
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3261671.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Captain_Hook_|_Killian_Jones/Emma_Swan, Prince_"Charming"_James_|_David
      Nolan/Snow_White_|_Mary_Margaret_Blanchard
  Character:
      Emma_Swan, Captain_Hook_|_Killian_Jones, Original_Child_Character(s),
      Original_Characters, Huntsman_|_Sheriff_Graham, Liam_Jones, Evil_Queen_|
      Regina_Mills, Queen_of_Hearts_|_Cora, Knave_of_Hearts_|_Will_Scarlet
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_BDSM, Explicit_Sexual_Content
  Collections:
      Black_Swans_&_Red_Hooks, Captain_Swan_Fanfic_Awards_2016
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-31 Completed: 2016-11-16 Chapters: 28/28 Words: 129711
****** His Dark Beauty ******
by Wordsmith_Storyweaver
Summary
     Initially inspired by the first behind the scenes pictures of 3.21
     and 3.22.
     Emma Shepherd has worked and managed her family's farm alone since
     the deaths of her parents, fending off would-be suitors and land-
     hungry competition. A chance meeting with a young girl in the
     marketplace leads to an audience with Prince Killian... and the
     opportunity of a fairytale lifetime!
Notes
     Thank you so much for taking the time to read His Dark Beauty! This
     story was initially inspired by the early looks we got at Emma and
     Killian’s costumes for 3.21 and 3.22. I am not affiliated with ABC/
     Disney and have no rights to characters and names from OUAT. For
     clarification purposes, the months of the year are as follows: Primor
     (Jan.), Cordus (Feb.), Tertia (Mar.), Quartus (Apr.), Qunitus (May),
     Sextar (Jun.), Septimor (Jul.), Octavus (Aug.), Nona (Sept.), Decumar
     (Oct.), Undecimus (Nov.), Uncia (Dec.). [Originally posted on FFN.]
     Also, Regis F. is short for Regis Filius, a Latin phrase that
     translates as Prince. I chose this translation as it more closely
     resembles the affectation common royalty in Renaissance Europe (i.e.,
     Henry VIII signing is name as Henricus Rex). The time period and
     country are naturally fictitious, but are a bit of a cross between
     Renaissance France and pre-Industrial England.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Emma Shepherd coughs as yet another carriage rolls along the king’s road,
kicking up dirt and dead leaves. When she’d set out from her cottage well
before dawn, her cloak had been a bright blue and her hair freshly washed; now
both are likely to end the day liberally powdered with fine dust, and she
thanks her stars that she remembered a covering cloth for her basket. The
nearest village boasts a decent sized market, and Emma has needed to go and
fetch fresh staples for a week.
Ever since her parents passed away several years ago, she’s managed to keep her
small farm running and her even smaller herd of sheep fed—a fact that fills her
with a great deal of pride. Emma had not only been reeling from her loss, but
had been forced to endure proposal after proposal from every witless farmer and
goatherd from miles around. Some wanted her lands, some wanted her herd, and
almost all of them wanted to get them by marrying her.
The thought that she didn’t need a single one of them had never crossed their
minds, and her flat refusals had shocked more than a few. So, it’s with an
extra little bounce in her step that she walks straight through the narrowing
road and crowding houses to either side, head held high and face bearing a
smile. Among the many lessons passed down to her by her father, it’s that
there’s no shame in feeling pride so long as it has been well earned. Nearing
the first of the stalls, she slips the carry-sack out of her basket, currently
filled with fresh eggs, and begins her shopping day at the miller’s for flour.
As the sun climbs higher, her pack starts to get a little heavier and her
basket a little lighter. Those items she can trade for, she does, and those she
can’t, she pays in coin. Close to noon time, Emma’s purchases nearly complete,
she wanders nearer to the actual shops and notices a girl prancing exuberantly
ahead of a more sedately moving older woman. Not much older than six or so, the
dark-haired child chatters excitedly about first one thing and then another—her
attention obviously as distracted as transfixed by the various luxuries on
display.
The woman is far too old to be the child’s mother, so perhaps a grandmother or
a maiden aunt helping to care for her young relative. In either case, there’s
no mistaking the genuine affection between them. Emma sees the granny smile and
hears her answer each question fondly, and it reminds her of how she was as a
child and how Snow would always gently and patiently respond. Her heart aches
for her mother, as it always will, but she soon forgets the girl in her haste
to finish her shopping.
It’s when she leaves the apothecary after having purchased some soaps and oils
that it happens. She squints her eyes and holds her hand up to block the sun as
she comes out into the noon-time light. In the middle of the street, raven
curls twist and bob on the breeze as the child dances in a circle. She’s caught
up in some nursery-song she’s humming to herself, her fine woolen skirt held
daintily between thumb and index finger while she twirls. Emma hears the nearby
scream of a horse and the clatter of hooves as a man is thrown and his mount
frees himself. The stallion bucks once and lunges, swiftly galloping down the
street, directly toward the young girl.
Emma doesn’t think—she just reacts, dropping her carry-sack and basket. She has
one second to pray that she isn’t too late before the soft, small body is
wrapped in her arms, and together they tumble into the small stoop of the
baker’s shop. She does her best to turn her body and take the brunt of the
fall, arse landing painfully on the stones and back colliding with the wall.
She dimly hears a woman shrieking when she sets the little girl on her feet.
Wide, bright blue eyes stare at her in shocked awe, and tiny hands touch her
face and hair. “You’re the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen! And you saved me! Are
you a fairy godmother?”
Everyone catches up to them then; the girl is bundled up in the arms of her
sobbing granny and a well-dressed townsman helps Emma to her feet. He also
managed to retrieve her sack and basket, both of which look much worse for
wear, but she thanks him for coming to her aid. She brushes her dress and cloak
off as best she can, noting sadly that the latter is torn and that now she’ll
need to make stop at the spinner’s to purchase a patch and some thread to mend
it.
Emma makes to leave when the man who helped her shushes the granny and points
to her. The older woman, clearly flustered and upset, presses a hand to her
mouth and then sweeps Emma into a bone-crunching hug. “Oh, bless you, my dear!
I swear I only looked away for a second! You saved our precious Sophia! Bless
you!”
“It was what anyone would have done. Is she truly alright?” Emma winces
slightly when the other woman finally releases her, not used to physical
contact or having anyone make a fuss over her. Not to mention that the recent
painful encounter with the ground and a solid wall has caused her quite a lot
of discomfort.
“Not a scratch on her, thanks to you!” More townspeople have gathered around by
this point, so Emma seizes the chance to slip away quietly into and around the
crowd. Because now, a second trip to the apothecary is in order—this time for
some herbs and a healing salve for the bruises she’ll be sporting come
tonight—and she’d rather see her cottage before nightfall if at all possible.
She doesn’t notice that the townsman who set her on her feet was actually a
servant wearing his master’s livery, nor does she hear him ask the folk in the
crowd who the little girl’s savior was and where she could be found later on.
===============================================================================
 
"Papa! Papa! You’ll never guess what I saw today! Papa!"
Killian marks his spot in the ledger with a ribbon, sighing in exasperation and
relief. Having Francine take Sophia out to the village had been a besotted
father’s desperate attempt to get some of the estate business finished so that
he could devote a whole evening to some needed reading and relaxation. Yet he
would far rather spend time with his rambunctious child instead of poring over
dull accounts; so when his daughter stumbles into the library, launching
herself into his arms, he catches her easily and envelops her in a fierce
embrace. A tightness around his chest eases, one that he hadn’t realized was
there until she’d bounded into view. It’s been over three years since he lost
his beloved wife, Milah, but the bittersweet ache has not dulled, nor has his
consuming love for their child diminished by one iota.
“What did you see, my little love? Were there trolls and goblins planning to
gobble such a sweet morsel up?” Sophia giggles when he tickles his beard
against her chin and pretends to nibble on her shoulder. Lately, she’s taken to
asking for bedtime stories about daring knights and their heroic quests as
opposed to the tamer stories of her earlier years.
“Noooo, silly Papa! Trolls live under bridges, and goblins can’t come out with
the sunshine!” She crooks her finger, beckoning him closer. Telling secrets in
not-precisely-whispers has also become a new favorite pastime. “I saw a fairy
godmother!”
"You did?" He tries to hide his smile when Sophia nods enthusiastically,
patting his cheek with her little hand. The gesture reminds him emphatically of
his departed wife and it grieves him all the more knowing that his daughter
never had the chance to learn that touch by example; Sophia had been all of
nine months when the sea had taken her mother, so the memory of that touch must
be buried so deep as to be instinctual, a primal and unconscious thing.
"She was the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen, Papa. Her hair was sunshiny and
glowy, and her eyes looked like the willow leaves by the pond. Her wings were
blue, and she flew in and scooped me up so fast! She threw me into the baker’s
shop, but then I landed on her."
He stiffens, his eyes immediately searching for Francine, but the nanny waiting
by the library door only shakes her head. Either Sophia hasn’t given him the
whole story, or Francine has no desire to be the one to share the tale with her
employer. Or quite probably both. "Let’s go play with your new doll. What do
you say, Sophie?"
The little girl groans a bit at the nickname, but dutifully and loudly kisses
Killian’s cheek before squirming to be put down. “For the last time, Francie,
it’s Sophia. So-Fee-Uh. Not So-Fee. That’s not as pretty as my name.”
He stares at the door, shaking his head with a smile on his face. Only a child
who has never wanted for love could so casually dismiss a traumatic event,
belief in the happy serendipity of a benign universe still intact. The footman
he had sent with Sophia and Francine stands in the doorway just outside the
library waiting to catch his attention. Killian beckons him forward and returns
to his seat at his desk. "James, what happened? Precisely."
"Sophia was dancing in the street completely oblivious to everything around
her, Sir. You know how she is. She’d started in after seeing the young miss she
mentioned, talking about going to see a fairy ring or up to firefly hill." A
smile tugs at the corner of James’ mouth, the servant clearly as beguiled by
Sophia’s playful antics as everyone else in his household. "A rider, what had
no business riding the animal he was on, lost control of his horse. The
stallion bucked him off and started running, and it would have run Sophia right
over if this fairy woman hadn’t gotten her out of the way. She dashed across
the street to catch the child in her arms, and kept her safe as you please from
a nasty tumble against the baker’s shop."
"A fairy woman? Surely you know better than to believe such tales, James."
"Aye, but it was just as curious as Sophia painted it. Just a slip of a young
miss, really, but she made certain that the child was safe. I asked, but
couldn’t get her name from her, Sir. I pointed her out to Francine, who was
weeping away and ever so grateful. But then once I looked away, she’d given us
the slip, Highness. I asked around, you know, the folks what had seen the
accident. They say, if it’s who they think, it’s the lass what’s been running
her father and mother’s farm all by her lonesome. Don’t live too far from
here."
Killian listens to his footman’s account, feeling his curiosity begin to stir.
What manner of person performs such a momentous service to the royal family,
and then vanishes into thin air? "Confirm your suspicions, and if they are
wrong, find the right girl. I want to show her my gratitude for saving my
daughter."
===============================================================================
 
 The next day begins as usual, opening the barn doors to let the sheep out into
the pasture and the chicken into the yard to scrounge for scraps and worms.
Only then does she allow her hands to dig into the rich soil, carefully
clearing her garden patch of troublesome weeds and planting late summer seed.
The earth feels cool and moist, while the air is warmed by the sun. Peaceful
moments like these help her feel connected to life, like she’s a part of some
grander whole than she could ever imagine; remembering these precious minutes
and hours helps to keep the dark and loneliness at bay every night. But her
normal solitude is too swiftly broken by the clatter of a horse’s hooves and
the scared bleating of the flock at the noise.
She manages to rise with little difficulty, although her still sore back
protests the change in position, and begins to walk toward the fence that
surrounds the plot and keeps the animals out. She wipes her hands on her skirt
before lifting them to her face to shade her eyes. She can’t see the rider yet,
but she can hardly imagine just what errand would bring anyone out here—it’s
been well over a year since she sent the last idiot suitor packing, and at the
point of a blade no less.
Yet the small track that leads from the king’s road to her farm seldom sees use
from anyone other than herself, so Emma makes it her business to know about
every person who passes through the lane. By the time she reaches the gate, a
dappled gray stallion comes into view carrying a man in livery, clearly
displaying a special courier’s badge. She frowns and bites her lower lip, for
she has not seen the like since the king’s messenger came informing her father
David that he had been called to serve in the army, so many years ago. In her
experience, such heralds only appear with bad news, demanding more taxes or a
greater share of her herd and crops—all for the glory and prosperity of the
kingdom, no doubt.
The horse slows and halts in front of her, yet the rider does not dismount. He
reaches into his satchel and draws out a rolled bit of parchment. “Are you Emma
Shepherd?”
“I am. How can I help you?”
The courier hands the scroll down to her, eyes never once leaving her face.
“I’ve a message from his royal highness, Prince Killian. I have been instructed
to ensure that you read it, and then return to my master with your answer.”
Emma takes the parchment, but looks at the rider confusedly. Prince Killian?
Last she heard or cared to listen to the gossips in the village, their king was
named William and had no children. And what would a prince want with her
anyway? Lips set in a firm line, she removes the ribbon and unfurls the paper.
Dear Miss Shepherd,
You do not know me, but I am afraid I find myself deeply in your debt.
Yesterday, you rescued a young child from a spooked horse in the market, by all
accounts vanishing into thin air after seeing her safe and reunited with her
nanny and servants. That little girl was my beloved daughter and only child,
Sophia. I simply must meet the person who so carelessly risked her own health
and safety for that of a perfect stranger and then thought nothing of a reward
or recognition of the deed, for such a kind and heroic soul truly must be worth
knowing. I ask that you come tomorrow to my manor so that I and my daughter may
thank you properly. My courier awaits your reply and will inform me of it upon
his return to me.
Your humblest servant,
Killian Regis F.
She breathes deeply, desperately attempting to calm the panic and fear racing
through her body. Even one day spent away from her home remains a prospect
fraught with risks, for with no servants to stand guard and no lock that cannot
be broken Emma can lose all she has in the world in just a few short hours. A
woman who refuses to marry and chooses to stay independent attracts enough
trouble and ridicule as it is, but one who prospers and whose farm thrives
becomes an object of fear and a magnet for enemies. Should it be discovered by
those who wish her ill that she will be away, she might find nothing worth
coming back home to when she returns.
Yet no matter the polite words or the courteous phrases, the letter is a
summons—one she cannot afford to ignore. She cannot disobey the implied order,
compelling her to go and await this prince’s pleasure. She may be comfortable
and independent, harming none out here on her land, yet the strange caprice and
fleeting favor of princes cannot be denied or lightly brushed aside. But she
lets none of these thoughts show on her face as she dips a small curtsy.
“Please inform his highness that I will be honored to go and speak with him on
the morrow.”
===============================================================================
 
