,” said Gammon of Carlisle. “I assure you ‘tis no game for me. I come bearing gifts and nothing but attentions worthy of your consideration.”

He was a confident one, that was certain. “I hate to disappoint you, Prince Gammon, but I have no desire for gifts or attention. Leave me alone.”

King Dent sighed. “I am sorry, Gammon. ‘Tis as I warned. She will not be moved.”

“Perhaps in time, Your Majesty,” said the prince. “May I stay a while and make my effort?”

Brandywyn’s father nodded, adding to her temper. What was he thinking, prolonging this farce! “I insist that you go!” she demanded.

“‘Tis not your place to make this decision, Brandywyn,” King Dent told her sternly. “Aye, you may stay for a while, Prince Gammon. I give you leave to attend my daughter, but do not pester her o’er much. I shall not have her forced.”

Prince Gammon’s smile was truly breathtaking, his white, white teeth twinkling in the torchlight. “Have no fear, Your Majesty. I wish to woo, not wound.”

“Very well.”

“Father! I do not want to be wooed! Tell him to leave!” She stamped one yellow-slippered foot. “I shall not be moved!”

“Go to your room, Brandywyn, and do not fail to come to dine when ‘tis time. You will sit between Prince Gammon and me and share his wine cup. Do not embarrass me further.”

Brandywyn felt her face heat with fury. Where was her choice now? Was this the time he would insist? “You break your promise to me, Father!”

“I do not. I seek to entertain you with good company. Go now.”

“Hmph.” She glared at Gammon for a moment, then stomped out of the room.
We shall just see about the feast
, she thought.
I shall make such a hash of it, Father will never dare to force me to be civil again
.

Once more in her apartment, Brandywyn coaxed and cajoled Tarntra to go along with her plan. Although stern-faced and disapproving, Tarntra knew her place and grudgingly cooperated.

When it was time for the midday meal, Brandywyn was ready. She wore her oldest, most threadbare dress, consisting of a food-stained bodice and a fully closed chemise across her ample breasts, hiding them effectively. Her skirt had grass and mud stains on the hem and her slippers fit poorly, making swish-tap noises as she walked. Her golden hair was disarranged and curls went this way and that, and she had colored her normally pink lips with blueberry juice, giving her fair complexion a corpse-like pallor. She hoped she looked truly frightful. Looking in the mirror, she saw such an unappealing woman, she almost relented and gave up the costume. The pang of conscience came and passed, however, and she squared her slender shoulders and flounced out of the room.

Brandywyn was escorted to the dais by the appropriate nobleman, and seated between Prince Gammon and her father. If Prince Gammon saw anything amiss, he kept it to himself. King Dent, on the other hand, frowned mightily and bent to whisper in her ear.

“Marry, I should take you over my knee for such despicable behavior, Daughter. You embarrass me before this company.”

Dent had never spanked Brandywyn for any reason, so she knew the threat was hollow. She snapped back, “‘Tis what you earned for forcing me to this mockery.”

He grumbled, but the food was served at that moment, and he set to it.

Brandywyn was expected to share a large trencher with Gammon, as well as a ceremonial wine goblet. Normally, he would cut her food for her and offer her the choicest morsels. In this case, however, he completely eschewed good manners and left her to her own devices. At one point, they had each stuck their eating knife in a partridge breast and actually fought over who would get the meat. Brandywyn was appalled at being treated in such a cavalier manner.

“You are a pig,” she told him, with a smile on her face, as though she was complimenting his soft, velvet doublet. “I shall never marry you.”

“If I am a pig, you are a stubborn mule.” His smile was equally false.

“Oh! How dare you!” She turned to her father, who was drinking his wine. “Did you hear that, Father? He called me a mule!”

“Did he? No, I did not hear it.”

“He did!” She put down her knife and reached for the wine goblet, intending to throw the claret into the prince’s face. However, the goblet was empty. He had drunk it all! Growling, she threw the goblet at him and rose from the table, angered beyond belief. The two men exchanged words, but Brandywyn could neither hear them well nor did she care to know what they said. They were both horrible!

As she stalked back to her room, she tried to think of what else she might do to thwart her father’s plans. An unattractive appearance did not do it. Insults only begot return insults. Refusal was met with false smiles and pretty sentiments. So what to do?

Brandywyn had always enjoyed riding. It was a usual afternoon pastime for her, and sometimes she found peace at the seashore, not far from the palace grounds. Riding there might give her a chance to think and plan her next sally. She sent word to the stables to prepare her horse, Pontiffany, for riding.

The gentlewomen who normally attended her, helped her change into her riding habit and tidy her appearance. Annoyingly, they had nothing but gossip and praise for the looks and manners of Prince Gammon. It made Brandywyn snap at them more than usual. They exchanged looks, and blessed silence was the result.