The Queen's Consort (8 page)

             
His arms tightened around her and he stared at the ceiling. If she never woke, if the darkness claimed her, then he prayed that the darkness would claim him, too.

             
Because, he realized, Clairwyn truly was his. And he didn't want to live without her.

Eight

             
Ansel woke up fast but disoriented. When he realized he was alone in Clairwyn's bed he flopped back against the pillows. Where was she? If she had died during the night, how had her servants pried her from his arms without waking him?

             
A soft footfall made him lunge for a weapon. His hand closed around the hilt of the knife. Heedless of his nudity, he rolled to his feet.

             
Clairwyn smiled at him. She wore an elaborate silver-gray gown. Matching ribbons twined through her hair. Her skin was radiant.

             
Ansel gripped the knife and lunged for her. Her smile vanished as he grabbed her wrists and slit the long sleeves of her gown to her shoulders. He turned her arms in his hand, his fingers roaming over her smooth, unbroken skin.

             
“How can this be?” he marveled. He grasped her shoulders and met her eyes. “You are well?”

             
A crimson blush marked her cheeks. “I am well, Ansel. And you are, um, you're naked.”

             
Her eyes sparkled with amusement but she was embarrassed by his nudity. Her virgin's blood still marked him, and she was
embarrassed
. What a wonderful witch of a woman.

             
“Yes, I am,” he agreed. “And you're not. Allow me.” The knife made short work of the fabric of her gown. In a few seconds it was a pile of expensive scrap around her feet.

             
“Ansel,” she gasped.

             
He dropped the blade and cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs traced her cheekbones. “How is it—how did you—?”

             
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

             
He decided he didn't care how she'd recovered so quickly. He slanted his mouth over hers, taking control of the kiss, pulling her into him. His hands slid down her sides to her pull her hips closer, to press harder against him.

             
With a quick twist he lifted her off her feet and onto the bed, coming down on top of her. She seemed curious but hesitant, skimming her palms over his shoulders as his own hands roamed wildly over her. Ansel groaned against her. He wanted to tell her to touch him, to hold him, but he was beyond words.

             
He pressed her knees apart and settled into the cradle of her body. He tried to summon up some of the tenderness he'd felt last night, tried to be patient. Clairwyn was still so inexperienced, so easily injured. He didn't want to hurt her.

             
“Ansel.”

             
His name on her lips was his undoing. She writhed beneath him and raised up to accept him, and he was lost. Groaning against her skin, kissing her shoulder, her neck, her lips, he tried to control himself. She needed time, he had to prepare her—

             
She gave herself up to his kiss, parting her lips to meet and match his questing tongue. Her fingers twisted in his hair.

             
“Ansel, please—”

             
He pressed against her and found her ready but oh, so tight. Her gasps spurred him on. Sweat beaded on his brow as he eased into her.

             
“Gently, girl,” he gasped, pinning her hands to the bed. He rose up over her, staring down into the fathomless depths of her eyes.

             
She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper.

             
“Oh, Clairwyn.” Ansel pounced on her, pounding into her. “Don't hurt, don't hurt. Please don't hurt.” He barely knew what he was saying, was just a raw tangle of sensation and overwhelming emotion. He loved this woman, he hated her; he wanted her, all of her, and he had to have her now.

             
Her soft moans in his ear pushed him higher and harder. He couldn't last, couldn't wait—he had to wait, he wouldn't take this leap without her. “Clairwyn. Clairwyn, please—”

             
She bucked beneath him, arching away but clutching him closer as she unraveled. His own release was an ecstasy and a relief as he spent deep inside her.

             
He collapsed on his back, gasping for air. “Damn, woman,” he said when he was able. “I think you may have killed me.”

             
She curled against his side. “Don't joke,” she admonished him.

             
He captured her hand and pressed it against his chest. She was right, but he didn't want to admit it. Or think about it.

             
A giggle from the doorway made him raise an eyebrow. “My Queen?” A blushing servant girl, carefully turned away from them, edged into the room. “Your audience awaits.”

             
Clairwyn sighed and burrowed closer to him. “I require another gown,” she said. “And fifteen minutes more.”

             
Ansel stroked a hand over the curve of her hip. “And what are we going to do for the next fifteen minutes, my Queen?”

             
“I am going to recover from the last fifteen.” She sifted her fingers through the light covering of hair on his chest.

             
“What audience awaits you?” he asked idly.

             
Her hand stilled. “Oh, the usual,” she said, deliberately casual.

             
An alarm went off in his head. He edged away so he could look at her. “Who?” His voice was harsher than he'd intended.

             
“Caine, of course. Your new friend, Goddard. And my Highland kin, Sayer. Along with a bunch of people you don't know.”

             
Ansel climbed out of bed. “I'm going with you.” He cast about. “If I can find some clothes.”

             
Clairwyn rolled over onto her front and propped her chin in her hands. “I think you should go as you are.” She giggled.

             
“If I have to, I will,” he threatened. Where the hell were his clothes?

             
“I could get you something, I suppose,” she said softly. “Maybe a leather collar. How do you feel about a penis sheath?”