She leaves at dawn so that she will arrive well before the noon hour, grateful
once again to her father’s careful education that she remembered the location
of the local manor which must now serve as the prince’s home. Before her
mother’s death, the large estate had been run only by servants and the prince’s
tenants while the family had lived at court in the capitol, no doubt. Since
then, Emma hasn’t exactly had the time or desire to keep up to date on the
local happenings and so missed the news and attendant drama of the lord of the
manor’s return.
She also has never had any use for fancy gowns before today, so last night she
had carefully opened the cedar wardrobe where her mother’s nicer dresses were
kept as mementos. Despite the sharp, yet clean smell of the wood, Emma had
caught the ghost of the lavender oil that Snow had loved to wear and had
proceeded to cry for the first time in almost seven years. Her mother hadn’t
wanted to live, not after losing her beloved David to a vicious battle of the
Ogres’ Wars. The light and joy that had brightened and gilded all of Emma’s
childhood memories began to fade slowly out of the woman who gave her life with
each passing season. When the god of Death had finally come for Snow four years
after the news of her husband’s death, it had been a tender mercy.
Emma tries to clear the lingering fog of grief and maudlin thoughts from her
mind, so contrary to the warm, spring sunshine and mellow breeze of the present
morning. She looks down at the dress she chose, wishing once more that she
either had greater need for the fine silks and velvets locked in the cedar
wardrobe or that no such occasion had occurred to make her open the damn thing
in the first place. While her parents had adored her and always said that she
was more beautiful than Snow had ever been, Emma had been more realistic about
her form and face. She was pretty, certainly, but hardly fairest in all the
land.
Yet wearing the bright, mossy color and feeling the slip of the luxurious
fabric against her skin makes her feel confident in an entirely unexpected way.
If she had the time and money and disposition to be idle, she knows that she
could make others believe that she was beautiful—she has known the apothecary
long enough to know all about the creams, oils, lotions, and cosmetics that the
gentry and the doxies use to make their outsides more appealing. If she were so
inclined, she could marry a rich, handsome man who would take care of the farm
and all her trouble, and who would be more than happy to watch her spend his
money on cosmetics and silks and assorted baubles that would drive him mad with
lust for her. Although, to be sure, the world being the cruel and spiteful
place that it is, she imagines all handsome men to be poor and ugly men to be
rich.
Her own mother had taken the pains to teach her about the medicinal as well as
the beautifying properties of the herbs and flowers to be found in their garden
or out in the wild, uncultivated areas of their farm, and indeed, Emma misses
the days where they distilled more than just the lavender and rosemary oils
used in everyday bathing; but with all the work to be done and only herself to
accomplish it, anything not strictly functional had mostly fallen to the way
side. Shaking her head, Emma laughs at herself, once again carefully lifting
her silken skirts in both hands to keep the hemline free of as much mud and
dirt as possible. She’s never truly been tempted to trade her life of honest,
hard work for one of useless, indolent pleasure, and she highly doubts that
she’ll ever be so inclined to spend idle days devoted solely to the
gratification of a man’s senses and needs. Marriage to anyone would mean a loss
of freedom, regardless of the gilding or strict utility of the bars of her
cage; she would rather beg for her bread that sign over the rights to her
father’s lands in exchange for the fragile security of a husband’s ring.
Thankfully, the manor is not far, and Emma is well acquainted enough with the
land to not require all of her attention in order to make her journey. She
spares a thought for her borrowed finery and decides upon taking a short-cut
across the park and lawn, so that she need not walk along the harsh gravel
avenue leading up to the house. She also will not be compelled to hop over any
ditches or hedges that might damage her mother’s beautiful dress. On account of
her low station, she assumed that she would not expected to wear fine silken
slippers such as her mother once wore, though for a fleeting moment she wishes
that her footwear matched her clothing; however, sturdy boots of soft leather
have always served her just fine, and in any case Snow’s feet had been far
daintier than Emma’s have been in years.
As she’s crossing the lawn and the house finally comes into view, Emma realizes
that in all the years of seeing her mother’s fancy finery in the wardrobe she’s
never questioned just why a simple farmer’s wife would ever own such things.
Nothing about their life had ever required such fripperies as far as she can
remember and no one to appreciate them save her father and herself. But once
her path connects with the gravel avenue and she gets her first full sight of
the manor, the long-forgotten mysteries of her parents slip from her thoughts
once more.
While others would see dark grey stone teeming with growing moss and ivy vines
needing to be cleared, Emma sees a vast abode, weighed down by its lofty
inhabitants and a sense of ancient splendor. While clearly no castle, two
towers rise up on the corners that she can see, making her feel both small and
observed. Indeed, the manor is practically crumbling from years of neglect, yet
to plain, honest eyes it nonetheless appears grand and palatial.
Emma carefully navigates the steps, slightly intrigued at the likely
magnificence of a home that requires so many stairs just to reach the front
door. She’s just about to reach up and knock when she hears hooves clattering
on the gravel drive behind her and fleetingly thinks that perhaps the attendant
noise of horses might somehow be the gods’ way of alerting her to prophetic and
monumental tidings. She turns toward the sound instinctively—always alert to
potential danger—and sees the most astoundingly matched rider and steed.
The horse’s coat is a glossy, coal black that is practically the same as the
gentleman’s hair. Indeed, this must be the Prince, for she recognizes the same
raven locks and piercingly blue eyes that belong to the little girl from the
market. Despite the dark beard, she also recognizes the child’s chin in the
father’s face, yet those are all that Prince Killian seems to have passed down
to his daughter.
After a startled moment spent openly staring at one another, Emma remembers her
manners and dips into a low curtsy. “Your highness.”
She hears him dismount from his horse and have a quick word with the servant
who takes the animal away, but she does not look up or allow herself to rise.
She waits patiently while dusty black boots take the stairs two at a time
before halting just within her line of sight. “Miss Shepherd, I presume.”
His voice is that rare, magical combination—melodic, low, and soft—a distinctly
masculine tone that hints at an enjoyment of music and song. For some reason,
the sound of her name coming from his throat and past his lips causes her to
shiver uncontrollably. “Indeed, your highness.”
A gloved hand reaches out and touches her chin, lifting so that she must look
up. She sees full, sensual lips that are reddened from the wind and from the
occasional swipe of his tongue. His angular jaw is softened by a black beard
and stubble, and across one of his high cheekbones is an old scar. His nose
fits his face—neither too large, nor hooked enough to be considered aquiline.
But it is the eyes that capture, that beguile and bewitch; Emma has never seen
the ocean, yet his eyes are the color of the vast stretches of water she’s only
seen in stories and her imagination. She could drown herself in those eyes and
count everything else well lost.
He grins, not unkindly, but with a sense that he has heard her thoughts
directly from her mind or read them in her eyes. Emma straightens up, flicking
her head to the side firmly so that he is no longer touching her. She takes a
step back and looks back down at his boots. “You summoned me, your highness,
and so, here I am.”
“Indeed, I did. Please, come in, and be welcome to Thistledown Hall.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Since Killian can remember he has used exercise of all varieties, but fencing
and horseback riding in particular, to purge his demons and banish the
nightmares that plague him. His mother’s death to the same illness that struck
him when he was just a small boy and his father’s slow, bitter descent into
madness had left his older brother Liam to run the kingdom and the younger
prince with no suitable companion in grief.
This morning he woke as usual—covered in cold sweat amid twisted, rumpled
sheets. The nightmare never changes, never fades in its cruel clarity. A ship
of the line carrying a precious cargo caught in a terrifying storm, the
blackest and wildest in living memory. Cold, dark water lit only by flashes of
lightning while it wrapped its beguiling arms around captain, passengers, and
crew. For many months, he had put on a good face, pretended to believe that the
Princess’ Joy would be found in no time at all; he’d allowed his brother to
send out other ships and shore parties while Killian closed himself in the
nursery with Sophia and her calm assurance that Mama would be home soon.
Explaining to his two year old the delicate balance between life and death
remains the most devastatingly painful lesson he’s ever had to teach. The fact
that this particular nightmare haunts him the day after he so nearly lost their
daughter… Let’s just say that he is unsurprised by the crippling icy-chill of
terror that twines along his spine and the urge to recklessly throw himself
into some sort of action. None on his estate could possibly hope to best him
with swords, so a bracing gallop on his favorite stallion it is.
The sun is barely above the horizon when he dresses himself—black boots, soft
gray suede trousers, black waistcoat, and a simple gray jacket over a white
linen shirt—and sends his valet off to the stables to ensure that his horse is
saddled. If the servants make a note of his relative dishabille, they certainly
do not comment on it in his hearing. He’s donning his black suede riding gloves
when Triton is brought out by one of the grooms; James accompanies the lad,
tugging distractedly at his own coat while they approach their master. “Pardon
the early intrusion, highness, but I did want to remind you that the Shepherd
girl promised she would come today. Don’t see as how she’ll manage two days
away so close together, but folk like her tend to be prompt when they make a
promise.”
“James, it is far too early for your round-about prattling. Speak plainly,
man.” The older servant looks down at his boots and clasps his hands behind his
back at the rebuke, acutely conscious of the time where such surliness was
mitigated by a genuine warmth and kindness.
“Very well, highness, since you have given leave. From what all I’ve heard, the
girl has no one at all in the world except herself, sir. She tends her herd and
her farm all on her lonesome, which means no servant to help with the chores
and the heavy lifting. You asking to see her, making her come to you, I don’t
agree with it, sir. Every moment spent away from her land and her home is a
moment where she can’t protect and care for what’s hers. And while she’s done
her level best to hold her own, there’s some who’ve taken exception to that and
would gladly see her come to ruin. Best to keep in mind when you go about
commanding people that they have their own troubles to worry about. Highness.”
If Killian hadn’t been drilled by the greatest orators and rhetoricians of the
day, he might have been in danger of looking like a gape-mouthed fish on a
line. In all his years of service, nothing had ever prompted such an
impassioned or eloquent speech out of James and certainly not one so liberally
peppered with disapproval and disappointment. It certainly gave his master
quite a lot to contemplate during his morning exercise.
Had he truly done more harm than good in seeking this girl out to thank her? He
realizes shortly that it had never occurred to him to go to her—whether a favor
was being requested or an honor bestowed, people always came to the king or
whoever their superior might be. That was simply how things were done.
Convinced he had the right of it and that his servant was hopelessly
misguided—although, indeed the man’s error stemmed from an overly zealous sense
of gallantry—he continues his ride without another thought to having
inconvenienced the girl.
He allows his mind to blank, to give himself and his body fully over to
maintaining his seat and letting Triton thunder across the park at will. He
leans over the horse’s neck, carefully avoiding the lash of any low-hanging
branches—a lesson learned as a child on his first stallion. Just as he’s
preparing to spur his mount on for a final burst of speed over the last mile of
the park circuit, he catches a flash of gold and green off to his left and
wordlessly commands the horse to slow to a halt. Triton understands the still
anxiety of his master at some unknown danger, communicated in the quiver and
clench of calf and thigh muscles and the low, steady voice.
Poachers are not unheard of, but he can think of no criminal so bold as to come
this close to the manor while the morning light is strengthening. He urges
Triton forward, carefully walking through the undergrowth so as to make as
little noise as possible. This particular stretch of the park runs very close
to the lawn, so it comes as no surprise when Killian sees the south side of the
house through the thinning tree line. He considers leaving the cover of the
trees or turning back toward the run when a vision steps out onto the grassy
hill and into view.
Though the sun has not climbed high, her curls shimmer in the light—a golden,
honeyed halo around a fair face. Though not untouched by days spent laboring in
daylight, her skin is creamy and only gently kissed with freckles. Her full
lips match the blush high on her cheekbones in color, and her button nose
points upward slightly. Such graceful features should belong on a simpering,
coquettish miss draped on the arm of some court gallant; yet in her face, it is
the eyes that inform Killian that she is anything but a delicate ornament.
Purpose and pride dance in those eyes like a burning flame behind bottle-green
stained glass. He has a feeling that those fiery jewels could burn him to his
very soul.
Though an old brown cloak conceals much, he can see that the dress she wears is
most certainly not her own and at least twenty-five years out of fashion. He
only recognizes the date of the style because his mother’s last portrait
reveals a woman modeling a similar cut to the dress—a long, simple skirt that
falls straight from the beneath the bust and a scooped neckline with puffs near
the shoulder and sleeves that extend to the wrist. He knows that the gown was
not made for her—her obvious youth aside—because at least three inches of her
boot-covered ankles can be seen and the neckline shows off much more of her
breasts than is seemly. Not that you would find him complaining about the
obvious bounty of nature on display.
Her hands which are currently wrapped around the edges of her cloak are not the
hands of a lady of wealth and privilege, chapped and red as they are. Yet they
are dainty and feminine all the same, her fingers slim and long. So many
curious contradictions that leave him hungry to know more; she’s a woman of
hidden depths and secrets, and he yearns to discover each and every one. He
smiles—a paltry, sickly one compared to his more genuine expression of
happiness and delight, but since he has had very little occasion of late to
call upon even a grin, he should be forgiven the poor appearance of it. She’s
clearly headed for Thistledown, chin set stubbornly and head held high as she
strides across his property toward the stand of trees that line the avenue from
the road, which means his thirst for knowledge will no doubt be sated shortly.
He doesn’t question the racing of his heart, for once so wrapped up in the
moment, in the thrill of the challenging unknown, that he doesn’t recognize his
own body’s reactions and signals. He directs Triton back to the run, then spurs
his mount back into a gallop that has them whipping through the avenue and
racing around to approach the front door and his enigmatic guest from the
North. The instant his horse’s hooves hit the gravel, he sees the girl’s spine
draw straight and rigid, her raised hand poised in a fist at the level of her
eye prepared to knock.
He had thought her a vision before when spied through shadowy woods; now, under
the warm glow of sunlight, her beauty steals his breath and his wits. His
blood, already up from his ride, flows directly to his cock—hard and aching and
spectacularly brought to life unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. The
stab of primal need, the desire to take and possess, reverberates through his
whole being in one painful, invigorating instant. He’s enthralled, captured
under the fierce scrutiny of those agate eyes, wanting more than anything to be
the sole object of that gaze for all time. But then she breaks the spell with
her voice.
“Your highness.” He’s never hated his title more than this moment, in which her
breathy, enchanting tone made the honorific sound hollow, vain, and worthless.
Only his name should be treated to those decadent, luxurious sounds, preferably
uttered under the influence of sensual need and raw passion; her lips and
tongue should only form and caress whatever he directs and desires them to. The
sight of her dropping into a curtsy, properly displaying her subservience to
him, sends a jolt of pure white heat up his spine; the stiffness of her body
and those commanding eyes, which are now hidden from his view, tell him that
this is not a woman who easily bends to anyone’s will save her own. And he
desperately desires to break and have her yield.
One of the stable boys skids to a halt next to Triton’s head, panting harshly
thanks to the sprint he must have made to get here so quickly. Killian
dismounts and mutters something about making sure the stallion is properly
cooled down and cared for before dismissing the lad. The girl remains in her
inflexible curtsy, face averted and downcast, waiting for his instruction and
recognition. He lets the moment stretch, wondering just how long he can have
her meekly submitting like this. Her position must be difficult to maintain
without losing her balance or tiring her—indeed, he finds it most curious that
the daughter of a farmer knows how to perform a formal court curtsy at all—yet
she neither trembles nor fidgets despite the lengthening silence between them.
Unable to resist her siren’s call any longer, he ascends the stairs with more
speed than grace. He stops, leaving very little room between their bodies, and
can feel the heat radiating from her, beckoning him closer. Slowly, he slides
his gloved fingers along her jaw to her chin and raises her face without
permitting her to break the reverence. When she finally complies and looks up
at him, another wild bolt of lust shoots through him; her gaze is hard,
unyielding and challenging him as no subordinate or inferior should. He may be
a prince of the realm, but in her unflinching eyes he is no better than she,
and a part of him longs to forcibly disabuse her of that notion.
“Miss Shepherd, I presume.” Something softens when she hears his voice, when
she fully meets his eyes. A strange sort of fascination and wonder passes
across her features, and a blushing awareness fills her being. Whether her mind
wills it or not, her body responds to his presence, to his command—heat floods
through her and makes the creamy flesh of her breasts and face become flushed
and rosy, makes her breath catch in her throat (and unless his keen gaze
misguides him, makes her nipples harden), and surely sends an unfamiliar,
tingling warmth settling between her thighs.
He also sees the confusion that crosses her face at these physical changes and
sensations and cannot help but smile at her. Clearly, this chance meeting will
lead to many, many discoveries for both of them; he finds himself hoping that
this encounter will lead to more like it. She belatedly jerks away from his
hand, as if burned, and averts her gaze to the ground beneath them. “You
summoned me, your highness, and so, here I am.”
Though he hasn’t stroked her skin without the barrier of a glove yet, he finds
her withdrawal from contact disconcerting and unwelcome. He gives in to the
urge to touch her again, takes both of her hands and helps her to rise, though
she seems quite able to have accomplished the task on her own. “Indeed I did.
Please, come in and be welcome to Thistledown Hall.”
He lets go of her hand so that he can strip off his gloves and pass them to a
servant. Task accomplished, he turns to take in her assessment of his home. He
expected a quiet awe or overwhelmed delight in the high, dark beamed ceiling or
the grey marble floors and staircase. The sense of regal permanence and ancient
right should oppress her and inspire an appropriate sense of inferiority to be
among those allowed to even temporarily grace the august dwelling with her
presence. Yet the swords and the banners and the ornate design appear to have
no effect whatsoever. Her clear, green gaze shows apathetic disdain rather than
cowed timidity.
Killian finds himself even more intrigued by her lack of response, her refusal
to be humbled. She seems unreal, a being out of myths and legends older than
time, and he feels desperately compelled to touch her. With a flick of his
wrist, he commands his servant back, taking the cloak from her shoulders
himself and—helpless to stop himself—skimming his fingertips along the exposed
skin of her collarbone and the arch where her neck meets her body. He watches
the delicate, yet perceptible shiver that flits up her spine and observes the
rising of chill bumps along her breasts. Clearly, the woman recognizes and
desires the man; it remains to be seen whether Emma can be made to burn for
him.
He passes the antiquated garment to his servant and takes his guest’s hand
forcibly in his, wrapping it around his arm proprietarily. “I apologize for not
having a formal reception ready for you. As you can see, I was just taking my
morning exercise and had no idea you would arrive so early. Potts, do send up
to Francine and let her know to wake and dress Sophia. And have them meet us in
the library.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Emma does her best to suppress the fine trembling in her limbs that started the
instant she looked at him from beneath her lashes and which worsened when his
bare fingers brushed against her skin. She’s never had less control over her
body and its reactions than she does now, intensely aware of the prince’s every
movement, his every breath. The very air around them seems charged and
volatile, as it would be if a storm was racing across the horizon. When he
grips her hand and secures her close to him, she bites back a gasp at the way
her sex clenches and her nipples tighten painfully in response to the burning
line of heat he radiates.
She’s no uneducated simpleton when it comes to matters between a man and a
woman. She comprehends lust and need, though this is the first time she’s ever
been caught under their influence. Indeed, her complete indifference to men in
general and to the rituals of courtship in particular were part of the reason
that so many suitors needed less than gentle persuasions to leave her in
peace—each one presumed that he was the lone man capable of breaking through
her icy calm, only to discover that their darts of love were just as repellent
to her as the next. Rejection and open disgust were not the predetermined,
expected outcome, leaving a trail of broken pride and outraged vanity in the
wake of their failed passing.
Not a single one of them, though one or two had been kinder or more handsome
than this prince, had managed to cause even a whisper of sensation or longing
within her. Yet this dark, brooding gentleman with turbulent, grief-stricken
ocean eyes brought forth a veritable boiling cauldron of emotions and thoughts
and unspoken desires through her being. All with a few pointed looks, a gentle
smile, and the most innocuous of touches he kindles an unlooked for fire that
both excites and terrifies her.
She knows that the manor dwarfs anything she’s ever dreamed of, yet she hardly
sees any of the fine details that he could boast about. But the artwork and the
suits of armor, the date of construction and the materials brought in from all
across the realms, the pomp and pedigree and all the other flourishes that have
gone into the reverend pile that is Thistledown Hall go unlauded by their owner
and unappreciated by their guest. Instead, Emma becomes more and more keenly
aware of the prince’s scrutiny, more sensitive to the physical response of her
body to his critical gaze. After what seems an eternity, the prince leads her
through a set of thick wooden doors into the largest single room she’s ever
seen.
The library is easily greater in volume than her barn, all walls lined with
bookshelves save the width of an enormous fireplace. The ceiling seems lost in
the air, three stories above them—each storey has its own small balcony wrapped
about it, and a metal staircase near the doors allows one to ascend to the next
level. But compared to the man who finally releases his hold on her arm and
helps her into a plush seat, it cannot beguile her attention. The prince keeps
her hand in his, far longer than would be considered appropriate, yet she
neither wants him to loosen his grip nor dare she suggest it.
Suddenly, he laughs, and her only thought is that he must be finding his
amusement at her expense, giving her the courage to break his grip. Emma folds
her hands in her lap and continues her silent examination of the carpeted
floor. “I must say, Miss Shepherd, I find you a curiosity. You are nothing like
what I expected.”
Her eyes flash with fury when they rise to meet his. “And what were you led to
expect from me, your highness?”
He sits gracefully in the chair opposite her, elegantly flicking his coat tails
out of the way and crossing the ankle of his right leg over his left knee. He
leans his chin upon his palm, eyes riveted to her and seeming to draw every
minute detail and thought from her body and mind. But she doesn’t give him the
satisfaction of knowing how much he has unnerved her with his thorough
examination. “If my daughter is to be believed, you are some good angel or
fairy godmother who flitted down and danced with her for a moment. My servants
certainly thought you some benevolent creature of fable, since you arrived
seemingly from the ether in order to pluck a small girl from the very jaws of
Death himself, only to disappear on a puff of wind.
“I see before me a beautiful young woman, one who wears dignity and grace the
way other women wear skirts and corsets. And yet, if my footman and courier is
to be believed, you are a hard working farmer and shepherd who has managed to
hold her lands in her own right for the past four years or more; an orphan,
whose father died valiantly in battle and whose mother has passed as well.
Independent, strong and imperious—beholden to no one. It seems the more I hear,
the less I know.”
“One should not always credit the tales that are borne to them, nor can the
eyes be expected to do anything but deceive. Your highness.”
Killian smirks, amused again by the contradiction of hearing philosophy from
the mouth of a peasant, regardless of how luscious and seductive said mouth is.
“Curious that such sophistry finds so humble a vessel. Then perhaps you should
inform me just who you are, Miss Shepherd.”
Emma spreads her hands in an open gesture. “The simplest explanation is often
truest. I am indeed a farmer and a shepherd, raised by parents who loved each
other deeply and loved their only child as well. My father was called to the
front and died in the war when I was 13, and my mother died of a broken heart
eight years later. I have been on my own ever since. But what I find curious,
your highness, is why a prince would bother hearing tales about a peasant.”
Killian’s smile fades quickly, an intense brooding filling the silence after
her question. “You have known loss and grief, Miss Shepherd. You say that your
mother died of a broken heart, so you know what it is to watch someone fade
into nothingness, wasting away because they cannot bear to be separated from
their true love. But I tell you, Miss Shepherd, that even greater than the
cruel torment of losing one’s mate is the loss of one’s child. I have been
burdened with the one fate, but you saved me from the second.”
He stands abruptly, pacing in front of the fireplace. The warm glow of the fire
casts his face in shadows and darkness, so that Emma can only dimly read the
agony in his expression. He turns toward her again, eyes glistening with unshed
tears and intensely fixed on her. “Even contemplating the fact that she could
have been lost to me has tortured my waking and sleeping hours since the day
before last… Why?! What possessed you to risk your life? Those who know my
Sophia call her enchanting, yet you had never met her. I cannot fathom why you
would hazard all for a stranger, unless death holds no power over you or life
no meaning.”
She swallows, uncomfortable under his burning, implacable gaze. “I’m not sure
how to explain it in a way you would understand, your highness. The world is
full of evils and ills and accidents, but I was raised to believe that if one
can help ease another’s burden or do anything to prevent a tragedy, then that
person must do so. I have no children of my own, and yet I can understand the
grief that would have descended on this house if Sophia had been hurt or
killed. No one else was close enough—the rider was thrown, the horse master was
unable to calm the beast or snatch his reins… I do not say this to place blame
on either man.
“The fact of the matter remains, your highness. Even if there were those who
would have mourned my death or injury, or even were she an orphan with no
friends as I am, it would still have been the right thing to do, to try and
save your daughter.”
Emma internally quails as his eyes become even more determinedly fixed on her
face, more piercing as if trying to pluck her very soul from her body so that
he may more closely examine it. But she refuses to let her discomfort and
distress show until he lunges forward, kneeling at her feet and gripping the
arms of her chair so tightly that his whole hand turns white. She lets out the
softest gasp at his nearness and ferocity. His eyes continue to flicker back
and forth before descending to gaze at her lips, then the long line of her
throat, her breasts, her lap. She feels her steely resolve begin to melt
beneath his heat, his presence, and shies the slightest bit away from him.
Her breath hitches when she senses a change in his body, an alertness that has
him scenting the air. It’s only once she returns her gaze to his face that she
realizes she had been devouring the lines of his thighs, the strong breadth of
his chest, and all the hard planes and parts in between with her eyes. His hand
shoots out between them and grasps her wrist in the vise of his fingers; the
pain sends a delicious shiver down her spine, and she cannot completely contain
a whimper. But instead of twisting away, her body sways toward his
instinctively, searching for more. His grip becomes impossibly tight, yet she
does not retreat from him. His pupils have dilated, leaving a thin ring of
bright blue. Some expression of her face causes him to shudder and then slowly
release his grasp one finger at a time.
The doors open noisily, and the buddle of bright energy that is Sophia dances
into the room, breaking the uncanny stalemate between pauper and prince. He
takes her still suspended hand and places a kiss to her knuckles before turning
to address his daughter. The child bounces past her father and springs directly
into Emma’s lap, startling her into the present once more. She spends most of
the morning chatting with and entertaining the little girl while Killian mutely
looks on, his face at times intensely brooding with the raw, passionate
sensuality that had suffused it before Sophia’s interruption, at others distant
and thoughtful.
As the noon hour approaches, she has done nothing more than entertain the child
and so asks to be dismissed to go home. The prince absentmindedly grants her
permission, despite his daughter’s pouting sadness at being parted from her
fairy savior once more. Genuinely enchanted by Sophia’s spirit, Emma makes
promises to return or to have the girl visit her on her farm—her father
permitting, of course. By the time they reach the door and the prince presses
another kiss to her knuckles and one to the inside of her wrist, their eyes
locked on each other throughout, she is more than ready to run all the way to
Agrabah if means avoiding that too knowing gaze. She settles for sprinting
through the woods, only stopping once the door of her cottage is locked
securely behind her—a flimsy, yet imminently desirable barrier between her and
the unknown.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Killian sits in the midnight darkness of the library staring at the chair Emma
Shepherd sat in several hours ago, the crackling fire doing little to dispel
the brooding gloom around him. The flames certainly cannot compare to the
inferno of primitive need that raged between them earlier and warmed his blood.
He feels as though he has passed through a long winter and then found himself
not just in springtime, but in the very center of the sun itself. He burns,
hotter than a brand in a smith’s forge, and the sensation unnerves.
He had loved his wife—loves her still, and had desired her fiercely. Yet Milah
had been gently-bred and raised; he had always been conscious of his duty to be
temperate in his wants, because one simply did not ask for noble ladies to
indulge their husband’s carnal, earthy hungers. That’s why whores were
practitioners of the world’s oldest profession—to satisfy needs that were too
depraved for men’s wives.
And yet this young woman, whose appearance at least is just as refined and
delicate as any duke’s daughter, inspires an unslakeable lust in his body and
soul. A friendless orphan who has every right to expect his kindness for the
debt he owes her, to expect his gratitude for the sacrifices her family has
made on behalf of his, to expect his protection as his brother’s subject… And
yet he adamantly resolves to push all such moral and ethical considerations
aside in a visceral compulsion to utterly dominate and possess her.
His goal and course defined, Killian springs up, knocking his glass of wine
onto the carpet in his haste. He strides purposefully to his desk, whips out a
sheet of paper, and composes a brief message. After sanding and sealing the
missive, he rings for one of the footmen—not James—and instructs the man to
deliver the message to the Shepherd farm on the morrow. Trapped now between his
choice and the intervening hours until her reply, he retires for the evening
and somehow manages to find a modicum of peace.
***** Chapter 3 *****
He prowls the halls restlessly, finding himself unable to sleep. The old house
is silent, not even the night’s watchmen making a sound in their vigilant
rounds. For some unknown reason, he finds himself drawn to the library. He
expects no one to be there, and yet he is unsurprised to find the siren waiting
for him, dressed in diaphanous silks the color of flames. There’s no fire in
the hearth, yet the room is sweltering hot and dimly lit, heat a radiating from
the golden-haired temptress barely concealed in the shadows.
Killian cannot resist her pull, submits to her thrall as he stalks closer and
closer. Her thighs are spread wide open, one leg draped over the arm of his
chair. The shameless, gluttonous lips of her sex are deep, dark pink and
glistening brightly with her juices in the low light, as is her delicate,
hooded pearl of flesh. Her head is thrown back in licentious display, yet her
wanton, glowing green eyes pin him in place. He watches as her nipples bud and
blossom under her touch, peeking through the filmy veils of fabric swathing her
body—his every fantasy breathed into exceptionally lovely life and form.
Her neck arches farther back and she sighs, fingers drifting lower to fondle
and tease her hungry, quivering cunt. Every sound she makes draws him
closer—lures him closer to her, closer to his own raging desire for
satisfaction. She whimpers as she begins to circle the swollen bundle of nerves
at the top of her sex, panting breaths and slicked skin causing him to lick his
lips eagerly. The scent of her arousal perfumes the air, bringing him to his
knees with the fervent need to bury his tongue, his fingers, his marble-hard
length in her wet, welcoming quim. He thought himself desperate for her before,
but then she speaks in a low purr and he is positively undone. “Take me, my
Prince. I am yours.”
Killian wakes, gasping in longing agony. His cock is absolutely rigid, a sheen
of pre-come liberally beading across the head. He’s never been one to be ruled
by his body’s whims, yet he cannot deny himself this urgent release. He drags
his palm across the tip and crown, spreading the moisture before gripping his
shaft tightly in his fist and stroking. He can feel that he’s already
frantically close, so he imagines the slick heat of Emma Shepherd’s body,
visualizes the way her pink tongue would flick across her lips and how he’d
longed to have that mouth wrapped around him.
He sees her breasts, as they were in that too small gown and in his dream, how
all that soft, smooth skin would feel sliding against his prick or underneath
his own mouth. He imagines fucking her, how her pussy would flutter and clench,
would milk his seed from him as he pounded into her lush confines from behind.
He can practically hear the moans of pleasure, the screams, the whimpers. He
has a sudden image of her kneeling on his bed, eyes covered with a blindfold
and hands bound behind her back; waiting for his orders, waiting for him,
waiting to be whipped into a panting, desperate lather or delighted at his
will.
The last thought finishes him, orgasm practically wrenched forth from his body,
his back arches off the bed and his vision dimming almost completely. Hot semen
jets out in a seemingly endless stream, landing along his stomach and on the
sheets as his breath comes out in harsh, yet sated grunts. If he had gone to
bed with honorable thoughts and intentions, the dream and his desire of the
morning would have washed them clean away.
===============================================================================
 
After she had taken a long while to still her heart and slow her breathing,
Emma had lovingly removed her mother’s dress and put it back in the cedar
wardrobe. She lingered for quite some time, fingers reverently and wonderingly
stroking the still supple kid-leather gloves, the satin slippers, and the
velvet skirts before quickly locking the cupboard and dropping the key into the
pocket of her heavy-weather coat. The time to ask her questions has long since
passed, and farmer’s daughters and shepherdesses have no business wearing such
fine, fancy things anyway.
She’d proceeded to throw herself into her chores for the day, thanking her
stars that the garden remained neat and tidy as she had left it the day before
and her animals were all penned up safely in the locked barn. Then she’d taken
a perverse pleasure in sinking down to her very arms, deep into the soil to
exterminate the weeds and aerate last year’s fallow plot. Her abused body had
not been grateful for her additional  poor treatment of it, so she had had to
make several trips back and forth from her well to get enough water for a
copper-tub bath. She’d soaked in the oil-scented water until long after it had
gone cold, before brushing her long hair to dry in front of the blazing fire
and finally, climbing into the loft and dropping exhausted into her bed.
Though she cannot remember any dreams this morning, she awakes restless and
uncomfortable. She ascribes her unusual feeling to the fact that she seldom has
time for idleness and two days spent away from her normal labors have left her
with a need to reclaim her usual purposefulness. She dresses quickly and heads
to the barn, releasing the chickens and most of the herd, but keeping back the
few unseasonably pregnant ewes to check their progress. She finishes with the
last one, an older sheep which will probably need to be sterilized to save her
from future complications or will not survive this final pregnancy, when she
hears a stranger’s voice calling her.
A horse and his dismounted rider come around the corner of her cottage just as
she exits the barn and lets the ewe out into the pasture. She groans
internally, recognizing the livery as Prince Killian’s, and wonders what more
could her royal neighbor possibly want with her. Emma does not however
recognize the servant—a tall and handsome, yet shy lad about her age or a bit
younger—who ducks his head and avoids her eye as she approaches. “Mistress
Shepherd? I—I saw ye yesterday at the Hall. I—I’m supposed—I was commanded last
night by his highness to give ye this letter.”
He awkwardly thrusts the parchment toward her, the folded paper still sealed,
but with smudges on all the surfaces indicating repeated pensive handling. The
area where her name is written in a curling script seems to have been a favored
spot for the caressing of calloused, imperfectly clean hands. Not the prince
then, but his messenger. Emma accepts the letter, careful not to touch the
servant’s fingers as they lingeringly cling to the edges of the stationery. “I
presume that you are to wait for my reply.”
He shuffles his feet, scuffing his boots against the packed earth and grass and
still refusing to meet her direct gaze. “He didn’t rightly say, mistress.”
“It’s Miss, actually, but since he wanted a reply last time, I shall assume he
wants one now as well. Let’s get some water for your horse and get out of the
sun at least.” Emma strides around him toward the well, again, careful to avoid
brushing up against him or touching him in any way. While she can appreciate
that he finds her attractive and desirable, and can sympathize with his timid
nature, she finds the combination of the two quite distracting, as well as off-
putting, and sincerely does not wish to encourage his interest.
She shows him to the well and points out the location of the trough before
heading toward her cottage and opening the letter. The contents, as she scans
it, make her pick up speed—to put a greater distance between herself and the
footman, who clearly knows nothing of the missive’s contents, and to find a
more private and comfortable spot onto which she can sit and contemplate the
enormity of the proposition placed before her.
   Let us not play games or pretend that what passed between us was anything
 remotely similar to proper or polite, Miss Shepherd. The instant I saw you, I
was absolutely consumed with need, burned and burdened by desire as I have not
 experienced in an age. I know you felt the same. Did you think or hope that I
didn’t notice the way your body trembled, the way your blush of wanting spread
 down your breasts and no doubt even further? Had my daughter not interrupted
  us, I would have cast aside all restraint and plunged into the delectable,
moist heat waiting for me between your thighs. Would you have tried to stop me
                                 had I dared?
 I think we both know that you would not have wanted to. Deny it all you like,
but you burn for me as well, longing to be instructed in and introduced to all
manner of carnal delights. And I want to take these coals and watch them become
 an inferno. I will master you, make you bend and submit to my control, and in
 return, I will give you pleasure unlike anything you could ever know. I will
  teach you all the ways your body can serve to give pleasure and to receive
  pleasure, and then I will show you even more. I will know neither rest nor
peace until I have your willing, pliant body beneath me, until I bury us in the
decadent and the erotic desires we were made for. You have nothing to lose and
                the world to gain by submission and acceptance.
The lack of signature matters little, as the penmanship precisely matches that
of the previous letter he sent. Emma’s eyes search the parchment yet again,
unable to process and believe what lies directly in front of her. The words
unerringly call back to mind the sensations that had overwhelmed her the day
before—the thoughts and the longings the Prince’s presence had inspired in
her—and oh, so sweetly attempt to seduce her into accepting his proposal. She
trembles again with a heretofore unknown, dangerously piercing yearning for all
the sensual bliss his offer represents. Yet he speaks only of sated lusts and
unfathomable pleasures, obviously ignorant or uncaring of the responsibilities
and duties that circumscribe her life just as completely as his.
“M—Miss Shepherd, ma’am? Do—do you have a reply for his highness?” The footman
startles Emma out of her thoughts with his stammering query, taking up much of
the space and light in the small cottage by blocking the doorway.
“I will. If you please, give me a moment, and I will have a return message
shortly.”
===============================================================================
 
