The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom & Their Lover. Victoria JanssenЧитать онлайн книгу.
felt her inner flutters, but the second time was unmistakable; her cries rose and rose and then broke. He pumped into her a few more deep strokes and then he was spurting inside of her, his tension releasing in excruciating, ecstatic jerks, and even more wetness was trickling over his legs. He threw his head back against the wall, gasping, feeling as if he could sink into the wood bench. Nico leaned over to nuzzle his throat.
“You’re so sweet, Henri,” she said. “But I think you need another bath.”
This time, Nico scrubbed him off, and he scrubbed her in return. Their toweling dry turned into an impromptu kissing game, and by the time they had rubbed each other’s skins with oil, he wished he could stay even longer. But noises at the house were signaling an end to their evening together. He kissed her goodbye just inside the door, promised to return when he could, and hurried back to the stables, resolved that Nico was a very good reason to forget all about his imprudent dreams of the duchess.
Vilmos ushered Camille personally into her rooms, indicating that Kaspar and Arno were to accompany her inside, instead of posting themselves to either side of her door as they normally did.
She wished they had not been so protective of her in the duke’s presence. The duke’s will was always supposed to supersede her own, even in the matter of her personal safety. They might pay for their loyalty later. She would have to take better care for their safety. Escaping the palace would be a good first step.
Vilmos stood, as if waiting. Arno turned his back suddenly and prowled the edges of the room. “Yes?” Camille said.
“Your Grace,” Vilmos said, and inclined his head.
Camille lifted her chin. She might have sucked his cock, but she was never going to bring up the subject again, even if Vilmos felt the need to apologize. She’d had little choice. Neither had he. It was useless to dwell upon past humiliation.
Vilmos bent respectfully into a low bow, then departed, locking the door behind him. She heard the bolts slide home, and the clank of the large iron hasp that bore the duke’s seal.
With that final sound, Camille’s knees weakened. She forced herself to stay upright. She might be safe while the duke was occupied with his private amusements, but…she no longer believed she would be safe any longer than that, even if she had gotten herself with child. She could no longer bear the thought of letting the duke fuck her, and if he did not, she would be killed as quickly for being pregnant by another as he would have her killed for being barren. She had been fooling herself to think that if she gave the duke what he wanted, he would let her live.
The clock on the marble mantel, a fantastically ugly creation embellished with golden angels and white-lacquered sheep and their shepherdesses, showed that the middle of the night had just passed. She felt as if days had gone by since she had summoned Henri to her audience chamber. How long would it be before the duke found a way to take her life? What would he do to her before he had her beheaded? Was it true that one could still see after one’s head had been sliced off? She felt like a bird fluttering against the bars of its gilded cage. She picked up her sketchbook, then put it down. She rubbed her wrists, though they bore no marks.
Kaspar said, “Shall I call for a bath for Your Grace?”
He always spoke first. She had never noticed particularly, but Arno always deferred to him, perhaps because Kaspar was older. He was nearly thirty, she thought, while Arno had been delivered to the palace at eighteen and was now not quite twenty-three. She had asked Sylvie their ages; it was difficult to tell when they never put on a man’s muscle, at least not in the way one was used to seeing.
“Where is Sylvie?” she asked. Baths were Sylvie’s duty.
“Sleeping, Your Grace,” Kaspar said. He stood at ease, his big hands resting on his sheathed twin swords. From this close, she could see the thin white scars that marked his forearms, old injuries from training with blades. His eyes were pale gray. “Shall I wake her?”
“No,” Camille said. She wanted a bath, but not enough to wait for one to be prepared. She had to think. And Sylvie had slept little recently, instead spending most of a night and day finding Henri and arranging to bring him to Camille. She should let Sylvie sleep now, she realized, because they must escape the palace tonight, she and Sylvie and her eunuchs as well; she could not allow them to die because of her. To die in her service was one thing. To die for nothing was quite another.
Right now, her brain spun like the innards of a clock, getting nowhere.
Arno stepped forward and laid his hand on her shoulder. For a moment, everything in her mind stopped. His hand was so warm. She drew strength from it. He said, in his gentle tenor, “Please, Your Grace, let us put you to bed.”
Kaspar added, “We will keep you safe.”
Surely they knew that was impossible. “That is your duty,” she said, to test his response.
“That is our duty and our desire,” Kaspar said. “Do not doubt, Your Grace, that we will care for you to our deaths and beyond.”
She could not protest his dramatic words; if she were killed, they would be killed as well. She nodded.
Arno added, before he let his hand fall from her shoulder, “You may ask anything of us. Anything we can do for you, we will. Let us serve you tonight.”
Camille drew a deep breath. She could not delay any longer, nor did she care to do so. “The guards at the outer walls change in the hours before dawn. We will leave then, both of you and Sylvie and I, and we will—” She hesitated the barest moment, remembering Henri with a rush of affection. “The stableboy is loyal to me. He will help us to hide until we can go.” If Michel discovered what the boy had done…and she was gone, and all her most treasured servants and horses…no. She could not abandon him to that. “The boy Henri will come with us, as well.”
Kaspar knelt before her, touching his forehead to her foot. “As you commanded, all is prepared for a rapid escape. I will follow you, Your Grace.”
“Arno?”
The younger guard knelt beside Kaspar. “Your Grace, I—I think I should not go. Not at first.”
Kaspar sucked in an audible breath.
“Don’t,” Arno said, touching Kaspar’s arm. Camille watched the interplay keenly; Kaspar did not look at him. Because he thought Arno’s plan unwise, or out of fear for his friend?
Arno said, “Someone will need to gather information, about pursuit. I could come to you later, on the road, or send someone I can trust. It is better me. You see, Vilmos will protect me. His mother was my mother’s cousin. It is not his fault I was cut, and ever since he found me he has watched over me. Also, now he owes you something as well, and will speak for you among the palace guard. I would not flaunt my presence in the palace. I have friends in the town.”
“Your Grace, he would be in grave danger from the duke,” Kaspar argued. “It is true, Vilmos’s loyalty to the duke is not strong, but—”
Camille’s suspicions were confirmed. Vilmos was not utterly enamored of her husband. She said to Arno, “It is more risk than I should ask you to bear.”
“It is your right to ask me to go to my death,” Arno said. “I do not think this will be my death.”
Camille thought. Kaspar was distressed, but Arno was correct. Arno’s actions might save them all from death. She nodded, once. “Arno will stay. We will have Henri to help care for the horses on the journey.”
Kaspar closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. He bent and kissed her foot.
Camille and her guards packed the few personal items they would take with them; the rest would be retrieved from a hiding place outside the palace walls. They quickly finished, but nearly six hours still stretched out before they could depart.
Camille