Royal Blood. Rona SharonЧитать онлайн книгу.
“A drunkard slinked behind me and tried to cut my purse. I chased him off.”
“Th-that’s all?” She tilted her head back, the white of her eyes visible in the shadows.
“Not a drop of blood was shed tonight. Be at ease, sweet Saracen.”
Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, plunging her tongue into his mouth and rubbing her body against him. Her hand found his codpiece and kneaded him artfully. “Take me, take me,” she implored, yanking her sleeve down to bare a generous white globe. She put his hand on her breast and wiggled her thighs against his groins. The lady was afire!
Her breast felt deliciously heavy and ripe. Not one to disappoint a lady in distress, especially one who had spent three years in pious chastity, Michael ran his thumb over the firm nipple. She cried out for more. His semiaroused cod grew taut and aching for fulfillment. Bowing his head to suck the hard nipple into his mouth, he grabbed fistfuls of her multilayered gown with both hands and bared her legs up to her waist. Her gasps and wiggles encouraged him to do his worst. He probed between her thighs to find the lips of her sex slick with her lust. Stroking her with one hand, he unlaced the points of his codpiece with the other. He was stiff as a pole. “Cling to my neck,” he instructed. He hoisted her plump thighs, which instantly parted wide to accommodate him, and thrust into her, pressing her back to the wall. She smelled of civet and too much wine. She locked her legs around his waist as he pounded into her, working his cod into her moist depths with swift, forceful lunges. The air in the recess grew muggy with their labored breaths.
Their joining was rough and urgent, pure lust, naught more, and Anne seemed to relish their shameless savagery. As she bounced in a frenzied rhythm, her hips gyrating with increasing urgency, her mewing took on a higher pitch. Sweat coated his skin as he fought the inexorable urge to blow. She was hot and wet, and he was primed to take his pleasure. He shoved himself into her harder, faster, on the edge of endurance. He felt her tighten into a fist around him; then with a shrill cry she clenched spasmodically, her body shuddering on a wave of rapture. With a low growl, he surrendered to the roaring tension shooting up his spine, finding his release at last.
Renée strode rapidly to her apartment. She had failed, but what could she have done? The big ape was not to be swayed. And Anne—that qualmish trollop!—she outfoxed her. God’s pity! Aware of the two armed guards shadowing her, Renée quickened her step. They were her guards, but she was not used to being watched over all the time. It was unsettling rather than comforting.
Two more Valois guards waited outside her palace apartment. Sentries. By King Francis’s fiat, the bodyguard was to escort her everywhere, safeguard her residence, and assist her in all of her endeavors. They flung open the door to let her in. She bade all four a good night and entered her apartment. The privy chamber was disconcertingly gloomy, the fire on the hearth reduced to glowing embers. “Adele?” she called, bolting the door.
Out of the darkness a pair of strong hands grabbed her from behind, one swooped across her mouth as the other pinned her to a hard body. She could not move. She could not scream.
Michael eased Anne to her feet and laced his codpiece. She put her breast inside her bodice, pulled up her sleeve, and shook out the folds of her gown. “I have not been with a man in over three years,” she whispered. “I enjoyed you very much.”
“I enjoyed you.” He smiled, noting that he and Anne had shed their masks. “Had we a bed, I would indulge further.” The very idea of returning to sleep in the undercroft dismayed him.
“I have a great bed and an absent husband….”
Michael grinned. “If this is an invitation, I heartily accept.” He cupped her waist and melded their bodies together. “Though I warn you, you shan’t get much sleep with me in your bed.”
She gave a breathy laugh, a trifle jaded, but he did not mind. She took his hand. “Come, my young Norse-Gael warrior. Let us establish the extent of your vigor.” She led him outside the alcove, her wary gaze scanning the hallway for people. There was no one in sight. Laughter rang from the royal apartment, mingling with music notes. The revelry would continue till dawn.
As if on muted accord, they traversed the passageways at a fast pace, watchful for passersby, disinclined to be seen together. So long as Buckingham never discovered the identity of the man Anne “mistook” for King Henry, the duke would not be able to retaliate against Michael or Anne.
A pair of nightwatchmen guarded the entrance to the wing where the king housed his noble guests. One of the guards turned his head in Michael and Anne’s direction. Perdition! Michael cursed, realizing they had left the half masks in the alcove. He pulled her into his embrace and dragged her aside to lean against the shadowed wall, the sconce of which had been snuffed out.
“Wait here,” he whispered, and tore back up the passageways. He collected the masks from the floor of the alcove and returned to her side within moments. His cowl had slipped off his head. He tied on his satin visor, pulled the cowl back up, and tugged it low over his eyes.
“Do you suppose he saw our faces?” Anne inquired worriedly.
“Let us proceed. The longer we delay, the more he is likely to remember us.” Wrapping an arm about her and stooping to disguise his true height, he let her conduct him to her chamber.
Renée swallowed her panic, reached inside her inner sleeve, and gripped the hidden hilt of a tiny dirk. She slid it out smoothly, then stabbed the thigh pressed to hers. Her attacker cursed and released her. Her heart thudding, she unbolted the door, shouting for the guards. They burst in but instead of pouncing on her assailant stood gaping at his obscure form.
“Well done, madame,” the interloper rasped, pressing a hand to his thigh.
Renée staggered back. “Sergeant Francesco! What are you at, sir? Who did you think I was? Jesu, you are bleeding! Where is Adele? She will dress your wound. Adele!”
Her tiring woman stepped out of the bedchamber, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. “He can clean his own muck,” she muttered in thick Breton dialect, a mixture of Gaelic and French.
Renée’s gaze bounced between Adele, the sergeant, and the guards. “What goes on here?”
“He”—Adele gestured at Sergeant Francesco—“thought it wise to put your new training to the test. He bade me douse the fire and stay out of sight in the bedchamber.”
Renée leveled a glare at him. “Is this true, Sergeant? Did you ambush me on purpose?”
“Your pardon. I followed Lieutenant Armado’s orders. He thought it prudent to practice.”
Incredulity rounded her eyes. “At this hour of the night?”
“It is our responsibility to ensure you are well trained, which you are.”
“Where is Lieutenant Armado?” When he did not volunteer an answer, she looked at the bloodstained silver dirk clutched in her fist. Her heart was still in palpitations, but her hand was steady as a rock. “Do sit down by the fire, Sergeant. I will tend to your wound. Your men may return to their post or…to bed.” She had no idea what their routine was. She did not know all of their names yet. She only knew that when they were not stalking her, they were staying in one of the inns at the wharf. “Adele, fetch me clean wads of linen, hot water, and wine, if you please.”
Snorting her displeasure, Adele turned on her heel and stalked back into the bedchamber.
“Pray forgive my assault and allow me to commend you on a most competent retaliation.” The sergeant limped to the fireplace, threw a few logs in, sending sparks swirling up the flue, and sat on the long cushioned settle in front of the hearth. He was wiry and agile, stalwart, too.
Renée was fond of him. She sat on a stool to examine the cut she had inflicted on his thigh.
“The gash is not deep,” he reassured her. “My costume’s thick leather hose was designed to protect the muscle