Killian paces alone in the library. He should have his nose buried in the
various account books and ledgers for the estate, yet he has been distracted
all morning, despite knowing that his messenger left immediately after
breakfast. He is certain of her answer as only a royal personage can be, never
truly denied anything he has ever wanted or considered his due, nor never
having come across an individual who was not sinfully eager to exploit a
position of such implied confidence with him. In short, his only anxiety was in
expecting her affirmative and the soonest possible commencement of their
liaison.
He had left the double doors open in anticipation of his servant’s arrival,
thus handily beckoning the man into the room before he can knock and allowing
for swifter receipt of her answer. The footman strides in confidently and
places a crudely sealed bit of poor, pulpy parchment in the prince’s hand. The
wax is a cheap, sulfuric yellow and smells partly of rendered animal fat—the
only saving grace of the paltry thing being a tiny buttercup flower pressed
into the sealing wax to help mask the odor and serve in place of a seal, no
doubt.
“Did she seem pleased by the message?” His servant starts as if struck by a
bolt, clearly not having expected to pay attention to such details in addition
to faithfully fulfilling his stated duty. Killian internally curses the fact
that he couldn’t have sent James or another equally adept servant on this
particular mission. The older men, versed in the worldly ways and intrigues of
court dalliances, would have known precisely what manner of missive was being
sent and known to watch for clues of the addressee’s feelings and reaction to
the letter, as was done when Killian sent his first, more innocent invitation
to Miss Shepherd.
“Well, after I found the young Miss, she suggested I tend to your horse at
first, highness, making sure he had plenty to drink for his pains. When I was
done, I stood just inside the door for a bit, because she were reading your
lordship’s letter and I didn’t wish to interrupt. But I did have to clear my
throat twice and knock to get her attention after a few minutes—more than
enough time for her to have read it, highness. Then I asked if she had a reply
for your highness, and she said that she would. Then she wrote on that paper
there and sealed it, and made me promise not to try and take a peek; but I told
her that I’d never betray your lordship’s trust like that, but that to do so
any rate would be most improper.”
The younger man beams at him after this rather long, pointless, and
uninformative recitation of events, and despite his own pique, he smiles as if
the boy has done well. “Thank you, Graham. That will be all.”
He closes the doors before heading back to his desk for his penknife and places
the letter carefully on the blotter. He sits for a moment, just staring at it,
letting the bitterly sharp edge of his desire and anticipation become keener.
Finally, his impatience for satisfaction gets the better of him and he breaks
the seal.
                             Your Royal Highness,
I am overwhelmed by the amount of respect and trust in my discretion that your
    offer signifies, as I am also aware of the great honor with which such
 proposals are most often regarded in certain circles. Regardless, I cannot in
good conscience accept. Your highness condescends far too much to think of me,
     nor—as I am certain you will conclude upon further examination of the
 matter—can you afford to ignore the extremity of our positions. Besides being
unfit for such an exalted position as your design would create for me, I have a
 duty to hold my father’s lands in his name and cannot neglect that which has
                       been entrusted to my stewardship.
I promise that nothing you have said shall ever be uttered by me, and indeed, I
have every intension of consigning your letter to the flames immediately after
                              this reply departs.
                            With sincere gratitude,
                                 Emma Shepherd
He reacts first with all-encompassing shock and enraged bluster, yet when his
pricked pride manages to abate for a moment, he cannot help being impressed by
the gracious audacity with which she refuses him. He finds absolutely no faults
with her choice of words, deftly appealing to his vanity and social acumen
while stubbornly resisting any implications of her own subservience to him. The
fascinating riddle of the farmer’s daughter only increases in its complexity
and enflames his desire to know more. He firmly and unequivocally convinces
himself that it is not the thrill of the chase, the excitement of discovery,
nor the yearning to possess that which has been denied to him which prompt him
to reexamine his approach, rather than dropping the matter altogether.
===============================================================================
 
===============================================================================
 
===============================================================================
 
The sun rises above the horizon, and the rooster crows his welcome, yet Emma
remains tucked under the covers and unwilling to move from the warmth of her
bed. She spent another night tossing and turning, her sleep disturbed by
nightmares and worries that her waking mind cannot recall or assign a name to.
Before her father’s death, she had never been troubled by any fear of mortality
at all; her mother’s grief had been so acute that death had been welcomed as
kindly spirit; since then, the only fear that has haunted her has been the loss
of her home, the loss of choices and independence. Yet she knows instinctively
that this looming, unseen terror of her dreams will bring more chaos and leave
her more than simply bereft; she just cannot imagine what could possibly be so
great as to utterly destroy her and her simple life.
She closes her eyes and turns her face so that the sunbeams breaking through
the thatching fall on her, warming her skin and chasing away the shadowy
anxieties of the night. Unable to ignore the prompting of her hungry stomach or
her prickling conscience any longer, she tosses off the bedcovers and grabs her
shift from the peg on the wall near her head. She bunches the fabric in her
hand and slips it over her out-stretched arms and head, letting the rough
fabric slip down her body as it wills while she backs down the ladder to the
ground floor of the cottage.
She begins to hum as she slips around the ladder, reaching for the water bucket
kept near the hearth. She turns around toward the door, arm holding the bucket
blithely swinging backward when she freezes, completely shocked and not quite
able to process what she sees for the second time in as many days. Prince
Killian sits in her father’s chair, booted feet stretched out and crossed in
front of him, his riding crop gently marking time along with the tune she had
been humming. Emma feels the belated urge to cover herself, to press her hands
over the flesh he had no doubt glimpsed bare only a few moments ago, but she
resists the futile and empty gesture. As he said in his letter, pretense and
false propriety are alike senseless between two people as viscerally aware of
each other as they are.
“Are you always so confident in the attraction your person holds for one of the
opposite sex, or is it the knowledge that your position preserves you from any
attempted persecution for crimes such as breaking and entering?” If she had
thought it impossible for his eyes to burn any fiercer, she is swiftly
disabused of the notion as he watches her every movement when she boldly speaks
and continues to stand unabashedly before him. She feels more than naked,
stripped so that her very soul is exposed to his unwavering, implacable gaze.
His intense expression softens slightly as his lips assume an amused smirk.
“Why do I have the feeling that that particular question is more of a
stiletto’s strike than a double-edged blade, my dear? Nevertheless, such a
rhetorical barb deserves an honest parry. While up to this point in my life, my
rank and wealth have prevented me from ever feeling the pinch of want, it has
recently been made emphatically and abundantly obvious that they count for
nothing when it comes to possessing the one thing I have ever desired with such
a purity of focus. And yes, I dare to ascribe ‘purity’ to the strange, single-
minded yearning with which I want you. Nothing has ever been as crystalline
clear to me as this. Which is why I am prepared to perform the most unusual and
uncomfortable feats for you, my dear Emma.”
“I am neither yours, nor am I dear to you.”
“But you will, because despite having the moral high ground on all counts, you
have yet to throw me out of your home nor have you asked me to leave; which
means you can only have been interested by my offer and have denied it
primarily for the personal concerns you expressed in your letter of rejection,
and not because you found the prospect of submitting your body and pleasure to
me loathsome. The social objections you brought up mean nothing to me, and
since according to all I have heard you have done nothing to ever court the
favor and good report of others, I must conclude that they truly mean nothing
to you as well. And since I refuse on principle to receive any visitors to my
home who are neither family nor servants of long standing, there can be no one
who could possibly discover the truth of our connection and expose it to public
scrutiny.”
Killian stands and prowls closer to her as he warms to his subject. His
arrogant assurance—that he will own her and that she longs to be
possessed—should have her reaching for her father’s battered sword, just like
she did with every other man who had ever foolishly darkened her door and
claimed to be offering her his love and devotion. Yet the prince does not
prevaricate by speaking of tender emotions and a gentle, chivalrous yearning;
his desire for her is primal, carnal, passionate, and he rebuffs every
opportunity to deceitfully persuade her otherwise. The rough heat of his palm
against her cheek brings her forcibly back into the present moment with him,
makes her even more keenly aware of the fire dancing in the air between them
and the aching response of her body to his.
“I fully empathize with the affection and care you hold for your land, for your
father’s inheritance, Emma. As my father’s son, one of the first duties
instilled in me was the need to protect and serve the needs of the kingdom, and
what is a kingdom except the land and the people who tend it? Though you may
not know it, your parents most assuredly trained you to be more than a simple
shepherdess or an honest farmer’s wife; you are intelligent, skilled, and
educated, and as part of our bargain, I wish you to pass your knowledge on to
my daughter. She needs a teacher, now, to begin the lessons which will give her
an appreciation for those who are not her equal in birth and a love for the
land which shall be her birthright. Your days will be spent at Thistledown
Hall, filling her head with the wisdom that will aid and guide her when she
becomes queen, while carefully selected tenants will keep your farm and herd
prospering.
“Your nights will be given over to my will, and my will shall ever be pleasure.
Your body, Emma, is an exquisite instrument, and I intend to learn how to play
your every note, test and try each string simply to see the heights and the
depths of which you are capable of attaining. You will know more about yourself
and the delights of the flesh than you could possibly imagine exists. I will
make you sing, and none shall ever hear your song save us two. Share your
skills and knowledge with my daughter, share your bed and body with me
willingly, and you need never fear for the safety of your lands and home
again.” The hand that had cupped her face wanders into her hair and down the
slope of her neck, fingers flexing, digging into the skin hard enough to
bruise, and yet her response is to lean into the unforgiving caresses. Emma’s
world and vision narrow to the man before her, to the enticing words flowing
from his silver tongue, to the exciting ruthlessness of his touch.
She whimpers, thoroughly aroused and entirely seduced by the images his words
paint in her mind and the echoing yearning that vibrates through body and soul,
and lets him draw her close to him. She’s never been so desperate to finally
feel and know and experience all that his carefully selected phrases have
stated and implied. She places her fingers against his lips to halt his speech,
softly crying out when he playfully nips the pads of her fingertips and moves
her hand to his stubbled jaw and neck. He cautiously leans closer—nostrils
flaring to take in her natural perfume, her heady, intoxicating scent—and
brushes his nose against her cheek before lightly blowing his moist breath
along the exposed skin of her neck, her shoulder.
When she shivers delicately and weakly sways forward, he catches her with a
scalding hot arm around her waist and his burning lips against her fragile
collarbone. He cautiously, gently kisses a path upward, before his tongue
traces the shell of her ear, and her earlobe is caught between his teeth and
given a tug just on the pleasurable side of painful. “Say the words, Emma. Seal
the promise that your body is already making to me right now. No going back and
no chance to claim that you have misunderstood. Do you want this? Do you want
me, Emma?”
She pulls back, just enough to place his face between her palms and study his
lust-drugged gaze with her clear green eyes. He sees her drowning in her own
desire for him, for the things he can and will do to her body, yet her soul
looks back at him as well, completely in accord with the rest of her being. “I
will be yours, Killian.”
***** Chapter 4 *****
“Say the words, Emma. Seal the promise that your body is already making to me
right now. No going back and no chance to claim that you have misunderstood. Do
you want this? Do you want me, Emma?”
In truth, there isn’t a single part of her that doesn’t long to cast aside all
caution and unreservedly accept his control, yet it is this overwhelming
compulsion which prompts her to resist and delay. She has done all in her power
these last 12 years to keep herself free and independent and she cannot deny
that her path has left her exhausted and lonely. To belong to another, to not
have to carry her burdens and manage all cares alone form the core of her
deepest, secret yearnings; yet she refuses to sacrifice her freedoms in order
to have what she craves.
She studies him carefully, suddenly confused to be staring at—let alone
embracing—the proud Prince dwarfing her humble home with his presence; he finds
himself darkening the door of a poor cottage for the first time in his life, no
doubt, supplicant to a woman who owes him fealty. He could have commanded her
compliance—indeed, he could have climbed up into her bed only moments ago and
claimed what he desires, and there would have been no recourse for her, no
possible way to either deny him or to receive justice afterward. She sees him
with overwhelming clarity in that instant: a man who yearns for her womanly
body, yet who also desperately longs to be desired simply as a man and not a
title. His regal pride will not allow him to beg, so he has convinced himself
that he can persuade and seduce her with his sweet words of gentle domination
and benevolent rule.
Emma briefly wonders if she has the courage it takes to see this through, if
the risk of being discovered in his arms is worth more than fully knowing
herself. In giving herself unreservedly to the prince in the bedroom, she can
be free to explore her body and her pleasure without being slavishly bound as
she would to a husband. He will strictly control their passions and deftly
manage the reins, but he will only have that ability so long as she is willing
to place them into his care—it will never be his legal right to own her, and
therein lays her own mastery of him. For the first time, Emma feels what it
must be like to have power over another, the pull to use it dangerously
intoxicating. “I will be yours, Killian.”
A shudder of desire ripples through his body at her words, his expression
suddenly brimming with smug satisfaction, but also pure and simple joy. His arm
around her tightens, crushing her to his chest. When he moves to capture her
lips and secure their bargain, she once again presses her fingertips against
mouth. “I will be yours, Killian, but only so long as I may remain my own.
First, I promise to train and educate your daughter in the womanly arts; in
exchange for my lessons with her, I will select the men and women who will tend
my herd and farm and home while you see to their wages. I have a small amount
of funds from which I can purchase clothing appropriate to a servant in your
household, unless it is your custom to provide your liegemen with such as part
of their yearly income.
“Second, I do want you, Killian, as a woman desires a man; you will instruct me
in the ways of pleasure, teach me the heights and the depths I am capable of,
and whether you find me an apt student or not, I always will do my best to
please you. But the only coin to pass between us in this agreement shall be
sensual; I want no gold, no fine clothes, no baubles, and no gifts from you.
“You are correct when you claim that I care nothing for what my neighbors and
the world thinks of me, but I cannot afford to have it rumored that I am your
kept whore. Because once a woman allows herself the public weakness of giving
herself over to a man’s authority, other men will presume that they can step in
and take away her control over her own life once she is deprived of protection.
My body and my pleasure cannot be bought, your highness; I offer to share them
with you freely, so long as you do not push me beyond endurance and you protect
my name from slanders. I will be yours on these terms, and these terms alone.
Do you concede, Killian?”
===============================================================================
 
Hearing her agree to be his and the sound of his name being caressed by her
lips sends an ache through his whole being, as if some wrenched or dislocated
bone has been finally slipped back into its proper alignment. It takes more
determination and sheer self-control than it should to openly attend to her
demands, and yet he does not make the mistake of viewing anything she says as
being a polite request.
He understands her needs and the logic behind each restriction she places on
him; although he’d love nothing more than to drape her in fantastically colored
silks and lavishly deck her body in jewels, the appearance of such things in
her possession would undoubtedly spark others’ interest and commentary.
Regardless, even when she’s clothed in rough homespun and has dirt on her bare
feet, Emma Shepherd has the pride and bearing of a duchess, effortlessly
commanding his respect and further increasing his wondering desire.
Her pride made her spurn his first offer, makes her place shackles of sense and
reason upon their public conduct and outward relationship; his pride may yet
prove the undoing of them both, but he was willing to make a small sacrifice of
it in order to bind her to him in some way. Conceding to her demands is easy in
the present, as he cannot imagine a future where his blood does not sear his
veins with need for her and thus has plenty of time in which to overwhelm her
and beguile her with the luxuries he envisions heaping in her lap.
The fingers of his one hand still buried in her hair, he slips the other from
around her waist to the delectable curve of her derriere. He lifts her up, off
her toes, grinding his erection into the soft roundness of her mound and belly
just inches above where she aches for him. “What manner of fool would refuse
such sweet terms of surrender? What idiot could resist so beautiful and
delightful a conqueror? Say it again, dear Emma. Please say it again.”
He scatters light kisses across her lips, her nose, her cheeks, and her
eyelids, still holding her face as if cradling something delicate, precious,
sacred. She allows herself the smallest upturning at the corners of her mouth,
yet its appearance makes his knees weak; her smiles are so rare, but they
transform her fresh, simple beauty into transcendent radiance. She dazzles him
and resonates with some unknown place in his soul, compounding his strange
unconquerable need for her. He moans when her lips press against his of their
own accord. “I will be yours, Killian. I and my body shall serve to pleasure
you and yours. I want you; I want to learn what you like, what you desire, what
you crave. I want to be yours.”
She mimics his motions of earlier, brushing her lips along the exposed column
of his throat, nibbling his ear with her teeth, and tracing random patterns on
his skin with her tongue; she teaches him the true double-edged sword that
desire can be, where the student quickly becomes the equal of the master. It
takes him longer than it should to remember that his hand is in her hair and
that he can use it to bring her mouth back to his. After the sweet, blissful
haze of hearing her repeat his name and reaffirm her desire for him, he finds
himself swept under an intense, painful wave of need. His hand on her ass slips
lower, dragging the hem of her chemise up when he finds it and grasping her
thigh in order to wrap it around his waist.
He growls when he feels the delicate, yet sharp bones of her ankle and heel
digging into his ass and strides forward a step, setting her on the small
table. She sucks his lower lip into her mouth, worrying it softly between her
teeth and languorously swiping the sensitive flesh with her tongue. He whimpers
for her, letting her savor her little victory for a moment before he parts her
desire-slick folds with his fingers. Emma gasps unthinkingly, leaving her mouth
exposed to his plundering kiss. He ravishes her, tasting every corner as his
thumb glides smoothly over her clit. She shifts forward, unconsciously begging
him for more as her legs lock around his hips behind his back. A low keening
sound comes from deep in her chest as he slips one finger into her sheath,
something that makes him think more wicked thoughts of ways to get her to
produce such sweet music again.
He adds a second finger, becoming intoxicated with the feel of her quim and of
her innocent attempts to ride his hand. She’s so very wet, yet also lush and
tight; when he adds a third, she begins panting and earnest in her motions. Her
eyes lock on his, drowning in pleasure yet so clearly curious, wanting to know
more, to feel more of what he’s giving her. The pad of his thumb keeps circling
the hard bud of flesh while he still searches for the elusive little spot, deep
inside her core where her walls are a different texture. When the sparkling
green gems turn hazy and roll back in her head, he knows he’s found it and is
rewarded with a shocked gasp and moan combination that has his trousers
tightening painfully.
A few more flicks of his finger and a sharp press to her clit have her sheath
clamping down instantly; Emma shrieks, throwing her head forward onto his
shoulder and biting into the thick fabric of his coat to stop the delectable
sound. In seconds, he has his trousers unlaced, and his cock freed, letting
them fall off his hips just enough to sink into her fluttering, velvet heat.
And now it is his turn to whimper, to groan and have his wits scattered,
because she feels absolutely perfect around him, to the point where he’s not
quite certain he’ll last. He pulls back, both of them hissing at the
exquisitely painful friction of their flesh—her body clamping and sucking his
cock as if disinclined to let him leave.
The primal, undiluted masculine side of himself, the one that urged and
commanded he claim her immediately, wants him to assert his control, his
undisputed mastery of her body. He has never felt himself more kin of beast
than man, never feared the primeval animal that resides beneath the veneer of
civilization and rational order; yet he fears himself and his feverish lust in
this tormenting, stretched moment. He remains still inside her, fighting for
power over his body’s desire, eyes firmly closed. But then he feels her palm
against his cheek, calloused yet still soft and beguiling somehow in its timid
caress.
She turns his face toward hers, yet says nothing, waiting for him to make the
choice to look at her. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees a matching
hunger for pleasure—a dark craving older than time or history, a wild and
untamable and furious need—alongside a gentle, compassionate understanding.
There is no judgment in her eyes, no condemnation of the carnal nature of their
connection. So much promise and hope in the words she doesn’t say.
Her gaze drops to his lips, and she hesitantly kisses him—tender, feather-light
brushes of her lips. Her thighs tighten their grip around his waist and she
rolls her hips into his, gasping at the pull her body exerts on the steel
length of his cock. He pulls back as well, staring deeply into her eyes before
thrusting hard, the hand around her waist firming and increasing the power
behind his movements. She meets his gaze without flinching, although she cannot
help the gasp when he nudges the very end of her. He repeats the process once,
twice, thrice—a slow, torturous retreat followed by a single hammering
thrust—before catching her lips in another scorching kiss and pounding
mercilessly into her cunt.
Her gasps become ragged moans as he sets their punishing pace. He drops his
head to her shoulder, biting and sucking on the exposed curve of her neck and
lower to the mounds of her breasts. Both of his hands are clamped to her hips,
pulling her that much closer to him at the end of each swift stroke. She does
her best to stay still, gripping one hand in his hair and the other on his
shoulder, but his furious rhythm doesn’t do much to help her balance. He buries
himself to the hilt on a particularly violent thrust, and she falls back,
letting go of his shoulder in order to catch her fall. He notices her
predicament, takes the hand that is still in his hair, and brings her wrist to
his mouth.
She whimpers when he slides from her body, but he uses her hand to help her to
her feet before spinning her around and crushing her back to his chest. “I
think now would be a good time to teach you something, and since you’ve been
such a spectacularly wanton student so far, I think you deserve to choose.
There’s no wrong answer here, darling, and there are benefits to each.
Furthermore, you will learn all of them eventually, but I’m interested to know
which you would prefer.”
Having held her shift above her waist by his arm wrapped around her, there’s no
obstacle to his questing fingers as he fondles her swollen, needy sex. She
gasps and arches into him, unconsciously rubbing her ass against his still hard
cock and driving him mad. “That’s right, dear Emma. Feel what we do to each
other, how your body softens and welcomes while mine becomes firm, unyielding.
So, to finish what we’ve started here, do you want to take me into your mouth?
Your pretty pink lips wrapped around my cock while you satisfy your greedy
little quim with your fingers? Or, I can teach you how to ride me, show you how
to use my body to pleasure yourself? Or, I can bend you over this table, let
you feel just how deep I can go, how long and thick and hard I can feel?”
She moans, the thrill of the unknown and forbidden warring with the raw,
animalistic craving her body has for his. Too far gone in the haze of need and
pleasure, Emma doesn’t answer him with words, but simply moves to drape herself
over the table. Her silent expression of passion makes him burn hotter for her,
the compulsion to brand, to take, to pillage without though becoming a siren’s
song that tantalizes his sense. He takes a moment to calm himself, reminding
himself of who he is, or what they share, and that he wants her pleasure as
much as he craves sating his own. He runs his hands down her smooth thighs,
then up over the soft globes of her ass, and the gentle slope of her spine.
Emma whimpers, body curving into his touch as if he is the sun and she seeks
his warmth and light. He strokes his cock for a moment, still wet from her
lush, generous body, before carefully spreading her folds with the tip. “You
have a beautiful cunt, my dear Emma. I dreamt that you sat in my library, right
in my chair, and let me watch as you brought yourself pleasure. And I must
apologize, for my imagination could not do any part of you justice. Every inch
of you is perfection.”
He blows a hot breath over the quivering, moist lips of her sex, and her whole
body trembles delicately, as it did when he stepped closer to her or when he
grabbed her wrist the day they met. He takes a deep breath, committing her
scent to memory before straightening and lining the head of his cock back at
her entrance. “Now, I’ll be able to tell the instant you are aroused, the very
moment that your body prepares itself for my possession. No matter where or
when we are, Emma, I will always know how much you crave my touch, my mouth, my
cock. I won’t be too rough with you just now, darling, but I won’t be gentle
either.”
He thrusts forward, burying himself again in her tight sheath, and by the gods,
she’s tighter than a vise. He pistons his hips, watching his hard length
repeatedly disappear into her body. His grip on her hip is bruising, yet he
feels her plant her feet and rut herself back into him, fucking herself on his
cock. He lets go with his right hand, smacking her ass five times in quick
succession before slipping down to circle her clit. He feels her walls begin to
flutter around him, increasing the pressure building inside his balls.
She cries out, unable to muffle or halt the pleasure spilling from her lips,
unaware how gloriously aroused every noise makes him. “Gods! You’re fucking
heaven, Emma. Don’t stop making those sounds—tells me when I’m bringing you
pleasure, when you’re ready to come apart around my cock. Come for me, darling.
Let me feel you come!”
She arches her back, lifting her chest off the table for a moment just as her
orgasm hits. Her walls clench furiously and more warm liquid gushes around him.
He loses all restraint and pounds viciously into her quim until he finally
spills himself inside her, white-hot lightning racing up his spine and out to
his extremities. He’s careful not to crush her as he allows himself to cover
her. He kisses the back of her neck and her shoulders as the aftershocks abate,
his cock still rigid and burning inside her. He whispers nonsense, praising
everything about her and promising more pleasures still to come.
===============================================================================
 