             
Astonished, he swung around to stare at her. Where'd his blushing virgin go?

             
She was trying hard not to smile. “I'm told they're all the rage in some places. What d'ya think?”

             
He put his hands on his hips. “I think that you are getting entirely too uppity, woman. Do you need a lesson in obedience?”

             
It was her turn to be shocked. And then she laughed. She laughed!

             
Ansel leaped onto her, wrestling, rolling her in the blankets until they were both tangled and breathless.

             
“My Queen?” the damn girl was back.

             
Clairwyn kissed the tip of his nose and then squirreled out of the blankets. Ansel started to follow her.

             
“Wait,” she said hastily, gesturing to him. “Let Anita set up the screen. I had the servants bring up clothing for you. Look in the trunk.”

             
Ansel waited until he wouldn't shock the girl even more. He hadn't noticed the trunk yesterday but, then again, he'd been busy spying on Clairwyn.

             
The trunk was ornately carved and quite large. He pushed the lid open and found breeches, vests, shirts, coats, and accessories, all in the Highland style.

             
“I hope you don't mind,” Clairwyn called. “I didn't think the current fashions at court would suit you.”

             
Since the current court fashion was tights, codpieces, and hugely ruffled shirts with puffy sleeves, she was absolutely right. He preferred a more subdued style and all of this suited him perfectly. And, he found, all of the clothes fit as if they'd been made for him.

             
He stepped around the screen. A flutter of girls were tying Clairwyn into a blue dress and tugging her hair into place. The whole process alarmed him, but she seemed used to it.

             
“Clairwyn,” he asked, “how is it that all of these clothes fit me so well?”

             
She glanced up. “They do look very well on you.”

             
“Indeed. How did that happen?”

             
“There are many men in the castle. Some of them are near your size.”

             
It wasn't really an answer but he decided to let it go. He stalked around the room, sending the girls into fits of giggles, and found the pair of knives that Sayer had given Clairwyn last night.

             
He ignored the girls and examined the blades. “Knife” wasn't really the right term for them, he decided. They were probably better thought of as short swords. He slid them into their sheaths and attached them to his belt. 

             
Clairwyn raised her eyes but didn't comment, which was good. After last night, he didn't plan on walking around this castle unarmed. He might need to kill somebody, and he wanted to be ready to do it.

             
“Enough!” Clairwyn finally grew impatient and dismissed the girls. “More work is not going to make me more beautiful!”

             
Ansel plowed through the girls and pulled her toward him. “No one could be more beautiful than you.” To the shocked delight of the servants, he kissed her.

             
To
his
delight Clairwyn blushed and hid her face in his collar. When she emerged she was obviously trying to appear calm and dignified. So he kissed her again.

             
“Ansel!” Laughing she leaned back in his arms until he released her. “Duty calls. We must answer.”

             
He reached for her again. “Let it wait another hour. Or two,” he urged.

             
With a smile she evaded his hands and headed for the door, Ansel hard on her heels. In the hall the Guard, Caine, and Roger waited for them. The Guard looked like they'd eaten something foul and wouldn't meet Ansel's eyes. Caine was stone-faced but clearly unhappy.

             
Roger clapped Ansel on the shoulder and shook his hand. “I was rooting for you, m'lord,” he enthused. “And I've done a good bit on your armor, too. You'll be ready to ride—and to fight—by the time we mobilize.”

             
“What?” Ansel had a bunch of questions about all of that.

             
“My Queen.” Caine bowed stiffly.

             
“Caine.” She waited, staring at him pointedly.

             
“My...lord.” Caine said in Ansel's general direction.

             
Ansel grinned and grabbed the advisor's hand, pumping it up and down vigorously. “Bet you're surprised as hell to see me this morning, aren't you? Bet you thought I'd head for the hills.”

             
“Hoped, rather, my lord.” But a reluctant smile tugged at Caine's lips. He reclaimed his hand. “Still, my Queen, I can see the wisdom in your choice. Might I hope that a truce with Courchevel is in the works?”

             
Ansel's good humor faded. He shot a look at Clairwyn. Her face was smooth and gave away nothing. If she hoped that last night meant that she and his father would be best friends, well, she was sadly mistaken.

             
She gave him a small, enigmatic smile and slipped her hand into his arm. “This way, Ansel, if you wish to join us.”

             
“I do wish.” That might be the only thing he wasn't confused about. He put his hand over hers. She wasn't going anywhere without him.

             
With two Guard leading the way and Caine, Roger, and another pair of Guard following them, they walked toward the center of the castle and down to the public rooms. Their destination was a large chamber near the Queen's audience room.

             
Ansel glanced around, assessing. Goddard and Sayer were here, as predicted. There were quite a few other men and several women in attendance also, and all of them were staring at him. He smiled, showing all of his teeth, and slipped his arm around Clairwyn's waist.

             
She tensed a little at his touch, then relaxed.

             
Gladnys edged her way through the crowd and curtsied deeply. “Greetings, my Queen. And greetings to you, Prince Ansel of Courchevel, chosen consort of my Queen. I am Gladnys of the Highlands.”