Emma watches him leave, thoroughly enjoying the way his muscles bunch and
stretch as he mounts and settles himself into the saddle. She sampled just a
small portion of the raw power contained in his lean form, but soon she will
know every line of his body, experience every drop of pure energy and stamina
he has to offer. The imagined thought of him combined with what little she
knows now both excites and terrifies her. After he shifts around, satisfied
grin rounding his flushed cheeks in a look of positively boyish delight, he
winks at her and sets heels to his horse’s flank, riding off to take care of
his own matters.
She turns back into her home, middle slightly sore and tired in a way that she
will no doubt become accustomed to eventually. She shifts to stretch and
notices a trickling bit of moisture along her thigh, unthinkingly pulling the
chemise up a bit and wiping at her skin with the fabric. Later, as she is
sorting through what clothing to keep and what to salvage in order to make up
her new wardrobe, she will notice the set-in stain of blood and seed. She puts
it to the side, determined to wash the garment to see if it can be saved;
inexplicably, the shift finds its way into the bottom of her mother’s wardrobe,
where it is forgotten by its owner.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     A very brief historical note: In this chapter, a scene takes place in
     Sophia’s nursery, but it is not, as some might believe, her actual
     bedroom. The nursery was a sort of catch-all room for children
     younger than ten; it functioned as a playroom, toy cubby, study area,
     and extra wardrobe storage. In medieval times, such a room did not
     exist often due to a limited number of smaller, private
     accommodations; the nobles were lucky to have private sleeping
     alcoves connected to the great hall, often separated from the main
     room by only a curtain. The nursery as we have come to understand it
     today actually derives from later Victorian era children’s stories
     and post-Victorian nostalgia fiction, the most famous examples being
     Barrie’s Peter Pan and Travers’ Mary Poppins. Consistent with my
     studies in early to mid Victorian Literature, I am using the term in
     its slightly older conceptualization.
It would, upon later careful and deliberate consideration, come as no surprise
to Emma that Killian in his role as her employer would seek to press both
practical and superfluous tokens upon her which she had expressly denied him
the right to lavish on her in his guise as her lover. Since neither of them had
specified a day upon which she would acquire those things needed in order for
her to take up residence as governess at Thistledown Hall and perhaps in a
misguided effort to deny the sensual promptings of her own body which urges her
to haste, she refuses to fix a day in her mind for when she would make her on-
foot journey to the village to make her necessary purchases and commissions. As
such while it should not come as a shock, she finds herself the very next day
tending her garden and crops only to be interrupted once again by an unexpected
arrival.
A small, neat little carriage led by a matched pair of grays and managed by the
young footman Graham arrives with the boisterous young princess, her sedately
pleased nanny, and the harried village seamstress. In short order, the young
man is banished to care for the horses and to find any manner of amusement that
keeps him from the cottage itself so that Miss Shepherd’s modesty and privacy
need not be offended. Emma blushes at the unfamiliar attentions of the
seamstress, whose occupation seems to have so consumed her mind that she views
all manner of people as life-sized porcelain dolls—opinion-less objects to be
measured and weighed and dressed according to the narrow dictates of either the
creator or the commissioner.
Sophia begs to be the first person measured—despite the fact that the
seamstress has produced several wardrobes full of gowns and various
accoutrements—mostly so that the attention of all of the adults remain fixed
upon her for as long as humanly possible, but also to dispel Emma’s obvious
discomfort with the strange and unfamiliar procedure. There is also, of course,
the added benefit of being allowed that most elusive and forbidden of
pleasures—to stand upon the table without receiving a scolding. “It really
isn’t all that difficult, Miss Shepherd. One must simply stand very still and
not fidget, because fidgeting means that the measurements won’t be correct.”
Emma simply cannot hold back a smile at the little princess’ attempt to make
her feel better. “Yes, your highness; I can see where that would be a problem.
If I may ask, do you have dresses that are less fancy? Ones that your Papa and
Francine do not mind if they become stained or dirty?”
The girl wrinkles her nose at the thought of any one of her beautiful satin
gowns becoming rumpled or soiled. “Not really. Why on earth would I ever want
to become dirty, Miss Shepherd?”
“You may call me Emma, if you’d like your highness. Or maybe just Miss. And the
reason you want some dresses that may be dirtied is that there is more to being
a lady than wearing fine clothes, and some of the things that you will have to
learn require hard work. While hard work always ends well, it also sometimes
ends in soiled aprons and gowns, so we must be prepared for everything.”
“And you simply must call me Sophia!” Francine and Emma both share a knowing
look and a bit of a laugh at the girl’s expense, for when one is young and
important, every sentence requires at least one exclamatory word or phrase. The
princess hops down from her perch on the table, and the seamstress gestures for
Emma to step up onto the chair.
“I have two dresses that will suffice for days when Sophia and I might end up
in the garden or working in the pantry or stillroom, so I think that four made
of woolen should suffice. Don’t you think so, Francine?”
The older woman starts, looking aghast. “Oh! Well, I do believe that his
highness made out a list of sorts, guessing that you would not comprehend how
much your wardrobe would need to be expanded.”
The seamstress makes a notation in her book, nodding her head in agreement. “He
did indeed, ma’am. Said that we was not supposed to use the cheapest lots first
off, cause he wouldn’t have no employee of his looking as if he didn’t care for
their well-being. Seven simple gowns of lawn, chemises, and stockings for the
everyday; a passel of kerchiefs to match; three middling gowns for should
company arrive unannounced; two corsets, one for day to day and another for the
finer quality; and one velvet, as you should wear if and when the King should
visit. Now wouldn’t that be a sight! Our King hisself beholding one of my
gowns!”
Emma frowns, clearly disturbed by the long list of what others consider
clothing essentials, and begins to calculate in her mind just how much of her
savings she will need to dip into to purchase everything required. “But then,
his highness is right generous with every soul what works for him, am I right
Francine? ‘Twas only a few months agone that a young maid what had been raised
at the Hall since she was a mite, got herself married to the smithy’s
apprentice; had a lovely little gown made special for the vows, just cause she
had heard of such a thing being all the rage and got her heart set on it! Gods
alone know what I and my family would do should we ever lose his highness’
custom; we get our fair share of folk from the village wanting finer work than
what the wife and daughters can manage, but without all the clothes needed to
keep the servants well liveried...”
The woman continues to prattle as she finishes Emma’s measurements and then
begins making notations she doesn’t quite understand about “bust lines,”
“profiles,” and “palates.” She chooses to make the most of her time with Sophia
and Francine outside of the intimidating and imperious walls of Thistledown
Hall, taking them on an extended tour of her garden and the barn. They find
Graham standing near the sheep pen, gazing off into the distance across the
open sweep of the farm’s grazing land thoughtfully. When he spies the trio of
ladies coming closer to him, his whole face and neck immediately blush a
cheery, bright red and he bows carefully to each one of them. Sophia bats her
lashes coyly and drops a fine curtsy. “Good day to you, Sir Graham. How does
your fine steed on this lovely day? Have you slain any dragons or trolls
lately?”
The footman peers at Emma through his lashes before assuming the role assigned
for him by his young mistress, kneeling down to her eye level, and spinning out
a fantastical tale that has her giggling and clapping in delight. Having
herself been treated to an up close and personal display of the princess’
fertile imagination and generally kind, happy disposition, Emma doesn’t wonder
that she easily captures the hearts of those who serve her and earns their
fond, affectionate devotion. Francine turns toward the younger woman when she
hears her sigh, catching the tender yet longing glance directed at the child
and mistaking both the reason for the sigh and the object of Emma’s silent
contemplation.
It should be noted that in spite of sufficient personal life experience to the
contrary, Francine was possessed of a cheerful personality and ever-sanguine
disposition to the point that she always expected serendipitous encounters to
be followed swiftly by happily ever afters. Upon seeing Miss Shepherd’s warm
gaze directed at the strapping young footman and beautiful child, a thought
takes firm, unshakeable hold in the nanny’s romantic heart, one that will over
the course of her close service with the younger woman provide her with endless
hours of doting amusement and a cherished wish upon which to build her own
fantastical hopes for the joy of those she deems deserving. For what greater
felicity could an impoverished, yet industrious and beautiful shepherdess hope
for than to be united to a more prosperous and charming young man of her own
class?
“Well, my Lady, there’s enough of that foolishness and make no mistake. Your
lord father will be most anxious that we have not yet returned with Miss
Shepherd and her things. Graham, please do see the horses hitched to the coach,
and we shall see to Miss Shepherd’s trunk. Come along Lady Sophia. There’s much
to be done.”
Graham looks blushingly at Emma before rising from his knees and making haste
to obey Francine, who has begun her own speedy walk back to the cottage. Sophia
slips her hand into that of her governess, chattering about the various
adventures they shall have once she returns to Thistledown Hall to stay,
entirely oblivious to the slightly horrified expression on Emma’s face. An
expression which quickly morphs into one of resignation and which completely
belies the tightly reined-in fury currently directed at a particularly cunning,
devilishly seductive, and thoroughly high-handed prince. She does not doubt for
a second that she will need to be prepared in the future for such clever
deceptions being carried out by all too innocent messengers, and to discover
ways in which to thwart him.
===============================================================================
 
While her father had owned a farm beast in her youth and thus had allowed her
the chance to learn to ride bareback on a docile creature designed for hard
labor, Emma has never before ridden in any sort of conveyance pulled by one or
more horses bred purely for their stamina, elegance, and speed. The old gelding
had been sold after her father’s death because neither Snow nor Emma had had
the strength needed to yoke Pilot to the plow in the first instance, nor the
powerful arm muscles required to keep the rows straight. But walking Pilot
across the pasture with her father at her side, apart from running foot races
as a small girl, is the fastest she had ever gone until now. The entire trip
from her farm to the village—to drop off the chatty seamstress, who promises to
have at least one serviceable gown sent along tomorrow—and then from the
village to the Hall goes by so quickly that Emma feels positively breathless by
the time they arrive (and all in less time than it would have taken her to walk
a one-way-journey into the village).
Looking up at the side entrance of Thistledown, she feels much less intimidated
by the grandeur of the house even though she comes now as a resident for the
foreseeable future and not as a mere guest. Perhaps it is the comforting,
inclusive atmosphere created by Sophia and Francine as they tell her all about
the different inhabited nooks and crannies of the manor. While another footman
helps the child and her nanny to the alight from the carriage, it is a flushed
yet pleased looking Graham who assists her to the ground with a firm grip on
her hand and a light touch to her waist. But Emma does not see the footman’s
smile nor feel the warm weight of his hands, because her vision is ensnared by
Killian’s smile and the delighted expression in his eyes when they catch on to
Sophia. It reminds her poignantly of the way her own father once looked at her,
causing a gentle ache in the region of her heart.
Emma quietly thanks Graham and demurely takes her place beside Francine,
watching the prince scoop his daughter up in his arms and twirl her about. When
Killian’s gaze lands on her over his child’s head, there is a distinct coldness
in his appraisal that has her inwardly shivering from the chill. Naturally
then, her external reaction is to appear as distant, untouchable, and untouched
as humanly possible, neither offended nor pleased by her master’s perusal of
her person. At this juncture, she has placed him neatly into two compartments
of her mind; because to do otherwise, to allow her thoughts and feelings for
the one influence her behavior and decorum around the other will ultimately
result in the discovery of their true relations. Dramatic as it might sound
should it ever be uttered aloud, Emma would rather die than to allow the truth
be made known, because to be found out would spell the death of her independent
spirit and her freedom.
“Francine, it seems that you and my daughter have worked your magic and wiles
upon Miss Shepherd, spiriting her away from her lonely cottage and bringing her
here immediately. You two have my sincerest thanks, for it took all of my
considerable skills and stratagems in the art of persuasion to convince her to
take on the job of transforming this little change-child into a lady! I cannot
imagine the feats of strength it took to bring her home to Thistledown.”
“Oh, your highness, t’weren’t no matter at all once Miss Shepherd here caught
sight of our young Graham. Why, I must say that while she was quite vocal and
inquisitive of what manner of employer you are in the presence of the
seamstress, once we finished up and were in the young man here’s company, she
went silent as a temple mouse and just as biddable too! Must be that something
else has caught her eye than the chance to work at this drafty old hall.
Begging your highness’ pardon, but women do appreciate finer things in life
than taking care of another man’s children and living like a servant all one’s
days.”
Emma’s face suffuses with a bright red, no doubt—shocked at the older woman’s
presumptions and scandalized that she would dare utter them aloud for everyone
to hear. She doesn’t know if she’s mortified most on her own behalf, on
Sophia’s, or on Killian’s; nevertheless, she bites her tongue and advances
toward Killian, holding her arms out to Sophia and taking the girl from her
father. Instead of apologizing or addressing the uncomfortable topic, she drops
a curtsey and looks directly at Sophia—refusing to meet the eyes of anyone
except the little girl.
“Now, my Lady Sophia, you have seen my cottage, and since that is where I was
born, you know that I will become horribly lost in Thistledown Hall without
your help. Would you be so kind as to show me your nursery?”
Killian watches the two of them sedately discussing the various pieces on the
walls and the number of rooms Sophia knows of as they move further into the
house, their quiet voices echoing even after they have turned beyond sight. He
shifts his focus back to Francine, who had been frozen in the one spot since
his glare had silenced her mid-speech; for he doubts not but that she would
have continued to wax eloquent on the topic of Emma’s presumed dreams for the
future. He’s always known that his daughter’s nanny was something of a
busybody, yet he had never comprehended the distances her romantic flights of
fancy were capable of taking her. His blue eyes and rigid posture communicate
his scarcely contained displeasure as he dismisses a stuttering Graham and the
other footmen with a flick of his wrist.
“Francine, I fear that I must speak with you regarding what has just passed.
Since you obviously cannot use the eyes nor the common sense with which the
gods have blessed you, let me impart some wisdom to you: any fool can see that
while Miss Shepherd is possessed of a keen wit as well as physical beauty, she
does not appreciate being the focus of peoples’ attention. In plain, she is
shy, and your open discussion of her feelings whatever they may be regarding
someone of the opposite sex just made her vexingly embarrassed and
uncomfortable. As I said, it took a great deal of persuasion and convincing on
my part for Miss Shepherd to accept the great trust of her position. Given
this, I would ask you to curb that gossiping, matchmaking tongue of yours where
my daughter’s governess is concerned.
“I wish to hear no more about you arranging assignations or flirtations with
grooms and stableboys for her, nor do I wish for the young princess, the
possible future queen of this kingdom to be spoiled by an inclination for
rumors and intrigues. She will have enough of those once she becomes a fixture
of the court, so I would prefer that her childhood not be marred and shortened
by scandalous or even merely indecorous tittle-tattling. A princess, and
moreover a queen, must be above reproach in this matter as in all else. Have I
made myself clear, Madame?”
During the course of her employer’s tirade—for though he kept his voice firm
and level, she could not mistake the icy rage in his tone—Francine’s face
underwent several changes in coloring, from blushing red to white with shock to
green with ill ease. She gently nods when he finishes her dressing-down, at
which point he stalks ferociously in the direction of the nursery, anger and
ill-humor radiating from him with every determined stride. From thence forth,
all of her efforts toward uniting Miss Emma and young Graham in a blissful
union clearly must be conducted with the most scrupulous eye to propriety and
decorum as well as stealthy silence.
===============================================================================
 
Killian feels only a touch of remorse concerning the manner in which he
addressed the nanny’s overly meddlesome and loquacious commentary on their
retrieval of Miss Shepherd, and that only because he misdirected more
irritation toward her than he should have. However, Francine had not only
presented herself as the perfect target for his ire, but he was quite forcibly
unable to focus his resentment upon the person he believed most deserving of
it: Graham. The second he had opened the door and began descending the stairs
to meet his successful emissaries and Emma, the sight of the young footman
touching Killian’s lover as she descended from the carriage had caused him to
seethe with rage.
The thought of planting his fist repeatedly into the ruggedly handsome face of
his servant and the urge to deprive him of the use of his hands forever had
struck Killian to the core. And yet to act upon these or any such impulses
would unequivocally declare that Emma Shepherd was not merely his employee to
protect, but rather announce her to all and sundry as his lover. All of her
wishes to remain independent and unfettered would be as dust and shadows should
he have given in to the compulsion, the violent need to claim her.
He had latched onto the lifeline of his daughter’s presence, convincing himself
to remain outwardly calm and unaffected by the way another man was handling
what rightfully… well, what rightfully belonged to Emma herself, but which was
still his to cherish, his to defend so long as she remained his mistress. And
aside from the highly pertinent, immediate result of correcting Francine’s
propensity to idle chatter, he doesn’t doubt that his explanation for Emma’s
disinclination for and disinterest in being romanced by a servant will spread
to the others in his household and serve to keep young men such as Graham from
tendering offers of love and matrimony.
Though his feet were already carrying him in the appropriate direction, the
distasteful image of Emma’s lithe, nude form in the arms of another lends an
extra burst of speed to his long-legged lope. He hears Sophia’s bright voice
spilling out of the nursery and unerringly continues toward them; yet he halts
just outside the doors and finds an incomparable vision, something that stirs a
great, ill-defined longing. Bright, noon-time sunlight streams in from the
south-facing windows, bathing all in the room in a beatific, gentle glow; and
centered in a dazzling shaft of light, Emma and Sophia sit on the floor, a book
cradled between their hands and a glorious halo surrounding their heads, one
dark and one golden. An unfamiliar, unidentifiable sensation washes over
him—neither joyful nor sorrowful, neither happy nor sad, neither lacking nor
overflowing. If one were to be simultaneously a philosopher and a romantic, one
might say that for the first time in years, the prince feels that most elusive
of emotions: contentment.
Yet Killian is neither of these, and thus ascribes no special notice or name to
the brief shining moment, but rather finds himself most definitely lacking and
wanting for something. “I see that my daughter already has you hard at work,
Miss Shepherd, although I didn’t expect you to begin proper lessons until at
least a part of your wardrobe arrives. Sophia, my love, ‘tis time for luncheon
and then a nap, is it not? Off with you now, so Miss Shepherd has a chance to
settle in.”
Sophia looks for a moment as if she would rebel or at least speak out, but then
a positively crafty smile breaks out across her face before she leans over and
whispers in Emma’s ear. The two ladies laugh before the girl stands, grips her
skirts well above her ankles, and makes to sprint past her father out of the
nursery. Fully accustomed to his daughter’s antics, Killian manages to snake
his arm around Sophia’s waist, hauling her up into his embrace. She kicks and
laughs as he spins with her. “Put me down, Papa!”
“Ah! But having caught myself a princess, I am in no rush to let her go. Unless
you are willing to pay the toll…” Sophia hums and taps her lip dramatically,
eyes looking upward as if deep in thought. Finally, she grins again and places
a kiss on his whiskered cheek, wriggling out of her father’s arms and darting
away to the kitchens.
Killian closes the doors behind him once his daughter passes out of sight,
securing the lock carefully before turning to face Emma. She’s still sitting
serenely in her halo of sunlight, book held in her hands as if she has nothing
more important to do and nothing else of interest to behold in the room. He
crosses over to her, stopping a few feet away and simply watches her. She does
nothing except stare at the book, turn the page every so often, and yet she
effortlessly captivates him. He yearns for the slow stroke of her fingers
against his skin, like they now skim over the smooth paper and leather; he
longs to wrap himself in the golden, silken light of her hair, to feel it
caressing him as he brings rapture and ecstasy to her body.
“I find myself quite upset with you, your highness. I believe I was quite clear
when I stated that I wanted no frippery or baubles from you.”
“Indeed, I remember your forceful negotiation quite well, my dear Emma. You
also stipulated that if it was my custom to provide appropriate attire to those
in my service as part of their wages then I should do so. Even if you sold your
mother’s clothing and several items from your cottage, you would not have been
able to afford an entire wardrobe. I maintain a list of necessities with my
housekeeper, so that whenever a new servant is hired, she knows what to order.
I simply…expanded the list to suit your new status as Sophia’s governess.”
Emma finally looks up at him, annoyance and arousal swimming in her eyes
despite her best efforts to conceal them. “And to suit yourself, no doubt.”
“I’ve never met a woman who disliked receiving gifts and tokens of my regard
and affections, save you. So, please bear with me, my dear, for it is in my
nature to spoil those I admire and to wrap beauty in luxury. Reining in my
impulses where you are concerned has been quite the struggle, yet I believe
that I have thus far done admirably well. Should my valiant efforts at modesty
go unrecognized and unlauded?”
“Your very desire for recognition is entirely at odds with genuine modesty, my
lord. Shall I praise your humility next? Applaud your noble charity and stand
in the village square proclaiming to all and sundry what a fine specimen of
beneficent royalty you present?” Her eyes brim with mirth and mischief, yet
they dim as he continues to hold her gaze, his own stare serious and darkening
when he does something she would never suspect possible. He kneels, so that he
no longer towers over her, yet still maintains enough of his height to look
down at her, and catches a lock of her hair.
“Joy and laughter suit you well, dear Emma. You were meant for bright happiness
and smiles, yet fate has dealt you cruel blows, and all I can give you to fill
the void they have left behind is pleasure. Perhaps, in time, you won’t be able
to remember what you’ve lost, but only what I have lavished on you.” He cups
the back of her head, securely cradling it while he pulls her body flush with
his. His lips brush gently over her brow down to the tip of her nose before
capturing hers. She’s seen them set in a firm line when he was determined to
convince her to be his, but now they are soft, tenderly persuading her to
yield.
Emma gasps, opening her mouth to him as his palm burns her breast through the
thin material of her dress, her nipples puckering into hard peaks at the
glancing touch. His tongue darts into her mouth, puckishly begging hers to come
out and play; if their first kiss had been about power and control, this one is
purely for seduction, for savoring. She moans as his lips travel down her
throat, contact between the broken only in the moment it takes her to slip her
dress off over her head. Killian takes his first true look at her body in all
its untainted, innocent glory, and discovers the absolutely erotic nature of
purity. He presses a delicate, ephemeral kiss to her lips before reaching out
to caress and entice her.
He begins with feather-light strokes of his fingertips, tracing the sharp,
clean lines of her shoulders and collarbones, down to her arms that have
instinctively wrapped themselves around to cover her breasts and the nest of
golden curls above her sex. Carefully, still using the lightest and most
reverent of touches, he unwinds her long, slim arms and wordlessly bids her
hold them out from her sides. He begins again, this time brushing along her
creamy thighs, her sharp yet soft hipbones, her tiny waist, and up to her rib
cage. He scrupulously avoids her more sensitive regions, loving the way her
breasts tremble with her rapid heartbeat and how she moves seeking his touch or
to increase friction and pressure.
He cups her head in his hand again before firmly stroking up her spine with the
other, causing her to cry out at the intensity of the sensation. Emma falls
into his arms to capture his lips, and after a chaste, glancing kiss, he
shushes her and smoothly lays her out on the silken carpet. He murmurs soft
praise for her obedience and her beauty, continuing to stroke her with only the
lightest of pressures. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart. Let me see your
lovely cunny.”
Still shy, yet eager to please, her thighs quiver with need as she spreads
herself for him. Since the moment he’d locked the door, he’s been able to smell
her desire—a sweet, yet earthy scent overlaid with the faintest whiff of the
lavender oil she must use for her skin and her hair. Killian’s arousal had
sharpened instantly, but the sight of her sex openly displayed for him—the lips
a dark, deep rosy pink glistening with her body’s need and the sensitive pearl
of flesh peeking out from its hood—combined with the positively erotic scent
specific only to her puts his whole being on edge. He brushes her inner thigh
with the backs of his fingers, and Emma begins to shiver in earnest, a low
keening breaking through her chest.
Finally, after an exquisitely tense minute of waiting, Killian deftly parts her
folds and spreads her juices up and over her engorged clit. She cries out
again, her whole body arching into his tentative touch. “Gods, how you tremble
and quake for me, lass! You are a vision, a sensual feast in the ways you
respond to me! Since you are cross with me, even though I was careful to keep
my gifts of dresses and such for you within limits, I fear I must humbly crave
your pardon, Miss Shepherd.”
He continues to taunt her with every gentle caress as he positions his body
between her legs. Her mind is clouded, pleasure creating a drugged, sedate
humming where her skull and spine meet. Killian wraps one arm beneath her lower
back, just above her ass, lifting her so that her quim hovers mere inches away
from his face in the air. “Am I forgiven, dear Emma?”
She lets out a strangled moan as he buries his tongue in her cunt, the wet,
silken walls hot and seductive against him. He cannot hold back a grunt of his
own as he closes his eyes, bathing each one of his senses in her one at a time.
She tastes sweet as honeycomb in summertime, smoky as an aged whiskey on a cold
night, and spicy as an exotic delicacy. She smells the same with notes of clean
skin and lavender—a perfume that he would bottle if he could and scent his
sheets with every night. His tongue continues exploring her cunny, mapping out
the places where he makes her writhe—rippling, velvety folds hidden deep within
her.
He pulls back, placing a chaste kiss to her pearl of flesh; she pants and
squirms, desperate to escape him or encouraging him to dare more. He scents her
with his nose again before ghosting a hot, moist breath over her sex. Her eyes
glitter like pieces of a broken windowpane—shattered and needy. He licks the
tender bud before sucking it into his mouth. “Am I forgiven, my dear?”
“Killian, I…”
“Yes, darling Emma. What can I give you? How may I atone and make recompense? I
would give you the world if only you would ask for it. Say I am forgiven Emma,
then tell me what you want.” She’s never seen such an earnest intensity, never
herself felt something or needed something with such singular clarity of desire
and purpose. She trembles to behold such reined-in yearning, such consuming
determination.
“I want you, Killian. All I want is you.” It takes him mere moments to lay Emma
down and rid himself of every stitch of clothing; she only recognizes his
absence when the raging furnace of his body returns to hers. He gently wraps
her in his arms, bringing her up to kneel just as he is.
“Put your legs about my waist, my dear, and your arms about my neck.” He guides
her over him, brushing the tip of his cock against her soaked entrance. Despite
their intimacies of the day before, he knows that she hasn’t yet had the chance
to appreciate his form as he has just so thoroughly done with hers. “Touch me
as you will; if it please you—if I please you—put your hands on me.”
With a gentle rock of his hips, he seats himself inside her. The both moan and
suck in a shocked breath, the one at the delicious intrusion and the other at
the decadent, delightful reception. The walls of her pussy tighten, stretching
to accommodate his size and rhythmically rippling in welcome. Emma writhes
against him, circling her hips involuntarily in a manner that has him begging
for more and for mercy. He pulls out most of the way, leaving just the tip at
her entrance before slowly yet powerfully sinking back in to the hilt. Every
thrust ends in a whimper from her and a sighing grunt from him, as they
continue their debauched torture of the other.
This second coupling can hardly compare to the first, which burned white hot
and died out in an instant. They blaze blue, like the hottest and brightest of
stars, yet remain cool, unperturbed, and placid as a verdant forest
pond—soothing one another in their intensity. When they break and come apart in
each others’ arms, it’s a revelation that neither one can deny, yet neither do
they know quite what has been revealed.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     Villain (also spelled Villein) is an antiquated term for a serf or
     peasant who was tied by feudal or familial obligation to a specific
     lord and usually to a specific piece of land; they were perpetually
     indentured to their feudal lord, unable to marry or even move without
     his express permission. The caste was essentially wiped out in most
     of Western Europe by the Black Death because with the large numbers
     of both commoners and nobles dead, it was impossible to obtain
     accurate records and prove a person’s status.
     For those of you who have hinted or asked, yes, there is more of this
     story to come. For various personal reasons, I was unable to write
     and work on this project for just over three months; it has been
     difficult time to say the least because I love this story and these
     characters so much. I am able to write once more and continue to work
     on the next installment (which, for those of you who are not aware,
     is chapter 14; HDB has been on FFN since April/May of this past
     year).
Though a part of her desperately longs to luxuriate, to never leave the
unexpected haven of the nursery, Emma swiftly rises and dresses herself again.
Killian—the prince seems likewise to have completely succumbed to a sort of
daring madness and in no hurry to either re-clothe himself or vacate the room.
A pang of mortification at her own recklessness hits her as she looks at the
toys and books lying about around her, keenly aware that some of them hide
underneath the casually discarded garments. She searches for his drawers first,
embarrassingly conscious of his nakedness, and tosses the offending linen his
way while refusing to look in his direction. Her averted eyes allow him to
soundlessly sneak up behind her and lock his arms about her waist, stilling her
frantic motions with the heat of his body pressed against her spine and with a
line of delicate nibbles across her shoulder and up her neck.
Killian continues his slow torture, feasting on her skin and sinuously rocking
his hardened flesh against the soft curves of her derriere and the gentle slope
of her spine. “Why the sudden fear, darling? Why does shame flush your cheeks
instead of passion? Have I not sufficiently made amends? Speak to me, Emma;
tell me where I have erred, what I have done to cause offense and to make you
absolutely tremble with the urge to fly from my arms. Please do not shut or
lock the doors between us! You are my equal in this endeavor, and I will not
have you afraid to open your mind to me.”
His sweet entreaty, like every word spoken between them rings with the
sincerity of his conviction; his voice tenderly compels obedience, earnestly
demands a complete and willing surrender. She turns in his arms, eyes
cautiously rising to his face and closely examining every line and feature
before she takes a steadying breath.
“Forgive me, but I fear that I must be blunt: I am not your whore, nor can it
ever be whispered that I am. Did you not yourself note the ease and speed with
which you shut us in here, with which you bolted the door? You are right—there
can be no shut or locked doors about us in the future, because such things are
the very beginnings of rumors and gossip, my lord! What if your daughter or
Francine had forgotten something and returned here while we sated our passions?
What if a maid had traversed the hall and heard the sounds of desire meant to
be shared between us twain alone? We cannot risk… We must be circumspect and
rational from now on.”
Although her gaze and face retain the soft glow of thorough satisfaction, her
expression also reflects horrified panic at the specters that would swiftly
become terrifyingly tangible and real in the event of just such a discovery. He
inwardly curses his own folly and the beautiful insanity that grips him where
she is concerned, whenever her scent carries to him or fantasies of her beguile
his mind. Yet her own thoughts run parallel to his, for her next words pour out
in a flustered, endearingly shy rush, while her fingers absentmindedly trace
the curve of his lips.
“I forget myself, abandon my good judgment and surely my wits when you look at
me; I am your novice in these matters, as we agreed, but please have a care for
my reputation! As perfect, as sweet as this interlude has been, I cannot chance
another such dalliance, your highness. Seek me again in daylight hours, and you
will compel me to quit your house, your tutelage, and my position as Sophia’s
governess. Do not test me or try me on whether I will cling to my decree—my
word upon this matter as in all others, once given, is irrevocably fixed. And
the matter of my wardrobe is far from concluded as well. Good day, my lord.”
Emma curtseys appropriately before straightening her spine and seeking the exit
as rapidly as if her life depends upon it. The door closes after her with a
ringing finality that echoes her clearly delivered and received message.
Killian runs his fingers through his hair, tugging mercilessly on the ends.
Madness! The simple country lass who possess the graces and steeled-spine of an
Archduchess has surely bewitched his body and brain, stirred a fevered lust
that can never be sated! His vaunted, obviously misplaced pride in his ability
to command his own flesh mocks him for his weakness; and yet the darker,
fettered portion of his soul revels that it has finally conquered his
resistance, finally broken his falsely stoic exterior, and hungers for more.
Her demands are valid, it whispers cunningly, yet we shall see what lies
beneath her own façade before too long. A passionate nature too long
restrained, too long denied, will, when at last allowed a glimpse of freedom,
achieve all the black and forbidden delights within its powers and beyond,
savoring them both in the moment and cataloguing the minutest pleasures for the
dreaded, yet inevitable day when its chains repress it once again.
===============================================================================
 
Emma leans her back against the closed door, fruitlessly willing her heart to
cease racing and the rosy glow of complete satiation to leave her face. She
places her palms against her cheeks, surprised at the unaccustomed warmth she
finds there. What a wanton sensualist she has become that she cannot delay or
deny her lover for longer than five minutes! She certainly has no desire to
have their secrets exposed, but she also cannot refute the fact that the
naughtiness of both the location and the timing of their tryst had leant a
definite measure of spice and decadence to it as well. Her need for Killian,
her longing to have the man all to herself and awaiting her pleasure has become
a fire that burns beneath the skin or a tincture that flows in her veins; his
mere presence leaves her wanting and yet satisfies her at once.
She forces herself to walk away, to head back toward the grand foyer and seek
directions to the kitchens where Sophia and Francine will no doubt be waiting
for her. She does not understand the nature of her yearning, of her weakness
for the prince, but she knows that she cannot reveal to him the extent of her
thralldom. Emma watched her mother sicken and die of a broken heart, and so she
had set about making her heart and soul impenetrable to love and more tender
emotions. She has compassion for the poor, the wounded, the widow, and the
orphan; but she stoutly refuses to allow them or their plight to in any way
infringe upon her day to day life. She will do her best to provide Sophia with
an education befitting a woman of wealth and property; she will take her
pleasure of Killian’s body until they decide to part ways and end their
liaison; she will do all within her power to remain untouchable, unassailable,
and unbroken.
That evening, after a long day spent assessing Sophia’s general knowledge and
working through an inventory of the stillroom, Emma is escorted to her very own
chamber where a large, steaming tub waits for her in front of the room’s
fireplace. She tentatively, wonderingly runs her hands along the exquisitely
soft towels and marvels at the small bar of lavender scented soap. She smiles
when she finds a note addressed to her underneath.
You are right on all counts. I won’t endanger you like that ever again—you have
my word upon it. Tonight, as penance for being an unmitigated ass, I will leave
 you undisturbed. You are not used to the comforts and luxuries that I am, my
  dear, but you also have known a great deal of privacy. I will do my best to
   keep that in mind, reining in both my all-consuming hunger for you and my
 desire to lavish you with those delights and delicacies of which I sincerely
believe you to be fully deserving. It is a selfish zeal, for I long to ever see
  you smiling as your smile transforms your ethereal beauty, no doubt making
 angels weep in envy at your radiance. Enjoy your bath, dear Emma; no one will
 enter your chambers without your leave tonight, nor on any night you wish to
                         remain unmolested and alone.
===============================================================================
 
                               My dear brother,
 Your interest in your near neighbor tells me much, no doubt far more than you
   would like. But then, you were always one for your silences and secrets,
   Killian. As you requested, I have asked one of my clerks to look into the
matter of the Shepherd Farm and how it came into the current owner’s parents. I
 do seem to recollect an amiable and gracious pair making themselves known to
 our late King and Queen, seeking a private audience at court nigh on 30 years
   ago. The impression was fixed in my mind only because I was specifically
excluded from their conference with our parents and because I remember that the
  man looked like a drudge or a servant, while the lady appeared very refined
 indeed. That their daughter would be herself a living contradiction does not
                           surprise me in the least.
If the young woman does in fact possess the graces of a lady and the knowledge
necessary to Sophia’s betterment in the art of housewifery, as you say, then I
have no objection to her as a governess and tutor for my well-beloved niece. I
     look forward to examining both teacher and student when I next visit
  Thistledown. On that note, I urge you to not be overly concerned about the
  completion of the more decorative and superfluous repairs on the manor and
lands; all I ask is for comfort and quiet, though I do expect that my next bit
               of news will produce the opposite effect for you.
 As you know, Parliament has met in your absence. Your proxy acquitted himself
    quite well, however, he was forced to accept from the combined Houses a
 petition that has assuredly been forwarded to you. No doubt, you will wish to
 riffle through your neglected stacks of political correspondence to ascertain
     the truth of my words and confirm the existence of the document. And
unfortunately, burning the one copy you received will do you no good this time,
  Killian. They have you well and truly by the cods, the long and short of it
 being that you must marry as befits your station within the year. Our lovely
girl is no longer enough to quiet the unrest regarding the succession, but I am
in no position to be producing further heirs, and my health has come to such a
pass that those facts can no longer be hidden from those in government. You can
              no longer avoid your duty to the kingdom, brother.
To that end, the council has vetted the names and pedigrees of several eligible
young ladies, both within the kingdom and from among our current and potential
  allies. I have endeavored to keep your options open, but they insisted that
 with my coming visit to your home, the task of matchmaker should also fall to
my purview as your brother and head of our house. Prepare for a siege, Killian,
 for I am compelled to bring a potential bride or two for your inspection. So
   far, the least objectionable has been Lady Drusilla Tremane, who shared a
  flirtation with you about two years ago, if memory serves. She has remained
  single and available—perhaps for just this eventuality—but she would be an
eminently practical, and hopefully not disagreeable, choice. Naturally, if you
have another, preferred lady’s name to enter into contention, please notify me
                                 immediately.
 I am sorry that I was unable to stop the Lords, and that after everything you
 have gone through—after all the grief and troubles that I caused or could not
protect you from. I would spare you further pain, but alas, even a King cannot
            always command the obedience of his people. Mea_culpa.
                                   Wllm. Rex
===============================================================================
 
Killian sits before a roaring fire, the two offending documents crumpled in one
hand while the other is wrapped around a glass of exotic brandy. A litany of
curses rolls through his mind—for himself in thinking that he could forestall
the inevitable, for his brother for being unable to do the same, for his
parents in encumbering him with their blood and their sense of duty and honor.
His mind wanders to Emma, glad that he promised her a night of freedom from him
because he does not trust himself around her in this moment. In his impotent
rage and violent unhappiness, he might do something he regrets or might become
sufficiently deluded into unburdening himself to her. His woes, his grievances
are far too great a weight to place upon her fragile, innocent shoulders; and
yet who else could possibly understand his plight better than she?
Who would have thought that a prince would ever have something in common with a
peasant woman? Custom and tradition may dictate that a young woman marry, yet
Emma Shepherd has carved a place for herself in the world—a haven of freedom
and choice. If he wished, Killian could command armies to march for him and
conquer unknown lands, could direct navies to take him to distant, glittering
shores… And yet on the one issue where he most desires his own independence,
his own unrestricted choice, he remains as powerless as the lowest villain. He
broods on his brother’s words, wishing they were boys again and he could thrash
Liam into submission; wishing that the world and all its ills hadn’t come
between them.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Emma wakes with the rising of the sun as usual, but it takes her consciousness
more than a moment to come to full awareness as the soft down in the mattress
and pillows oh so gently beguiles her back toward blissful sleep and soft-
edged, sensual dreams. However, delightful as it would be to indulge herself in
a spot of morning dalliance in bed, once fully aware she cannot reconcile her
mind to whiling any more time away in selfish idleness. No matter her current
situation and how swiftly Killian has changed nearly everything about her
circumstances, she understands poignantly that fortune’s wheel can spin her
lower than before and that a person’s comfort and happiness can vanish in the
blink of an eye. She only needs to remember her mother’s anguished screams of
denial when the King’s messenger came in order to banish the seductively
cloying, misty fog of laziness and force her body into action.
Yesterday, she had spent a great deal of her time simply getting to know
Sophia, confirming her already positive impression of the young princess. While
Emma would previously have been hard-pressed to explain just how a noblewoman
ought to behave, the girl’s sunny disposition and unpretentious kindness
contrasts sharply with her now admittedly preconceived expectations of lofty
disdain or cold indifference toward the thoughts and feelings of others. The
Prince’s letter, but not his actions and speech towards her when face to face,
must have supplied her with the belief in the selfish and calculated
superiority of the aristocracy for she certainly cannot remember ever having
been in such august company prior to their chance meeting.
Emma sighs as she stretches her limbs and dresses in her remaining clean
everyday gown. Regardless of how she expected the child to behave, Sophia’s
tuition and decorum are now her areas of governance. The grand tour of the
manor had been deemed unnecessary, as she would always be in the company of
either Sophia or Francine and would begin to make a mental map of her own based
on their excursions; however, her hasty retreat of yesterday to the kitchens
had proved fortuitous, as it had revealed to her the precise point and location
at which to begin teaching her pupil. The child and nurse had just finished
their meal, providing her with the perfect opportunity to question both of them
as to the state of affairs at the manor in general and in specific regard to
the princess’ education.
Now, fully dressed in the simple, rustic fabric and sturdy boots, Emma digs
through her small trunk for one of her mother’s journals—an old and weathered
book to be sure, but with an adequate and still-supple leather binding—and
makes her way to Sophia’s suite. A gentle series of knocks produces Francine,
the older woman unexpectedly wearing her hair in curling papers under a night
cap, tugging at the edges of an ancient bed-robe, and yawning widely. The nanny
blinks owlishly at her, while Emma belatedly realizes her mistake. “I’m so
sorry to wake you! I didn’t realize that you wouldn’t be up and about yet!”
“Not at all, Miss Shepherd. Think nothing of it. But the young mistress, and
indeed the master, do not usually rise until later, even though they do keep
country hours instead of court ones while here. Gracious! If you’re up and
about when the sun just peeks over the horizon, I shudder to think what will
happen should you ever come to court with us! Some balls and to-dos don’t
rightly end until the new day dawns! But hear me rambling on so! How can I help
you dear? Should you like me to wake Sophia now?”
“Oh, please don’t, Francine. If she is used to other hours, I shall just have
to adapt myself accordingly. I thought to begin Sophia’s education in the
garden today, so once she is up, please make sure that her clothes are
comfortable and on the older side. You’ve naturally been teaching her to read
and speak by example, so I thought to start her more formal education
slowly—making her learning fun while practical, so as not to tax her impatience
too much.”
The nanny smiles brightly at her and nods all the while, as if agreeing with
her or confirming her opinion on the matter. “So, when she’s up and
breakfasted, we should join you outside then?”
“Please do. There are a lot of plants that I’ll need to harvest, so I can grab
a bit to eat and then begin the more tedious tasks on my own.” Emma waves her
back in and sets off to find the kitchens, a task made infinitely easier by the
drifting smell of baking bread. She calls a greeting to the cook and baker,
both working with sleeves rolled to their elbows and covered in the grit and
grime of their respective trades. The various underlings bustle to and fro,
fetching a requested item for their overseers or working on separate projects;
she offers a smile and a polite good morning to each of them, careful to match
faces with the names she learned yesterday. As if perfectly at home, she passes
into a short hallway, one that houses the baker’s pantry, the cook’s pantry,
the staircase down into the cellars and the ice house, and a room that will no
doubt quickly become hers and Sophia’s particular domain, the stillroom.
When she had asked Francine where the stillroom was located, the nanny had
comically opened her mouth, only to take a breath and pause. It was short work
to discover that this was most definitely the one area in which Thistledown
Hall was severely lacking; although, considering that the person expected to
have spent most of her time crafting the basic herbal remedies, teas, tisanes,
poultices, and plasters as well as the soaps, perfumes, and potpourris
necessary in such a large household would have been the lady of the manor, the
fact that the servants had abandoned the still and taken to making those
purchases from apothecaries seemed perfectly reasonable. However, as accidents
and injuries often occur where no men of medicine are not about, making certain
that such a large estate is equipped to deal with emergencies likewise seems
eminently practical to Emma.
She opens the door to the small distillery, which shares the fireplace with the
main kitchen, so that tonics and infusions can be brewed or left to steep when
being prepared or when needed. Yesterday, the lone window had been blackened
with soot and dirt and other assorted grime, and the room itself had had a
disused, musty smell about it; on her orders, one of the maids had cleaned the
glass—so that mellow sunshine and the fire provide plenty of light to see
by—and dusted out all the cobwebs. Now, thanks to the open window with its
newly oiled hinges, the room smells fresh and invigorating. All the old
materials had been chucked into the mulch pile and the glass bottles, measuring
spoons and cups, and various tools of the stillroom had been given a thorough
scrubbing. Everything looks bright and shiny, if not good as new, and ready to
be put back into service. Emma smiles at the thought of working the still
again, something she has had no time for since her father’s passing. To that
end, her mother’s journals from her younger days will help guide her in case
memory fails until she reestablishes and refreshes her craft skills; she also
makes a mental note to get a list of writing supplies ready to pass onto
Francine, especially a journal specifically for Sophia’s personal use, so that
she can record what she learns each day and store away each bit of knowledge
for future use.
Never being used to such an abundance of everything she could ever imagine
wanting, Emma requests a small, portable breakfast from the kitchen staff—two
boiled eggs, a sweet bun, and a mug of tea with cream—and shortly makes her way
out to the kitchen garden. Aside from their savory reputations, some of the
everyday herbs used by the cooks have very potent and beneficial properties in
medicinal remedies. Angelica, Anise, Basil, Bay, and Black Pepper can all
provide relief from coughs and colds if used as a poultice or rub to be spread
on the sufferer’s chest; Cardamom, Coriander, Dill, Fennel, and Ginger work
wonders on an upset stomach in teas, or, for one as young as Sophia, mixed in
oil and rubbed directly on her tummy. And while most of these are perfectly
safe for the princess to help harvest, Emma remembers that some of these
plants, herbs, seeds, and flowers can be quite dangerous to the child once they
are concentrated into oils after the distilling process. And yet others, such
as Pennyroyal, Valerian, Camphor, Artemisia, Date Palm, Willow, and Rue should
be considered dangerous at every stage of processing.
She makes a note of which should always be kept away from Sophia, many of them
ingredients she will be using personally for her daily tea-tonic, and
determines to set aside specific time for herself where she can handle these
more toxic remedies. After a stop by the gardener’s shed—where she collects
several baskets, some shears, and a trowel—Emma identifies the first of her
intended ingredients and begins to work the soil. While not nearly as back-
breaking or intensive as her labors tending to her crops on her farm, the heat
of the swiftly ascending sun combined with searching for the appropriate parts
of the herbs and freeing them from the earth or the plants has her sweating and
covered in dirt in no time at all. More than once, she fills her basket and
goes back inside in order to properly spread out of hang her harvest, so that
the excess moisture can be dried out of them; though she doesn’t notice, the
maids and cooks all cast approving glances at her as she passes, gratified to
know that this new governess is not some high and mighty twit, but rather a
woman like them who intends to work for her wages. She may be higher on the
servants’ social chain—like Francine, or the housekeeper Mrs. Potts, or the
steward Mr. Fairfax—but she won’t put on airs or disdain to lend a hand where
needed.
Emma manages to finish harvesting from the herb garden when she finally sees
Francine and Sophia seated at the kitchen table eating the last bits of their
breakfast. The princess’ face lights up when she sees Emma, a smile brightening
the pixie-like expression in a way that absolutely tugs at her heart; it’s an
open, honest joy that comes from merely being in the presence of someone
genuinely liked and admired, and Emma hasn’t seen such a look directed at her
in years. The urge to weep bittersweet tears pulls at her, but she refuses to
give in to them. She resolves, as ever, to remain strong and resist revealing
herself and her emotions through her countenance and her behavior. She returns
the dazzling smile and Francine’s amused grin as well, while Sophia launches
into an interrogation on what they plan to do that day.
But the arrival of the prince in the humble locale of the kitchen silences the
hustle and bustle around them and diverts the child’s attention to her parent.
“Papa! I was just asking Miss Emma what we were going to do today. Francine
made me dress in this horrid gown, but I’m happy about that because if it
becomes dirty I shan’t have to wear it ever again!”
“Well, I do insist that you try not to dirty it beyond all repair—you might
need to work out in the gardens again sometime, and it would be a shame if some
of your pretty colored older dresses would need to be used out there instead.
You are going to be working about in the gardens today, are you not Miss
Shepherd?”
“Indeed, your highness. It came to my attention that the estate’s distillery
has been long neglected; while everyone here can no doubt afford to purchase
many things at the apothecary’s in town, it would be prudent to maintain basic
emergency supplies just in case. Besides, once one knows how to work the
distillery properly, we will no doubt find that many of the items currently
being purchased can be made from the natural wealth around us.”
As Emma warms to her theme, her eyes widen and brighten in a way wholly new to
him. He has seen her rage at him in righteous indignation, seen her glow for
him in sensual rapture, but this is the first time he sees simple joy and
contentment light her being. Clearly, her mother trained her in these herbal
arts and nurtured her daughter’s passion for creating and crafting; just as
obviously, thanks to the cares and woes of needing to maintain the crops to
feed herself and her herds, her time has been taken up with work other than the
useful pastime she prefers. While it is but small in the grand scheme of
things, Killian himself feels a tiny swell of pride that their association has
proven the least bit beneficial to her peace of mind, to her personally in that
it has freed her to pursue her vocation again. “If Miss Shepherd says it is so,
then so it must be. Mark her well, little imp; she is far wiser than her years,
or she truly is a good fairy in disguise. Have you done as I asked and searched
her for wings yet, Sophia? How about ransacked her room for her wand?”
Emma blushes at his playful talk and the ridiculous lengths he will go to in
order to make his daughter laugh and smile, thinking that his constant devotion
to her childish amusements must be the reason why she appears untouched by the
melancholy of having lost her mother at such a young age. Though the painful
thought never fully forms in her conscious mind, a part of Emma fleetingly
wonders if she might have remained youthful and exuberant had Snow been better
equipped to deal with the loss of David, devoting herself instead to keeping
the living whole of mind and body rather than grieving the dead far beyond the
grave. If her mother had not collapsed and become a hollow version of herself,
would Emma’s childhood and innocence have lasted just a little time longer? And
would that extended period of naïve bliss have changed her in any way? Surely,
for what has Emma been doing with her life up until now, except for spending
all the years of her life in honoring the dead, in living merely for the sake
of keeping her parents’ farm just as it was the day that her father past? If
her mother or her father had taught her and urged her to live for herself, to
live for the joyous, life-affirming moments filled with such rare
incandescence, what a gloriously colored story she might have been heroine of!
Thankfully, father and daughter have been too wrapped up in their own little
world of wonder and play to have noticed her silence. She waits patiently with
Francine, a smile on her lips as she watches the small family; no matter that
there are only so many hours of daylight left, and she feels that she has much
which needs to be accomplished today both with and without Sophia, nothing is
as important in this moment than letting Killian have this peaceful hour of
communion with his daughter. And if, somewhere in the depths of her heart and
her mind, Emma pictures herself included in this ideal picture of family with
other children and a growing Sophia sitting on laps or surrounding their
parents on the carpets before the fire, then no one need know save her.
===============================================================================
 
Killian paces in front of the fireplace in his room, furtively and frequently
stealing glances at the small clock on the mantelpiece. He passed the previous
night so restlessly, in spite of drinking himself into oblivion—his dreams had
been violent and troubled, and he had woken with horrendous and hard-earned
aching in his skull, far earlier than his wonted hour. No erotic memory or
vision of Emma’s lovely body writhing underneath him, nor her warm body in bed
next to him to mitigate the horrors of the night before. The last thought—of
waking beside her—sends a thrill of longing up his spine, surprising him with
its intensity, and opens a wound he had believed long healed and forgotten. In
the three short years he had been blessed in being Milah’s husband, they had
never spent the night in each others’ arms. She would come to him in his
bedchamber, lie with him as his wife, and perhaps pause a moment, holding him
while they shared the days burdens or laughed over their daughter’s latest
antics; yet long before sleep claimed him, she would retire to her own bed in
her own chambers. He had hoped that given his ardent love for her, she would
have come in time to have enough affection for him to want to stay; however, he
knew the reality of their situation as members of the nobility, and that her
intimate distance was quite normal for a gently born and bred lady.
Yet the extreme intensity of his desire surprises him. Nay, his need to pass an
entire night with Emma in his arms and wake to find her still wrapped about him
like a honeysuckle vine hits him in his gut and takes unshakeable root in his
mind. The yearning breaks his resolve to wait, to give Emma more time to
prepare for their evening; he picks up an oil lamp and opens the hidden door in
his room. The moment he had fixed his mind to make her his mistress, Killian
pondered the ways and means of passing from one room to another without being
detected or discovered by any of the other inhabitants of the house.
Thankfully, he remembered the ancientness of the house and the rabid curiosity
of his youth. He and Liam had explored every corner of the manor as children,
and thus had inadvertently stumbled upon the servants’ passage. At least,
that’s what their father had called it when questioned about it all those years
ago.
The passage itself was wide enough for one person, or for several people to
walk single-file, and only connected to the master bedroom on the first floor
and one of the other bedrooms on the second floor of the family wing—a bedroom
that would belong either to one of the children of the house once they outgrew
the nursery, or to one of the higher servants who would see to the personal
needs of the family. In truth, the long-forgotten lord who had commissioned the
building of Thistledown Hall had the passage constructed so that he had ease of
access to his mistress, a use that Killian found himself in need of. It had
been a simple manner of stealing a few cleaning rags in order to wipe away the
years of accumulated cobwebs and grime, and then covertly tossing them in with
the laundry. As he descends the stairs, he notices the disrepair of the stone
floor, grateful that he decided to keep his boots on and mindful that he should
encourage Emma to do the same when coming to him.
When he reaches the bottom of the staircase, only a short stretch of hallway
and the thin wooden door stand between him and his Emma, his anticipation
reaches a plateau where he cannot fathom himself being drawn any tighter.
Spending the entire course of dinner listening to his daughter’s recitation of
all she had learned that day—how plants and flower were not just pretty, but
good for any number of things—had never taxed his patience more. He had burned
with the need to make Emma laugh and smile, to make her look at him with
anything but cold indifference. And yet now, through the slight barrier of wood
and stone, he perceives a gentle splashing and an off-key humming. He presses
his hand against the slim bit of wood and plaster, but does not reach for the
handle, content to just listen to her simple sounds of pleasure and delight in
her bath. The fierce ache in his cock tightens just another notch as he
imagines her wild curls damp with moist heat, falling out of a once carefully
pinned knot at the top of her head, or cascading in damp tendrils that barely
conceal her blushing breasts.
He envisions the candlelight and firelight, causing each bead of water to glow
golden as they travel meandering paths down her creamy flesh, gilding her naked
glory. He longs to go to this vision, this siren and suck the droplets from her
skin, one by one; he yearns to strip the clothes from his body and cover
himself with hers, watching and feeling her as she straddles him in the warm
water, their skins slippery with their own fierce desire for one another. But
when his vision of her stands in that same tub, beckoning him forward with one
hand while the other languorously seeks her own pleasure, he can tolerate being
apart from her no longer. He knocks gently, whispering her name like the
sweetest, more earnest of supplicants, begging her to open for him.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Emma could not have told you precisely how she expected the evening meal to
proceed, but the dinner consumed that night with Killian and Sophia in a formal
dining hall including more formal attire for everyone—nearly all of her new
wardrobe had arrived that afternoon, complete with fussing by Francine and some
of the maids—surpassed anything she could have imagined. Not only was the
unfamiliar constriction of a corset distracting enough, but for the first time
she glimpsed her lover in something close to his native element. From the
tailored fit of his dark red waistcoat and black dinner jacket across his trim
waist and tapered hips up to the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest,
every inch and line screamed luxury and regal perfection. Even the movement of
his hands as he expertly carved the main course or lifted a goblet to his lips
exuded an inbred gracefulness that was awesome to behold. To be quite frank,
the meal itself was a feast by her standards and thoroughly sated her stomach;
however, the quelling presence of others and the limited scope of their
interaction provided a sensual banquet all on its own, one that rather whetted
her appetite than satisfied.
And yet after they had all withdrawn to their own private pursuits for the
night, he had bid her have a pleasant sleep and left her with Francine and
Sophia. She felt more than a little perplexed and slightly miffed at being thus
abandoned, for she assumed that he would have somehow notified her of his
intentions regarding a resumption of their intimacies. Surely a request for her
to join him in his study to discuss her land and farm would not have appeared
suspicious? But then, she muses, perhaps he knows better than a country
simpleton. Not knowing what else to do with herself, she spends the next half
hour attending the princess in her evening ablutions and helping to tuck the
girl into bed. Her charge safely secured for the night, Francine indicates her
desire for her bed and passes the information along that a maid has prepared a
bath for Emma in her own room. After wishing the nanny a pleasant sleep, she
searches out her bedroom in a ridiculously pleased daze; for somehow, Killian
has divined her secret love of indulging herself in a warm, fragrant bath as
often as possible and has taken it upon himself to make that once infrequent
extravagance into a daily reality for her.
She laughs at herself and at the irony of having only recently believed herself
to be above such materialistic wastefulness; even Emma Shepherd can be
purchased, it seems, and at the relatively modest price of extreme cleanliness
and nights dedicated to thorough explorations of wanton pleasure. When she
reaches her room, one of the maids is waiting to help her out of the unfamiliar
garments, patiently talking her through the process of disrobing so that she
hopefully can manage the feat on her own soon. Down to just her petticoat and
chemise, she dismisses young Leah with a sincere expression of gratitude and
rapidly strips the remaining linens from her body before sinking into the
delightfully hot water. Deeming her hair clean enough to survive another day or
two without washing, Emma reaches out to collect a few hairpins that had been
thoughtfully placed on an end table just far enough away to be of use to her
and yet also be protected from any untoward splashes from the tub.
After securing her unruly mass of curls, she reaches for the delicate sliver of
lavender scented soap and works up a lather in her hands. As she begins to run
the suds over her wet skin, Emma recalls to mind the way Killian’s callused,
masculine hands had felt as he’d mapped her planes and curves yesterday in the
nursery and wonders how differently they might feel when wet and covered in
soft, soapy bubbles. She’s explored her own body before certainly, but never
with the time or inclination to luxuriate in the sensations resulting from the
task; at the end of a hard day of work, pleasuring herself had sometimes been
physically necessary, yet all too brief given her exhaustion. Curious, Emma
rises to her knees so that the water falls level with the lowest point of her
hips; she places her hands on her shoulders, mimicking his motions from earlier
and only exerting the slightest of pressures as she slides them down to swirl
about the skin of her breasts. She weighs each mound of sensitive flesh
tentatively before continuing her examination, learning her own body as if for
the first time all over again. She presses harder, molding and manipulating her
areola and nipples, gasping at the differing sensation of touching herself this
way.
She glides her hands down the smooth roundness of her belly, discovering the
muscular suppleness of her thighs, exploring the hard crags and sharp angles of
her shoulder blades and spine. The fragrance smells of home, registers as
familiar to her senses, and yet there remains an underlying dissonance, an
exotic newness that excites and entices her as much as the aroma soothes and
comforts. And through it all as she deliberately saves that most feminine part
of herself for last, she anticipates finishing the sensual, deliberate
circumnavigation of her body and unknowingly stokes to life a yearning that she
will not be able to satisfy on her own. When her fingers finally slip down over
her mound, she moans low in her throat at the intense sparks of pleasure that
radiate outward from where she touches herself. The slightest brush of a soapy
fingernail against her clitoris makes her writhe and long for Killian’s expert
skill and his ruthlessly questing caresses. She plays with the lips of her sex,
gently pinching them between thumb and forefinger and stretching the
responsive, tenderly aching flesh. She registers the slickness of her juices as
it meets the glide of the bubbles, the two intermingling to create an exquisite
kind of moisture and friction.
When she presses harder on her clit, the pearl of soft tissue slips and shies
away from her touch; she anchors her hand more firmly between her thighs,
effortlessly plunging two fingers into her sheath and positioning her thumb to
continuously glide over that tight bundle of nerves. She arcs her back,
thrusting her hips forward unconsciously as she plays upon her needy flesh,
feeling deliciously wicked and thoroughly wanton as she chases completion.
Several thoughts—images really—she had during dinner flash through her mind,
gloriously heightening her fall over the edge and hastening her toward orgasm:
a vision of Killian fully dressed for a formal dinner in all his regal finery,
yet with the laces of his trouser undone and his proud, turgid member standing
fully engorged and on display for her alone beneath the table; of her lips
wrapped around his cock, sucking and swallowing and licking and nibbling as he
comes apart for her; of how he must have looked the other day in her cottage,
every inch the rapacious, conquering, and indomitable lord as his clothed hips
slapped wildly against her uncovered flesh; of him in all his naked glory
covering her body and pressing her deep into the mattress, stretching and
filling her beyond all her wildest and furthest imaginings; of kind cerulean
eyes and unyielding spirit. Stars flash behind her eyes as release floods her
body, her inner walls clenching and grasping madly, somehow knowing that hollow
absence of his cock which if present would render her bliss complete. She rides
out the tremors, lust still unsatisfied and untamed by her ministrations.
She finally sinks back into the water, letting the level rise and rinse away
the drying suds from her skin, feeling fairly deflated and unquenched. Rather
than help her relax her way toward sleep, her bath has only heightened her
already voracious appetite and made her hunger into a snarling, ravenous beast.
Despite having said nothing to her, Emma thinks back again and wonders if there
was some sign she missed or some clue in his behavior as to what she could have
done in order to encourage him to request a tryst. Should she have approached
him on some pretext or another? She sighs, forcing herself to stand up and
abandon the now rapidly cooling water—she pauses, tilting her head to the side
because of—again! A soft knock, but not coming from the direction of her door.
She grasps the bath linen about her, moving closer to the fireplace from whence
the sound came. Another muffled knock and what could be the sound of her name
falling from her lover’s lips. “Hello?”
With a click, she notices movement from one of the rounded bits of decorative
plaster lining the wall panels; it turns, rather like a diminutive doorknob.
The entire panel begins to swing toward her, seams appearing in the paper that
had been hidden until this instant by the lines of the woodwork. Killian steps
into view, carrying a small oil lamp in his hand and confirming her
suppositions; the sight of him less than completely put together—cravat undone,
waistcoat unbuttoned, and linen shirt open almost to his navel—enhances her
desire for him even further, although by the apprehension on his face, he
entertains no idea of just how thoroughly and eminently alluring is the sight
of him here in her room under the flickering firelight and all en dishabille.
Her whole body sways toward him as if he exerts the same pull on her that the
sun has upon the planets, or that the planets have to their moons; she cannot
help but be drawn closer to him, to yearn to share and occupy the same space.
He sets his lamp upon the mantel and takes her hands in his, eyes alighting on
the thin, damp linen that marks the only barrier to his possession of her body
before swiftly rising back up to her face. “Emma, please forgive me for the
intrusion. Hush, my dear! I told you that this room was meant to be your
sanctuary here, and that not even I should be allowed to violate it. From now
on, I will let you know by a sign at dinner that I wish you in my chambers and
in my bed that night. Fetch your slippers, and I will show you the way.”
He presses a kiss to the back of each hand before reaching for her robe and
holding it out for her. She gives him a shy smile and a gentle huff of
displeasure at his gallantry and then turns her back to him before releasing
her hold on the bath linen, letting it fall to the floor and baring the smooth
expanse of her posterior. He rewards her coyly erotic display with an awed,
appreciative groan and a gently brushed kiss to her shoulder before he settles
the robe about her. She quickly pulls the garment closed and ties the belt into
a bow, sliding her feet into the slippers that had been left to warm on the
hearth and moving to take the pins out of her hair. Killian grips her wrist
lightly and shyly shakes his head before taking her hand in his and collecting
his lamp in order to lead her to his bedchamber. His quiet words about cleaning
and repairs are not lost on her by any means—words that curiously urge tears
into her eyes at the thought of the length he has gone to in order to care for
her every want and need, but which she suppresses—yet they come second to the
singular thrill of the novel experience. Emma may already have shared flesh
with him, but this marks the first occasion with her properly installed in his
household and their first time amid the private decadence of his rooms, a
sensual haven where their delights will no doubt never be disturbed.
Even with its debauched history, the lightless, hidden staircase should inspire
dark thoughts of long buried, yet deadly secrets and malevolent ghosts that
roam the scarcely lived-in halls and rooms of the manor; indeed, the oil lamp
provides them just enough illumination to see the steps beneath their feet,
casting most of Killian’s frame and face into the deepest of midnight shadows.
Yet it is a shiver of anticipation, not terror that races up her spine at the
realization that for all the passion between them, Emma knows precious little
about the man who so meticulously ensnares her body and mind. His life may play
itself out upon the public stage for all the world to see, but both the façade
and the true man remain a mystery to her, and no doubt will ever be one. From
the little she has gleaned, her prince shares as little of himself as possible
with those outside his family, and no matter the intimate nature of their
relationship, she has no illusions about ever breaking through his steely
reserve to the private person.
But for all the walls between them, she has no fear of him, no doubts that he
will keep her physically safe and protect her reputation and their liaison with
every ounce of power at his disposal. Every moment they share within the
confines of their clandestine relationship will be defined by exploring the
utter limits of their pleasures. At the top of the stairs is a small corridor
that leads to a second hidden door, one that opens next to the massive
fireplace just as in her room. Though the journey in the passage has been
brief, her skin is still damp from her bath and her night-robe is fairly thin,
chilling her enough that she shivers slightly. Killian softly curses under his
breath, drawing her close to the fire before letting go of her hand and moving
to bring one of the comfortable armchairs closer to the warm blaze. His
preoccupation gives Emma time to survey her surrounding, his natural and
personal environment.
Despite his penchant for drab or understated colors in his wardrobe, not a
single fabric that touches Killian’s body could ever be described as anything
less than luxurious; if clothes make the man, then no one can deny that he
belongs to a line of kings. Yet the decadence and vibrancy of the furnishings
and draperies in this room positively astound her. The large bed dominates and
draws the eye of all who enter, with a mattress wide enough for three or four
across; the piece itself carved of a dark cherry wood and polished to gleaming,
each of the four posters as thick around as Emma’s entire body and reaching up
toward the ceiling to support a canopy and drapes of deep, blood-red velvet.
The bed curtains are tied back with golden ropes, sending a shiver of
anticipation up her spine at the fleeting fantastical image of what other uses
those bindings could be put to. Though she cannot see underneath the crimson
and gold brocade bedcovering, she’s certain that the sheets are woven of the
most delicate linen or fine silk that will warm with the searing heat of
passion flushed skin.
Killian distracts her from continuing her examination when he places his hand
at her back and insists that she sit in the newly moved chair to warm herself
by the fire. He kneels on the soft lambskin rug spread before the fireplace at
her feet and stares piercingly into her eyes—an act which renders her
unaccountably self-conscious and prompts her to either look away or to continue
to meet that too knowing look. She averts her gaze, wringing her hands in her
lap and curling her feet into awkward positions. Gently, carefully, Killian
takes one of her hands in each of his and brings them one at a time up to his
lips so that he may brush a kiss across the thin, sensitive flesh of her
wrists.
“As I said a moment ago, my dear, your room is your personal sanctuary; not
even I should enter save with your permission. Here is a haven of a different
kind, one that exists to shelter our pleasure and nourish sensation. I may be
your teacher, Emma, but that does not mean that I demand or expect blind
obedience; if there is aught you want, anything you need from me that I can
give, you have but to ask. There are certain… avenues of sensual delight that I
have long wanted to explore; if you do not wish to investigate those paths,
then I want you to feel free to tell me. I may try and change your mind, may
seek to persuade you, but do not be afraid to say me nay. Do you understand,
darling?”
Emma nods her head and swallows past a lump in her throat; there had been a
flicker of trepidation, a grimace of pain and fear at the mention of
alternative paths to bliss that reveal in part the extent of his unhappiness,
of the lonely and unsatisfied life he had lived, perhaps even in the time that
he had shared with his wife. A part of her more than understands that
hollowness—she has lived it herself and become so far acquainted with the empty
ache that she feared never knowing aught else—and longs to weep for the both of
them. Yet neither her pride nor his would be able to tolerate her tears born of
empathy and pity. Instead, she offers up her submission. “I do, and I promise
that I will.”
Killian smiles so brightly at her, his focus so intense that it knocks the air
from her lungs and kindles her desire for him yet again. She tightens her grip
on his hands, using them to help her rise to her feet and then perform the same
courtesy for him. With her heart hammering wildly beneath her breast, she
firmly places his arms at his side and presses gently—a silent request that he
keep them there for a moment. Without breaking their shared gaze, Emma tugs at
the bow holding the halves of her robe closed, yet leaves the garment on her
shoulders. “In the spirit of keeping my promise, I want to strip these clothes
from your body. I want to touch and discover and explore your man’s form and
physique, and then I want to kneel at your feet and learn how to pleasure you
with my mouth, just as you pleasured me the other day.”
A groan of desire passes his lips as she slips the waistcoat from his shoulders
and begins disrobing him. “I am at your disposal, Miss Shepherd. Am I allowed
to touch you through this process? May I speak and describe to you precisely
what affects your caresses have upon me? How I’m being drive mad with need
under your keen, eager eyes? Shall I tell you the agony I suffered last night
in denying myself release in your lush feminine heat? How I could find no
relief in my hand now that I’ve been inside you and know what heaven is like?
How I have dreamed and imagined it will feel to have those plush pink lips
wrapped around my cock?”
He raises his hand to her jaw and traces the silky skin in question, taking her
silence and challengingly raised brow as permission to continue speaking and to
stroke her during her perusal of his body. She nips playfully at the fleshy pad
and her tongue darts out to lick him, earning her yet another agonized groan.
Her fingers trace the strong lines of his hands and arms, trailing up along his
collarbone and down the plane of his torso and the muscled curves of his
abdomen. Her eyes follow the sinuous paths she makes with an ever-growing fire
of lust as she lightly fondles and then cups his straining erection. Even
through the layer of his trousers, her hand radiates that distinctly womanly
warmth that has him aching and hardening further still. It seems an age before
she reaches for the placket and begins to unbutton the confining material.
He watches her through half-lidded eyes as she slowly slides the trousers down
his legs and slips them off his feet. Her fingertips barely brush his skin as
she does this, but he feels an electric charge jump from her to him at this
insubstantial, intentional caress. He plays with the ends of her curls, letting
the warm silk flow through his fingers like a living, golden and bronze
waterfall, while she continues to investigate him down to the tips of his bare
toes. It seems an eternity has passed by the time she flattens her palms over
his calves and slides them up over his knees and to his thighs, anchoring
herself to him. She looks up at him with a gaze both passionately carnal and
ethereally innocent. “What shall I do now, my lord?”
He brushes his thumb tenderly across her chin. “First, let this be the last
time you call me “lord,” unless it’s all a part of our play, my dear Emma. And
second, what do you feel like doing? What do your feminine instincts tell you?
I want you to be comfortable, so it would probably be best if I lie down or sit
in the chair. Do you want to use the bed, or shall we stay here by the fire?”
Her gaze flicks over to the chair, both consciously and unconsciously longing
to recreate the vivid fantasy of her earlier imaginings. Killian tilts his
head, curious as to what could possibly have built such a blaze of lust so
rapidly in her bright eyes, yet he makes no move to demand an answer from
her—his silence calculated to urge her to choose to share thoughts and inner
longings with him, but not for coerce unwanted intimacy. She bites her lower
lip and flicks her tongue out rapidly to wet the reddening, abused flesh, still
naively unaware of just how blatantly erotic and inviting her every gesture
appears to him in his highly aroused state. “Until dinner, I had never seen you
dressed so finely, nor had I truly seen you in such a sumptuous, exalted
setting. You have seen what I come from, what meager comfort I am used to; I
know that this hall is but a small and unrefined portion of the grand luxuries
you were born and bred to, but for me, it is the height of wealth and
decadence… It made me want to sit at your feet, cosseted and petted by you. And
it also made me yearn to slip beneath the table, to released your cock from the
confines of your trousers and stroke you to arousal.”
She continued to steal glances at the soft, velvety leather covered arm chair,
slowly and silently urging him to move in that direction with both her looks
and increasingly bold caresses of his thighs and his stomach. At her mention of
his erection, his cock had twitched, and then she finally took him in her hand.
The friction of her touch felt tormentingly gentle, yet her grip did not
falter; even as he collapsed back into the chair on a sigh of need, she had
followed just as quickly, stroking and petting him lightly as she fell to her
knees before him. He languidly lifts a hand to her hair, caressing her cheek as
his fingers sift through her tresses. “Your caresses would have been most
welcome, my dear, yet I was already achingly hard for you. Perhaps later, I can
share with you the fancies and imaginings which taunted me during our meal. Yet
go on, Emma. What else did it make you want?”
“I wanted to drive you to distraction. I imagined that I was secreted under
that table during a fine ball, where you were surrounded by courtly guests and
kingly visitors; and that while you dined in splendor and entertained
perfectly, the entire time I was bringing you to the brink of ecstasy again and
again. A countess was charmed by your witty repartee; a general was flattered
by your grasp of his soldiers’ needs; a bishop toasted you for your piety and
charity to the widows and orphans of his diocese. And all the while, as you
basked in their praise and respect and their acclaim, you were fucking my mouth
and fondling my breasts. I let you come when they all rose to toast your
generosity and health as their host and as a prince worthy of his title and
ancient lineage. Because that is who I have seen and come to know in this short
week—a nobleman who truly deserve that appellation; I may never be more than
your secret mistress and governess to the princess, but having known you and
observed the kind liberality shown to every subordinate on this estate, I now
take pride in the land where I was born and I gladly, earnestly wish to serve
the man who will be my King.”
Until her last words, she had been tentative in her ministrations,
interspersing her words with kisses, licks, and timid nips as well as
continuing to stroke and fondle his cock, the slender and excitable skin of his
thighs, and his balls. Every delicate gesture had elicited a response from
him—moans, sighs, groans. But the instant she wrapped her lips fully around the
tip and crown of his cock, hastily taking every single engorged inch into her
mouth and then opened further to slip him all the way back into her throat, he
had whimpered and unconsciously thrust further into her. Gods! But it was
divine! That waiting heat, the firm convulsions of her throat around him left
him yearning for more and yet conversely floating in the bliss and immediacy of
the moment he wanted to never end. Though unpracticed, her every movement was
enthusiastic and lacked all faltering hesitation; she may not be studied, but
she possessed no fear either of the pleasure he could give her or of him
abusing the trust she so readily placed in him.
He kept one hand anchored in her hair, groaning in delight at the feel of her
satiny tresses brushing against his already hyper-aware thighs and abdomen,
purely for the joy that keeping her near brought to him. His other hand
caressed her flesh—massaging her delicate shoulders and nape, taking tacit
permission from the description of her fantasy and palming her breast, kneading
the firm mound and tweaking her puckered nipple. Words of praise and hunger
dripped and flowed like honey to hear ears, encouraging her when her own
desires and instincts proved accurate or correcting her when the exquisiteness
of her tongue and teeth was either too much to bear or about to send him over
the edge. When he finally gave in to the primal urge to impale her lush sheath,
all sense of time, of duty, of honor, of obligation had collapsed under her
sensual, erotic onslaught. They both transformed into creatures, animals of
pure hunger and need, capable only of understanding and wanting the moment of
coupling, the raging inferno of desire that had been created between them. It
was the primeval call to mate and to claim, and had either of them actually
thought about the possibility of denying it, neither of them possessed the will
to do so.
===============================================================================
 
The next morning Emma makes her way to the orangery, an entire outbuilding
attached to the house itself near the kitchen complex comprised of panes of
glass and kept heated year round so that foodstuffs and flowers can be grown
that otherwise would not have thrived in the more temperate climate of the
region. The previous afternoon, she had managed a brief span of time without
Sophia to gather up some of the necessary ingredients for this morning’s work.
When she returns to the stillroom, she collects together everything she needs,
including the leaves and seeds she had set aside to dry near the hearth over
night. She grinds each item—ginger root, pomegranate seeds, raspberry leaves,
Chaste Tree berries, and willow bark—placing an appropriate amount of each in
cut squares of thin cheese-cloth. Finally, to each square, she adds a couple
fresh raspberries and a slice of pomegranate. Thanks in large part to a ready
supply of components, she only makes enough for just over a sen’night—for
herself and in case any of the maids should require the tea.
Emma ties each of the cloths with a bit of twine and places all of the pouches,
save one, in a clean wooden box on one of the highest shelves in the room to
keep it safe from prying eyes and light fingers. She takes her one pouch with
her as she leaves the stillroom, and immediately asks one of the scullions for
a pot of hot water. When the girl returns with kettle and teacup in hand, Emma
catches her wrist to get her attention. “Would you be able to spread word among
the staff for me? If any of the ladies who work in the house need help with the
usual and unusual sort of female ailments, I have the skills and the teaching
necessary to help; no questions ask, no judgment given. Can you pass this
along?”
The girl lowers her eyes to the tea pouch in Emma’s hand and smiles at her.
“Your Mam taught you?”
“She did. She and I both suffered a lot of pain with our courses if we didn’t
drink the remedy; I still do, naturally. But she taught me how to take care of
our people, even if it was just the three of us, and if anyone needs a hand
then it would be a sin for me to do aught but help.” The scullion leaves with a
wink and a nod, quickly going back to the task of obeying the cooks’ whims.
Emma smiles as she drops the tea in to steep, satisfied at a task well done in
sharing what she knows.
Chapter End Notes
     Okay, so this last part could lead me into a very long diatribe on
     herbal and naturalistic forms of birth control. I’ll save you most of
     it, but the ingredients I list above for Emma’s preventative tea are
     quite commonly known and used among herbalists. There are also
     several contraceptive methods that might come into use later in the
     story, so I’ll quickly explain a bit now so that you aren’t shocked
     or confused when they show up. Sponges soaked in some form of natural
     spermicides have been used for centuries, but one of the least
     expensive and (depending on climate) easiest to procure are plain old
     lemons and limes. In the Mediterranean in particular, fresh limes and
     lemons were either cut in halves of wedge and then inserted into the
     vagina before coitus. Both are high in citric acid, which is strong
     enough to kill off the sperm and any bacterium but gentle enough to
     not harm the vaginal tissues themselves. You can also use a wedge of
     either fruit to clean your hands. They were also a common ingredient
     in spermicidal jellies, but that product needed to be used relatively
     quickly as freshness of the citric acid was very important.
     Pomegranates have often been described as being symbols of
     fertility—a bit of historical irony there as Katherine of Aragon
     chose the pomegranate as her personal sigil before marrying Henry
     VIII of England—but their seeds were known to actually reduce sperm
     count in men. Thus, it was not often eaten fresh unless the man had
     baby prevention on the brain (which actually occurred in a scene
     during season one of “The Tudors”). If you are interested in other
     info, send me a message and I can steer you in the right direction.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
To His Royal Majesty, King William II, etc.
Greetings, brother. Your news regarding Parliament’s edict was, I shall
confess, most unwelcome; however, their action can hardly have been surprising
and hearing the plain truth of the matter from your hand softened the ultimate
blow.  As always, I am yours to command and remain your faithful subject, even
unto the much debated arena of matrimony. Indeed, I know that for a man in my
position, I was blessed to be able to marry my first wife by both choice and
affection; your own lot and path has not possessed the same, which has grieved
me to no end. I shall endeavor to reconcile my personal desires with the
dictates of duty and country. In the matter of the unobjectionable ladies thus
far put forth, I leave all that in your capable and benevolent hands; since
continued bachelorhood and seclusion have been my preference since my beloved’s
passing, I cannot recall to mind a singular maiden or widow who comes equipped
with all the graces and dignity which would befit the future Queen of this
realm; further, having long preferred the country delights and simple living
far from the prying eyes of court and diplomatic circles, I find myself
entirely ignorant of any potential brides of foreign birth who would benefit
the kingdom by such an intimate alliance. Bring or put forward whomever you and
Parliament deem best suited to the task. As to the particular lady you
mentioned, any flirtations were wholly upon her part, I assure you; my feelings
ever only extended to the kind camaraderie of friendship and gratitude for her
companionship in my long hours of mourning.
Enclosed in this packet, along with the usual estate receipts, are a letter and
a drawing both painstakingly labored on by Sophia. She has sworn me, upon my
honor, not to gaze upon her maiden efforts in the arts of sketching and
correspondence. Perhaps, she believes that her uncle will prove a more
compassionate critic of her labors than a doting, yet stern father…
The high-pitched voice of his daughter floats to him on the breeze through the
open windows of his library and distracts him from the letter he has been
attempting to compose to his brother all week long. He holds his breath,
waiting to hear the lower tones of Emma’s patient, tender reply to whatever
question Sophia must have put to her; when he learned that the two of them
would begin their lessons out in the gardens every day, he had barely
suppressed a tortured groan, knowing full well that the pleasant view from his
desk would be rendered all the more lovely by their combined presence. However,
concentrating on affairs of state and the manor lands would become infinitely
more difficult on account of the very same. Not only was his heart, as well as
his eye, drawn to his Sophia and to the happy picture of domesticity she
created all on her own; nor was it simply that his mind and his body brimmed
with ungovernable lust at the sight of Miss Shepherd bent forward on her hands
and knees, displaying the perfect shape of her delectable derriere through the
layered veils of her clothing and conjuring wild images of her posed just so
for him, naked under the light of the moon like a goddess of the earth ready to
receive his worship; yet the sight of the two women in his life, the two halves
of his world coexisting and interacting as if it were the most normal course of
events, stirred in him an unknown, unspeakable joy and an indefinite longing.
He remembers again that first night with Emma in his bedroom, startled to
realize that her advent as a permanent fixture in his life happened merely a
week ago and that less than a month has elapsed since she saved Sophia and he
became aware of her existence. In the same amount of time, he has been informed
of his pending loss of freedom to the shackles of duty, and yet it is her who
has most significantly altered the weft and weave of his life. Before her,
there were the occasional, fleetingly bright lights of comfort and far-off hope
in the dark loneliness; after her, colors and textures and shades had begun to
appear in the seeming return of the dawn to his future. Come what may, Killian
has no intention of being confined to that sort of wasteland ever again; no
matter the cost to his pride, he will find a way to keep her always at his
side.
In his distracted frame of mind so focused on the as yet vague potentialities,
he fails to notice that Sophia and Emma have moved on to another portion of the
grounds, far beyond his immediate sight. A deliberate, confident knock pulls
him from the depths of his thoughts and returns his attention to the present
moment. “Enter.”
The impressionable, young footman—Graham, he recalls—appears through the open
door, and Killian congratulates himself on the neat solution he has devised for
this particular problem. Although the man himself has clearly not impressed
Emma in any way and it would be a slight on her fidelity and trust to
experience jealousy, Killian remembers all too well the agonizing feeling of
needing to fight off others for a beloved’s affections. He tells himself that
his faith in her is too unshakeable to be assailed by over-protectiveness and
doubts—it is the young man, and not her, who he mistrusts. Further, removing
Graham from the manor will have the added benefits of not only keeping them
apart physically, but also prevent them from being paired off in the meddling,
matchmaking minds of others.
“Milord. You asked to see me?”
Killian attempts to concentrate on the matter at hand, upset with himself for
continuing to be so distracted by thoughts of Emma. “I did. I have a
proposition to lay before you, Graham. Please, do sit.”
The footman, unaccustomed to being the recipient of courtesy at the hands of
his superiors, finds the prince’s manners to be impeccably correct and kind,
yet slightly frightening all the same for their unexpected appearance.
“As you know, Miss Shepherd has agreed to become the Princess’ governess and
tutor. However, that leaves her land and herds without someone to care for and
protect them. To that end as part of her consent to live here with us at
Thistledown Hall, she asked me to come up with an acceptable list of my tenants
and employees who would be willing to take on the care of her farm. Now, I know
that you have worked very hard to be promoted to your current position, but I
also know that you have many years’ experience with the running of a farm and
the change in your social standing would be negligible. You would be
essentially independent, with maybe one or two other laborers to tend the
animals and assist you in the day to day operations.
“We can set up the particulars however you wish, but I propose to continue
paying your current salary. Your daily food will come from the farm, and any
necessary improvements to the cottage will be handled by me once you make them
known so that you may live there comfortably. Come harvest time and in the
seasonal selling of the extra produce at the market and cattle to the butchers,
any profits will be divided equitably amongst yourself, the other workers, and
Miss Shepherd as your landlord. You will be expected to keep an account book of
all transactions and a journal of your choices regarding the layout of the
fields and what crops you plant. She has provided me the information regarding
the land’s current disposition for the last few years in order to help you plan
for the future.”
Confirming Killian’s original, unbiased appraisal of him, the young footman
gravely attends to his every word and hesitates before speaking. Graham’s
family had been tenants on one of the estate’s smaller farms, a plot not
dissimilar from Emma’s own lands; during a particularly bad winter nigh on ten
years ago, a plague had swept through the kingdom, wiping out many. The young
boy had been found just in time to save his limbs and digits from frostbite,
but not soon enough to save his parents and siblings. At Killian’s insistence,
he had been brought to the manor and installed in the stables to work with the
horses; he knew from personal experience that the company of animals during
times of intense misery and grief could be more restful and restorative to
young minds than the company of fellow human beings. Thankfully, the lad had
thrived and prospered until he was as he stood before his master now—a shy, but
fully capable and intelligent young man.
“If it pleases you to change my station, then who am I to object, milord? Does
the l-lady, Miss Shepherd know that you are asking me to see to her fields and
flocks?”Killian feels a moment’s pity for the lad, knowing full well how
torturous the burn of unrequited passion and affection; yet he cannot truly
regret the decision he and Emma made in this regard. When he had put Graham
forward as a candidate to be entrusted with her lands and explained the various
benefits, she too had sighed in relief at the neat removal of the young man
from everyday contact with her. Indeed, being the misguided, beloved object of
another’s unreciprocated adoration taxes the spirit of a naturally kind and
benevolent person; over time, such inclination to be compassionate and patient
in the face of stubborn refusal to leave off unwanted or unwarranted adulation
often transform to a particular disgust and disinclination to be empathetic or
understanding.
“She does indeed, Graham. As I stated, I have discussed the matter thoroughly
with her, and she has approved of many of my suggestions. I impressed upon her
that you were ideally suited to care for both the land itself and the animals,
given your affinity and comfort with horses and with labor in general. She
remarked that you had exhibited a high degree of intelligence and care with
regard to your charges the day that she was collected from her farm, and thus
had every confidence that you would husband her resources well. You have worked
hard and well for me and my family all these years, and I would see that
service rewarded. But if you truly do not desire this change, then I will find
a suitable replacement for you. What say you?”
===============================================================================
 
To Will Scarlet, Esq., Captain of the Prince’s Guard
Although I would have preferred some advanced warning in regards to their
plotting, you will no doubt recall that we expected that the parliamentary
leaders would make this move sooner or later. Do not beat yourself up over
something that can no longer be changed, but rather focus your energies on
matters that we yet have power over.
First, I want a detailed report on the social and financial situations of Lady
Drusilla Tremane and all of her immediate family members. I need a firm,
documented understanding of her life and character; leave no stone unturned and
spare no expense. If there is something detrimental, even a whiff of scandal or
impropriety, I will need rock solid proof of its existence. Go back several
generations if you have to, but I cannot afford to have anything untoward come
to light after a decision regarding my future bride has already been made.
Second, your report on Miss Emma Shepherd was far too thin for my liking, and I
was already able to confirm through my brother that her parents received the
land directly from my parents. I want any and all written accounts of that
meeting forwarded to me. They had to have come from somewhere—find them!
 If these combined tasks are too much for you to handle directly, the second
search should be your priority and your best agent placed in charge of the
first. I trust you to do your level best as always, my friend; but remember
that more than my own happiness hangs in the balance of your discoveries.
K. Rf.
===============================================================================
 
Report: Will Scarlet to Prince Killian Sonoian.
Excerpt from The Chronicles of King William I, of the House of Sonoian (Rex
Annum 29)
And on the 14th day of the Tenth month of the twenty-ninth year of his
majesty’s reign, King William held a court of justice, granting leave for
petitions to be brought forth unto his royal presence and decided upon at his
pleasure…
And there also came unto the court a young man and a young woman, whose belly
waxed round with child. Both of these personages humbled themselves before His
Majesty and craved the boon of asylum and sanctuary from persecution and an
audience in private with the King’s person. And being of a kind and indulgent
disposition, our great sovereign did both grant them their application for safe
passage and sojourn throughout his lands and did condescend to receive them in
the Privy Chamber, amid the presence of his private secretary, Her Majesty
Queen Matilda, and His Highness Prince William.
The official copy of chronicles ends here, providing no further reference to
the couple or to the results of the private audience. As you impressed the
import of this search upon me in your last letter, my lord, I do hope you will
forgive the lengths I went to in order to produce the following enclosures.
Excerpt from the personal diary of Prince Liam Sonoian (Aged 12)
14.10.KWS29
Another court of justice today. Tedious business, but necessary all the same;
for if a King cannot be appealed to as the highest mediator and distributor of
justice in the land, then his position is empty and futile.
One small matter of note occurred. A young man came with his lady, begging for
a private audience. Father agreed quickly enough, and yet the pair presented
him with quite the dilemma. Apparently, they had fallen madly in love against
the advice and will of her father and step-mother, a matter further complicated
by the fact that she is the heiress to a great deal of land and he is naught
but farmer stock. Such arrant knavery and affrontery on his part to abuse and
sully the noble bloodlines of a lady whose shoes he is not fit to carry! And
for her to so forget her exalted station in life and the duties and
responsibilities incumbent in her name and inheritance!
Had it been my choice, I would have the villein whipped and sentenced to hard
labor for life! The lady should have been cloistered in a nunnery, and the
child of such polluted lineage placed among the orphans of paupers so that she
might never make pretensions to a higher station than the debased classes.
Mother wept when I told her this later, saying that I did not yet understand
enough to show the appropriate amount of compassion due to both of them.
Perhaps that is true, but I still wouldn’t have gone out of my way to provide
for them. If they had cared about a roof over their heads and a means to fill
their bellies, they should have considered that before they embarked on their
wicked liaison, married or not! When playing later with Milah and Killian, all
she could do was sigh about how tragically beautiful the lady had appeared in
her fine, yet worn gown, and about how pretty her baby would be. She must not
remember how wrinkled and odorous Killian was when he first…
Excerpt from the personal diary of King William Sonoian
… (14.10.29) act of mercy? Or is this an act of political expediency that I am
cloaking behind a mask of charity and piety? In either case, it is clear from
the size of Lady Snow’s belly alone that the couple cannot be parted by men or
gods at the point. Her young Shepherd seems quite determined to protect her
from the wrath of her parents, and I cannot help but admire his fervent
devotion; there is something admirable and noble in his convictions, not that
those very convictions were proof against the powers of seduction and love, of
course. Regardless, I have chosen to help them for now and cannot unmake my
promise.
Memo: Send to the royal warden and sheriff to find an adequate parcel of land
on which to place the family.
Though the Lady swears it is yet early, I sense that the heir to the Duchy of
Malfi shall be born sooner rather than later. Must see to it that they are
settled as swiftly as possible. For now, they remain guests in our home, but
lodged in the Swan Room at the opposite end of the palace. After all, their
presence here as seekers of asylum requires the utmost discretion and secrecy,
and even the most loyal of servants are prone to harmless gossip now and again…
22.10.29
The babe has been born. My wife and I have been asked to stand as guardians
should the need ever arise, and what a story that will make some day should the
Duke and his new Duchess not produce another child! Not a day old, and already
the little Lady Emma has had quite the adventurous existence…
Official Deed of Title, as entered on the Rolls of the King’s Household gifts
and expenditures for the 29th year of His Majesty’s reign
Three (3) Acres of land with one (1) cottage situated on the NW quadrant…etc.,
attached to the Royal Hunting Lodge commonly known as Thistledown Hall. This
deed entitles the bearer to all rights and privileges accorded to owners of
property, and furthermore exempts the bearer from all levies and taxations of
chattel and goods. In the event of military conscription or invasion, the owner
and bearer of this deed must report to the nearest town or village which
maintains a garrison or detachment of the Royal Guards as required by the
King’s law for owners of property, etc.
Note: I have anticipated your desire for knowledge and familiarized myself with
the further particulars.
The Duchy of Malfi lies within The White Kingdom, just on our eastern border.
As I am certain you are aware, my Lord, the principality is quite impressive
and has been a much disputed territory in the past. The current Duchess, the
Lady Regina is the wife of the deceased Duke Leopold; he died some time ago
without other issue than the Lady Snow. As of this moment, Lady Regina retains
the rights and revenues to all of the properties; however, she has refused
several offers of marriage put forth by King George and has insisted that the
Lady Snow not be declared legally dead. Should either eventuality come to pass,
the Duchy would revert to the Crown or it would become her husband’s. She has
continued to pay agents charged with discovering her step-daughter’s
whereabouts.
As you already spoke to your brother on this matter, I feel obliged to inform
you that His Majesty has had his own agents looking into the matter of Miss
Emma Shepherd. They aren’t as good as I am, my Lord, but no doubt they will
find her trail soon enough. I await further orders on how to proceed.
W. Scarlet
===============================================================================
 
Report: Will Scarlet to Prince Killian Sonoian
As yet there has been startlingly no progress regarding the investigation of
the Lady Drusilla and the wider Tremane family. And I truly mean no progress,
for my seconds have found absolutely no record of the family beyond this
present generation. Her sister Lady Darla married James, Viscount of Midas
several years ago; Lord Henry Tremane and Lady Cora Tremane’s marriage is
mentioned in the Chronicle, but these are all the official notices and
instances uncovered so far. I will redouble my efforts.
W. Scarlet
===============================================================================
 
To Will Scarlet, Esq., Captain of the Prince’s Guard
The situation regarding Malfi will no doubt be a delicate one all around,
especially if it turns out that my father never made good on his promises to
Lady Snow. Hearing that his grief overcame his kind nature in such a way is a
personal blow, Will; but the political implications could be disastrous if it
comes to light. Sound the Duchess out and make tentative overtures regarding
the whereabouts of her step-granddaughter.
K.Rf.
Chapter End Notes
     I am trying to keep things predominately within the OUAT universe,
     but I couldn’t resist using a literature-nerd reference with Malfi.
     Written by the particularly violent and bloodthirsty Jacobean
     playwright John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi is about a woman who
     marries a man who is her social inferior. Webster was a contemporary
     of both Shakespeare and Marlowe, though younger than both of the
     great tragedians. In the movie Shakespeare in Love, a young Webster
     is cast as Ethel the pirate’s daughter (Romeo’s less well-known first
     love) and fired by Shakespeare before rehearsals begin.
***** Chapter 10 *****
When given time to pause and reflect upon the matter—a rare occurrence, as her
nights are just as fulfilling and engaging as her days—Emma realizes that never
before in her life has each moment been so thoroughly ripened and enjoyed. The
long distant, rosy-hued hours of her childhood gave way to hard, unyielding
minutes and seconds of back-breaking toil. While she had never descended to the
misery of abject poverty of so many other friendless farmers, she had managed
the impressive feat of keeping body both fed and clothed; but in ensuring her
own survival, the nurture of her spirit and uplifting of her soul had not been
taken much into account. She had always reveled in any task that allowed her to
commune with nature, but the death of her parents rendered her affinity with
the soil and season into a vital necessity and not an activity enjoined for its
own sake. She endured and survived, but she never thrived. Nor indeed did she
ever take her future happiness into account, her only forethought going into
which crops to plant where and how best to feed her sheep and chickens.
 
Thus, at the beginning of her second month as Sophia’s governess and Killian’s
mistress, she found herself in the heretofore unknown position of possessing
the leisure to both reflect on her recent past and anticipate her approaching
future. She had never given thought to having a child of her own, much less
contemplated whether or not she possessed the desire to become a mother nor her
own fitness to such a daunting, beautiful task. Once the train of thought
presented itself, she immediately began to examine her own experience as a
daughter. Right up until her husband’s death in the war, Emma believed that
Snow had been quite near perfection as a mother; indeed, she had never been
placed in a position where her two roles as wife and as caregiver to her child
had ever been opposed to each other. However, when confronted with the reality
of a possibly long life lived without her beloved spouse, Snow had most
definitively discovered that without her true love and soul mate, continued
existence and the support and care of her daughter weighed very little in the
balance.
 
Her mother had, of course, never admitted as much out loud; in truth, after
receiving the news of David’s demise, she had said comparatively little in the
ensuing years. It was as if all color, light, and brighter emotions had
perished along with him, as though in that one moment, Emma had lost both
parents in a single killing blow. Only with her encounter with Sophia and
subsequent introduction to Killian had such possibilities returned to her; not
because Emma required a man in her bed or a child to care for to bring
happiness back into her life, but because she herself had been closed off and
had protected herself from feeling and wanting and needing joy. For in her
limited experience, love and happiness were fleeting, yet sorrow and pain were
infinite; so she feared pleasure in nearly all of its guises—reluctant to feel
good only to feel agony—and always sought the means of embittering or
forestalling her few delights.
 
Where fate did not present such opportunities for sabotage, Emma managed to
discover excuses; however, at the beginning of that second month of her
residence as governess and mistress, the eighth and hottest month of the year,
Francine, that wonderful repository of servants’ gossip, had been the first to
inform her of the King’s impending visit to Thistledown Hall. Emma had quite
naturally found the prospect of royal scrutiny to be daunting in the extreme,
but more unsettling to her mind was the uninhibited passion and bliss she found
in Killian’s bed. Her mind drifted back to the first night in his rooms, to the
first night they had discovered how well matched they were in their willingness
to experiment with those “alternative paths to pleasure” to which he had made
reference…to so many overwhelming and delightful firsts…
 
Suddenly shy and uncertain of herself after her short speech, Emma totally
immerses herself in pleasuring Killian. She opens her mouth and relaxes her
throat, swiftly taking every glorious inch of his cock as far back as she can,
and is rewarded by her name falling from his lips like a curse and a prayer. A
darted glance from beneath her lowered lids reveals his dark head thrown back,
eyes closed in ecstasy, mouth parted and gasping for breath. When she can take
no more and swallows around the hot, velvety shaft before taking in air, a
primal sound somewhere between a moan and a growl vibrates through his chest
and into her. She relaxes her throat again, slowly letting go of his thick
length and swirling her tongue to map the fine differences in texture and heat
and to gauge his responses.
 
She pulls back only to thrust forward again, careful neither to gag nor in
anyway resist his penetration. She breathes deep, inhaling and savoring the
slightly bitter, musky, and inherently Male scent of his arousal and his body.
Yet for all the primal desire raging through the both of them, the primitive
and carnal need of this moment, it is she who possesses him—she who holds all
power, even in her eagerness to please and delight him. He moves cautiously,
thrusting his hips forward gently so that she may easily anticipate his
motions. Desperate for air, yet still greedy for his enjoyment, she wraps her
hand as far around the base of his cock as possible; one hand over the other,
she strokes his slickened shaft, alternatively sucking and licking at the
bright red crown. “Gods, Emma! I want to tie you to my bed and spend hours
inside your mouth!”
 
She hums in satisfaction, hearing the tremor of need in his voice and with it
the truth of his words. She pauses in her fondling to take him deep once more,
spreading more of her saliva and the beaded moisture that had seeped from the
tip of his cock as she had suckled and teased him. “But that’s not all you want
me tied up for. Tell me, Killian. Tell me all your desires, knowing that I want
you too. I am a blank slate when it comes to bed sport; share with me your
wicked thoughts.”
 
“I want to tie you up in my bed and keep you there for days! I promise to be
kind and take care of all your needs. I’ll fuck you senseless, drive you mad
with wanting my cock and wanting me to come. You will come over and over again,
but you will have to earn each orgasm of mine. I’ll bathe you with my tongue,
with soft cloths and then smooth your skin with scented oils. I’ll feed you
delicacies and give you sweet wine to drink, but you won’t be allowed to leave
me—to leave my bed.”
 
And all without guile, Emma had uncovered his deepest need and his darkest fear
where she was concerned. He gave her his body and his experience; while she
could deny him anything that caused her discomfort or distress, he only asked
that she never leave his bed with either of them yet unsatisfied. He had
married for love and been a devoted spouse, but something had quite clearly
gone horribly wrong for Killian. While she had never known the secrets of her
parents’ bedchamber, Emma knew that they had been both in love and sexually
compatible. In the prince’s case, there had obviously been something between
husband and wife which had disconnected the one from the other, and whatever it
was had left Killian scarred, broken, and wanting. His own needs and desires
had been so neglected and so denied that the idea of fulfilling them left him
in pain and feeling ashamed.
 
Emma pulled back, looking up at him with honest sympathy in her eyes.
Reverently, she placed a kiss to each of his hipbones before resting her head
against his thigh, an embrace both innocent and intimate. “I cannot promise you
perfection. But never be shamed by what you want or what you feel. If you ask
anything of me, I will try; if you need anything of me, do not be afraid that I
will turn you away. We may never have uninterrupted days to devote to such
pleasures, but the thought of being tied to your bed arouses me more than I can
say. I will not be denied being frightened by the power of what I feel and how
deeply I yearn to please you, but trust me with your desires, Killian, and I
will trust you with my life and body.”
 
Unable to resist the urge to see him and gage his response, she finally lifts
her gaze to his face, rewarded with the sight of his whole face relaxed in an
expression of peace and wonderment. His hand hovers in the air above her head
as if he yearns to touch her and yet fears that to do so would shatter the
illusion. With a gentle, knowing smile, Emma presses a kiss to his palm before
taking his hand in hers and leading him toward the bed. Without taking her eyes
from his, she crawls backward onto the smooth, cool sheets and sprawls against
the mounded pillows. She keeps her body open and bare, trembling at her own
wanton daring, yet not yielding to any coy modesty or shyness that would bid
her cover and conceal the flesh that aches and burns for his possession…
 
Emma cannot hold back the moan that vibrates low in her throat and then
throughout her body at the memories, a sound which brings her back to the
present moment of frustration both mental and carnal. Having made certain that
Francine has Sophia’s nap time well in hand, Emma resolutely marches down to
the library that serves as Killian’s study. The mellow, hushed tones of
Thistledown’s steward and the prince’s responses reach her ear quickly enough
to warn her to pause a moment to collect herself—unless some emergency
regarding Sophia were concerned, she should exhibit no signs of heightened
emotion or flushed distress, which would naturally lead to the idle chatter of
loose tongues. She takes several deep breaths before advancing toward the open
doors and politely coughing to alert the men to her presence.
Killian sits behind his desk, dark head bent over a mess of ledgers and papers
that no doubt detail the elaborate inner workings of the vast estate he calls
home. While she has been sharing his bed for a month now, seeing him thus
pointedly reminds her that he is more than just lord of one manor, more than
just Sophia’s father, more than just the man who worships her with his body
every night. The scraps of paper take on their true colors as letters from
kings and counts, from foreign courts as well as domestic pleas for justice. He
has never looked more distant and regal than he does in this precise moment.
 
But then his head comes up and his eyes lock upon her and, though the change in
his expression is nearly indecipherable, his gaze softens and becomes something
more approachable. The commanding, noble bearing remains, yet gone is any trace
of the cold, forbidding aura of the majestic power that ever flows through his
veins.
 
Mr. Fairfax continues his thought from his position sitting on the other side
of the Prince’s desk before realizing that he no longer holds the entirety of
his lord’s attention. She drops into a correct, unimpeachably dignified curtsy
once both gentlemen have turned their heads toward her. “Your Highness, Mr.
Fairfax, my apologies to you both for interrupting, but I was wondering if I
might have a moment of your time, my Lord.”
 
The fondness in his smile is unmistakable, for it only ever appears when the
subject of his daughter is brought up—and, less noticeably by all parties
concerned, whenever Emma comes into view or mind. “My precious offspring is
napping you mean, thus leaving you for the nonce free to attend to other
matters. I know all too well just how fleeting these moments of respite can be.
We can continue with my correspondence later, Fairfax; just make certain that
my instructions for Will go out as soon as possible.”
 
Killian follows the older man toward the doors while Emma advances further into
the room and away from any prying eyes in the hallway. She finds herself drawn
to his workspace, curious as to the origin of every scrap of parchment, every
blob of wax and the seals impressed into them. So many different places and
people whose names would have little to no meaning for her, but all of whom are
tied to the Prince in some way—as if for every letter writer there is a
different version or facet of the man she knows so intimately.
 
A part of her mind registers the sound of the doors being closed and locked, so
she does not startle when she hears his soft approaching footfalls on the
carpet, but she does shiver when she feels the heat of his body all along her
back. He does not touch her—simply enjoys being close to her and knowing that
she has developed such a keen, heightened sensual awareness of him. “I doubt
Fairfax is in a position to know the precise meaning of it, but there’s a faint
and pale flush to your cheeks and across your lovely collarbones, Emma. I can
only think of two reasons why your creamy skin would be blushing so, my dear.
Would you like me to hazard a guess--?”
 
“I can’t do this, Killian. I can’t act as Sophia’s governess any longer.”
 
The hand that had been skimming the air above her shoulder and her arm suddenly
stills and then clenches tightly into a fist, knuckles turning to white. The
nose that had been brushing gently behind her ear halts, and she can hear his
sharp, hissing intake of breath. Whatever he had expected her to say, what she
just said was not it.
 
“You’ve been here just a month and yet you already have adjudged yourself to be
what? Incapable of teaching my daughter? Or is there something else you no
longer desire?”
 
Emma dares a glance over her shoulder, but his expression is unreadable once
more, distant and cold and arrogant. She moves toward the window, watching
insects and birds dart to and fro among the plants and flowers of the garden
and the motes of dust caught between the golden sunbeams. “I cannot teach her
to be a lady; yes, there are certain skills that I can impart to her, but I am
not formally educated. You and your brother no doubt had the best tutors at
your disposal and your daughter deserves no less. I’ve never been to court, so
I can’t teach her all she’ll need to know about politics and intrigues. The
king will spend five minutes with her and realize that you’ve lost your senses
and hired a complete and utter fraud--”
 
He places a hand on her shoulder and spins her toward him, grabbing her and
shaking her gently before bracketing her face between his palms. “So we come to
the crux of your fears! Emma love, if I did not believe in your knowledge and
your capabilities, I never would have entrusted Sophia to you in any capacity.
I have not told you this, but since the moment I met you, I have believed that
you were born for more than the life of a common farmer. I know nothing for
certain—just what I feel in my gut to be true. Your parents may be gone, but
they left their stamp on you, Emma. You may not have been to court, but the
effortless grace with which you move, your poise and posture no matter the
situation, the elegance and refinement in every line and curve of your form… I
am convinced that no matter how they choice to live and end their days, one or
both of them began in more exalted circumstances.
 
“And just by being around her, by walking and talking and breathing and being,
you are showing her how to behave and comport herself like a lady of her
station. But you are also teaching her the basics of time management and estate
management. She may not be able to make her own herbals and distill soaps and
perfumes as she gets older, but in teaching her these practical skills you show
her where such things come from, the labor and care that go into maintaining
and managing a household, and the value of a day productive and well-spent. And
yes, I will need to bring in scholars to train and educate her intellect more
thoroughly, but I would rather shelter her from the wider world for a little
while longer. Royal children occupy a very precarious position, Emma; they
belong to the people from the instant they are born until the moment they shut
their eyes for the last time. My brother and I were not truly allowed to be
children, to be anything other than dutiful, responsible sons of the kingdom;
and I wanted something better for my daughter and have fought tooth and nail
for years to give her these carefree days.”
 
The intensity of his commitment to his daughter and the depth of his belief in
her rock her to the core. His words raise once more the spectre of her mist-
shrouded origins, bringing to mind the hundreds of questions that were never
answered because she had never had the courage or the inclination to speak them
aloud and how all possible discovery of answers were buried with her mother.
But it is his conviction, his absolute faith in her as a guide and companion
for the most adored and precious person in his life that melts her heart and
makes her yearn for this man all the more.
 
Without taking a moment to reflect on the fact that though the main doors are
locked there are other entrances to the library, without pausing to remind
herself that they must be entirely circumspect in all of their interactions,
and without acknowledging that they mutually decided that their liaison ran a
greater risk of exposure should they not confine their carnal activities to his
bedroom and the night, Emma molds her chest to his and kisses him fiercely.
Killian freezes for only a fraction of a moment before his arms twine around
her back and removes the little remaining distance between them. She keens and
whimpers at the obvious heat and hardness of his arousal, desperate yet
wordless demands to be taken, to be filled, to be ravished.
 
Her lips trail across his jaw and up to his ear, where she catches the lobe
between her teeth and nips and sucks on the tender, responsive flesh. Her
breath is hot, yet he shivers convulsively. “So there was another reason for
the rosy flush of your skin when you first entered!”
 
His dark chuckle vibrates along her skin, heightening her arousal even further.
“I was hoping that one day you would decide to come to me, but I didn’t dare
presume…”
 
Emma places a finger across his lips, eyes open and staring at him in absolute
puzzled wonderment. “And why should you not presume to summon your mistress
when the need strikes you to be thoroughly and wantonly sated? I know that my
first day here—that encounter in the nursery was a moment of abandon and
reckless insanity. But Killian…I thought I made it plain that you can trust me
with any secret desire, any previously forbidden fantasies you wish to indulge.
And in turn I promised to trust that whatever we do will bring us both pleasure
and to trust you to keep my reputation in mind. You have not given me cause to
doubt you.”
 
“And yet you question my sanity over my decision to make you Sophia’s
governess?”
 
“That is entirely a question of my suitability to be teaching a Princess how to
behave like a lady of pedigree and privilege.”
 
“Well, I certainly hope you don’t intend of teaching her just yet about the
proper reception of her gentlemanly suitors in the boudoir. She is only 4 after
all, despite being quite precocious.”
 
Emma slaps his chest, mouth open in semi-mock-horror. “For shame! That lesson
can wait for some years to come, and no doubt by then she will have another
governess more suited to teaching her all that is entailed by her position as
Princess and noblewoman.”
 
“If I had my way, she’d never grow a day older or need to learn any of these
things; she and you and I would happily spend each day together as if we hadn’t
a care or a burden or a duty in the world. And anytime not spent with her would
be spent with just the two of us, preferably naked.” Killian catches her hand
just before it makes contact with his chest for a second time, pressing a hot,
open-mouthed kiss to her palm.
 
“So, my wicked temptress, since your desire brought you to my door, what is it
that you yearn for? What debauched and decadent thoughts are swirling behind
your siren’s eyes?” They had learned together fairly early on in their carnal
encounters that both found it arousing and titillating to verbalize their needs
and desires to one another, either as an adjunct to foreplay or to heighten the
entire experience. So, Emma is unsurprised by his willingness to fulfill
whatever fantasy she may share and the obvious and open longing for her to
express her desires in detail. Her eyes flick to the luxurious leather chair
that sits behind his desk and to the littered workspace itself, seeing them
wantonly wrapped around each other.
 
With a salacious grin, she spins him around and pushes him to sit in his
appropriate position for dealing with business. She lifts her gown high above
her thighs, straddles her legs on either side of his, and perches herself in
his lap. Emma doesn’t usually act the aggressor during their sensual play, but
in her choosing this place and moment, Killian does not in the least mind
surrendering himself over to her possibly less than tender mercy. She takes his
left hand in her right, lacing their fingers together and pressing palm to
palm; her eyes and seemingly her thoughts remain on their joined hands, caught
in the hot, yellow light pouring in through the windows.“I couldn’t stop
thinking about our first real night together…and then about having your hands
on my body.”
 
“And just where and how on your luscious, divine body would you like my hands,
my dear Emma? Shall I obey your every command, or do I have leave to touch and
caress you as I think will please you best? Be my goddess, and I a lowly novice
desiring only to worship you?” He gasps as the hand wandering up her stockinged
leg reaches the desire-flushed bare skin just above her garter, never losing
his wonder and engrossment in just how tender and silky her flesh becomes when
heated by carnal musings. He brushes a kiss across their interlaced knuckles
before reaching to support the back of her head, drawing her long throat
forward. Emma releases her own shocked breath when his right thumb brushes over
her wet core and his mouth begins to lave and suck her sensitive neck.
 
Enjoying the sensation of being thoroughly ravished by these relatively
innocent touches, her eyes flutter shut and her mind barely notices the world
outside the window. And yet a part of her must not only see, but also infer and
begin to comprehend what it is she saw, for her eyes startle open and her body
becomes rigidly unresponsive in Killian’s arms. “Emma? What’s wrong dearest?”
 
Without a word she disentangles their bodies, but not their hands, and drags
him with her to the window. She looks right and left at the bleached blue sky,
searching for some sign of what she’s certain she saw. “There! Look at the
number of birds flocking south! I don’t recall seeing so--”
 
Killian tucks an imaginary curl behind her ear, more concerned about her than
he has ever been before. “Birds fly south for the winter all the time, Emma. So
there are a few more than usual; what could possibly be so distracting about
that?”
 
He reaches for her again, pulling her in his arms and lifting her chin so he
can see her face more openly. Her eyes glaze in distracted thought and not with
the passion of only moments agone. He leans down to kiss her lips, but though
hers are parted there is not response to him as her thoughts continue to whirl
somewhere other than the present. “We were discussing your body’s desire for
mine, love. May we return the subject to more pleasurable avenues than the
seasonal migratory habits of birds?”
 
“Seasonal! You are a genius, my love! Follow me! I have my father’s journals
for the farm in my room!” Without waiting for a response and pressing a hard,
swift kiss to his lips, Emma drags him along behind her. She unlocks the doors
to the library, destroying their privacy and any chance of a more heatedly
intimate interlude. While his brain cannot precisely recall anything other than
his amorous thoughts and his petulance at having been denied a rare embrace
with his beloved, nor has he quite registered her use of a previously avoided
endearment, part of him registers the oddity they must present to anyone else
roaming the corridors of the manor; for it is not often that one may see a
simple governess and farmer’s daughter commanding about the son of a king and
compelling him to follow her as if he were an errant schoolboy.
 
They reach her room and Emma begins frantically pawing through a small wardrobe
trunk tucked in the corner near the more spacious piece of furniture provided
to store her clothes and such. A few swatches of fabric fly through the air
behind her, careless landing and piling themselves upon one another; assorted
notions—buttons, ribbons, spools of thread and such—quickly follow. Suddenly,
Killian can hardly hear the rapid turning of pages over the pounding of his
heart; a garment, flimsy and pale ivory arrests nearly all of his attention.
Indeed, if not for the fact that a thimble tumbled down the mound of fabric to
the floor, he would have never recognized that he had certainly seen this
particular shift before and the dark stain marring the otherwise perfect cloth.
Unaware of the shift of his thoughts and his occupation on some other line of
reasoning, Emma continues to riffle through the small collection of leather-
bound volumes.
 
She finally gasps, still absorbed in the pages before her eyes and whatever
information is contained therein. “Here! My gods, Killian! You have to tell
others; you have to warn everyone!”
 
“Slow down, Emma! What am I warning people about? What’s going on?”
 
Her face is pale and troubled, a frantic earnestness filling her eyes. “Ten
years ago, there was a particularly bad winter; do you remember it?”
 
“The one that came early and killed thousands, only to leave even more
thousands to starve? It was hard to forget, love.”
 
“Well I’m almost certain that it will happen again! My father kept a journal of
the farm, plotting out that year’s yields and such. But he also kept a record
of the weather and anything out of the ordinary. Right now, it’s just the
beginning of the eighth month—still firmly summertime—and yet massive numbers
of birds are already heading south for the winter. See here for the same date
as today: ‘Wheat still a month from ripe. More than 50 flights of various birds
spotted.’ And again, over and over, he reports at least that many flocks
passing over head. And then, for the ninth month: ‘Snows fell unexpectedly.
Most crops utterly destroyed. Tavern that night—same all over the kingdom.’
It’s happening again, Killian! You have to get your people in the field now!
You have to send out letters to the entire countryside, or the kingdom will
starve again!”
 
===============================================================================
 
To King William II, etc.,
 
Dear brother, forgive me for the brevity and short tone of this missive. I have
it upon good authority that we will have a harsh and early winter. I will send
a more thorough report at length, but I must insist that you send out a warning
and a command to every royal farm in the kingdom. The crops must be harvested
now, or as soon as possible, or we may face yet another winter like the one
weathered ten years ago during father’s reign. Consult the chronicles and other
almanacs as you must. I am informing all of my lands and tenants to be
prepared.
 
With humble obedience and affection,
 
Killian R.F.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Emma’s definitive pronouncement about the impending early winter causes an
uproar and a flurry of frantic activity in the normally productive yet placid
household and lands of Thistledown Hall. While it would be normal to see
couriers steadily arriving and leaving to send out the Prince’s various
correspondence, the sheer number of liveried riders racing away to far off
cities has never before been matched as far as living memory can recall. Upon
hearing her account of her father’s journal, Killian had immediately
conscripted her to help himself, Mr. Fairfax, and the steward’s clerk in
writing out fair copies of the warning to be sent throughout the countryside.
He had dictated the wording of the message and from there the four of them had
labored tirelessly to produce as many letters as humanly possible; no sooner
had the ink been sanded and dried, but there was a messenger ready and waiting
to receive his copies and the locations to which he was supposed to deliver
them.
Yet in their haste to get the warning out, neither Killian nor Emma had
forgotten Sophia; with a single look that spoke to the rapport established
between them, she had called for one of the maids to inform Francine of the
situation and for her to bring the child to them once she had finished her nap.
Upon reaching the library, Sophia had gasped in a combined fright and awe to
see the heretofore pristine space transformed by the superabundance of candles
and the milling crowd of couriers surrounding her father and the other
writers.  Killian’s head shoots up at the sound, somehow heard over the press
and noise of so many bodies, and quickly waves for his daughter to come join
him at his desk; the fact that he would normally put down his work and get up
from his chair instinctively alerts the bright girl to the gravity of the
situation. Never before has he allowed his work or his station in the kingdom
to prevent or distract him from his responsibilities and care as a father.
And though it pains him, he knows that more lives are at risk than can be
countenanced—he must put the good of the kingdom before the emotional needs of
his only child; compromise has never before taken upon itself such an ugly,
abhorrent visage to him. Sensing her distress when she approaches him, Killian
quickly wraps his arms about Sophia and lifts her into his lap so that she can
see the pages scattered upon his desk. “What’s wrong, Papa?”
Her quavering, childish voice poignantly reminds him of how very, very young
she is and that he needs to show no fear—he is her only rock in this world and
he cannot fail her. “You know that Papa and you are very important people in
this kingdom, yes? Well, my little love, there are times when being important
means doing what is best for everyone. I have made a promise to you, that you
will always come first—and in my heart, you always will be. According to Miss
Emma, the snow and cold of winter are going to be coming sooner this year, and
we do not think that other people in the kingdom know about this. There are
probably some people like Miss Emma, who know how to read the signs in nature
and who know that winter will be early, but they may not be as important as you
and me so others may not listen to them. Papa and Miss Emma and Mr. Fairfax—we
are sending letters to your Uncle Liam and to other important people to let
them know to start the harvest now, so that when winter comes, we will have all
the crops in and the animals safe in their barns.
“And we need to do this very quickly, because we don’t know exactly when the
storms and cold will arrive. If we work very hard for the rest of the day
and tomorrow, then we can let everyone in the kingdom know what is happening,
but that means that I won’t be able to spend time with you for the next few
days, nor will Miss Emma. You will still have Francine to play with you, but
you will not see me or Miss Emma for play or at meals. Do you understand, my
Sophia?”
Though her lower lip had begun to tremble, her chin takes on the hard, stubborn
line that he knows all too well. She places her hands on his cheeks,
relentlessly searching his eyes as if reading his very soul; once more, he is
struck by her uncanny knowledge of the world around her and her wisdom. “I
understand. As much as I love to play with you, Papa, there are people who need
your help; and if something bad happens to those people, it would make you very
sad and that would make me very sad. I’ll miss you and Miss Emma, but I know
that you aren’t going far and that you are helping our people.”
The room around them had become earnestly silent, a kind of hushed awe
generated by the queenly qualities and comprehension of this young innocent;
for those not so intimately acquainted with royalty, they become aware for the
first time of the genuine sacrifice and duty bred into those who lead by right
of blood and birth; for the rest, a sense of pride and reassurance swells at
watching their Princess so maturely and willingly accept that cost despite her
tender years. And so wrapped up is the pair in their own cocoon of love and
affection, both for each other and for their people, that neither notices the
watching stillness of their audience. Emma herself is on the verge of tears—her
heart aching for the devoted father and the dutiful Prince, for the adoring
daughter and the compassionate Princess—yet she manages the others in the room
with a few flicks of her wrists, bidding everyone be active so that the pair
need not feel awkward at having their private moment so disturbed.
She continues to make her copies with a focused dedication that might seem
suspicious were one to not note the moisture at the corners of her eyes and the
look of intense distraction upon her face; whatever thoughts pass through her
mind, they certainly do not reside with the words that flow from her pen to the
page. Rather, she is absorbed in analyzing her own feelings, the emotions that
pressed in upon her heart when listening to and watching Killian with Sophia.
There had been an aching loneliness and envy—an orphan’s lament at either not
remembering or never having been the object of such parental devotion; there
had been a fierce pride in these royal beings that she had come to see as
human—that flawed and weak as any other, the father and daughter still find
within themselves the strength to do what is best for the many; and also a
different kind of pride in having been given the chance to come to know these
lofty mortals. But the most surprising, the most shockingly breathtaking of all
the feelings to assault her in those moments? A fiery, consuming, undeniable
love.
The height and depth and breadth of her own devotion and adoration for both
Killian and Sophia swept her off balance and struck her nearly blind and dumb.
She had quite naturally been concerned about the disruption of her charge’s
routine and lessons, but she also finds herself extremely bothered by the
possibility that Sophia would feel wounded or neglected by her and Killian’s
necessary absence, worrying that she might be too young to fully comprehend the
reasons for that temporary separation and be significantly injured by it. Nor
had she truly forgotten the interrupted interlude between herself and her
lover. She had not meant to abandon their passion for one another, and
certainly a part of her had known and recognized that her Prince’s dedication
to his responsibilities and his peoples’ welfare would always taken precedence
over his amorous attentions to her; yet she fretted and was apprehensive that
he might have misconstrued her momentary inattention which had led to their
current predicament and flurry of activity.
Emma longs to go over to his desk and most emphatically reassure him that her
desires and affections have not adversely altered or diminished in any
respect—quite the opposite, rather—however, doing so in the midst of preventing
a crisis and in a room full of idle, curious observers serves neither of them.
A gentle, but insistent tap upon her shoulder breaks her mind’s absorption, and
she finds Sophia patiently waiting for her undivided attention. Although she
has known the girl to have an open and affectionate nature, it still surprises
her when the child climbs up into her lap, compelling Emma to wrap her arms in
a tight embrace around the little body. A further shock strikes her when Sophia
does the same as she did with her father and places her hands on Emma’s face.
“Make certain that Papa and you and Mr. Fairfax stops to eat
something—they always forget when anything important like this happens. I’ll
miss you, but I know that Papa needs you more than I do. Take care of him,
please.”
She pulls Sophia closer and holds onto her tighter, once more near to tears at
the gentle, innocent affection of the child and the way her own feeling wrench
at her heart. Certainly naïve and unaware of the nature of Emma’s relationship
with her father, Sophia yet knows her well enough and trusts her with the
Prince’s well-being—a trust of which Emma has every intention of being worthy.
“I promise to make sure they take a rest. Can you and Francine help with that
and let cook know to send in some rolls and cold meats? Something light and
quick that they can eat easily by the fire?”
A grave nod of her head, followed by a quick spring from Emma’s lap to the
ground, and Sophia proceeds to her nanny, waiting patiently for her charge by
the door. With renewed joy and hope and something indefinable in her heart,
Emma goes back to work copying out the letters of warning and crossing off
courier routes as the messengers depart. And yet a part of her remains fixed,
not on the pending catastrophe, but upon observing Killian and laying plans for
when they have a moment’s respite.
 
===============================================================================
 
Several times throughout the afternoon and well into the evening hours, the
servants had come into the library to set new candles in the wall sconces and
various candelabra placed on or near the desks where the warnings were being
rapidly reproduced. Others had arrived bearing cool tea and fruit juices, as
the heat of the day combined with the myriad flames had made the room nearly
unbearably hot, and bringing simple snacks to help fuel the writers’ efforts.
Killian had finally called a halt to the flow of documents and couriers,
deeming that everyone needed rest to continue the work tomorrow. However, quite
expectedly, he had refused to budge from his desk, insisting on finishing a
more detailed letter for the King so that it could be sent out immediately at
dawn. All of the order and tidiness that had reigned over his desk that morning
was now utter chaos as letters and ledgers had been carelessly piled atop one
another to make way for fresh, clean pages of paper, newly cut quills, and the
broached and drained bottles of ink. Mr. Fairfax had left the room the instant
his employer released him to his rest; Emma had herself put up a mere token of
resistance, but only because it suited her to pretend to retire for the
evening.She had gone to her bedroom merely long enough to slip into a nightrail
and dressing gown before abandoning all thought of seeking sleep and respite
alone.
Just as the clocks throughout the house begin to chime the midnight hour, Emma
stealthily makes her way down to the kitchens to gather the means to make a
simple meal and then just as quietly goes back up to the library. Bright light
spills from the single open door into the hallway, leaving deep pools of
menacing, impenetrable darkness to either side; the comforting glow calls to
her, whispering intimately of the safety, shelter, and companionship to be
found within. Unconsciously, she quickens her pace in order to reach that haven
sooner than her caution would have allowed for; yet her haste and presence
unnoticed by all in the house, including the only other person awake and the
library’s sole occupant.
The warm, still air of the room adds to the homey glow, the sense of perfect
peace promised by the light that had pierced the black of night; Killian’s
presence enhances her sense of safety, of happiness despite his decidedly grim
preoccupation with his task. Emma quietly shifts the tray to her hip, shuts the
door and flips the lock into place before moving toward his desk. It is only
when she places the food on the cluttered surface that his absorption with
writing breaks and he registers her presence. She notices the deep shadows of
unhappiness and exhaustion beneath his eyes and feels a pang of sympathy strike
her chest. Without pause, she goes directly to him and sits on his lap; his
arms open and wrap around her waist as if this were ritual and the most
commonplace of actions between them. Killian rests his brow against her chest,
and Emma unthinkingly begins to card her fingers through his hair—nails
scratching at his scalp, fingertips seeking hardened knots of tension and
stress along his neck.
“You have done your duty for your people and more today, my lord. Yes, there is
more work to be done—and there always will be—but for now you need to refresh
yourself with food and sleep.” Although he does not raise his head, Emma feels
his mouth turn up in a grin against the fabric of her gown and robe.
“And can the patient proscribe the same for his physician? You labored just as
tirelessly as I today, dearest. Truly, your efforts gave us an entire day’s
worth of letters and warnings; who knows how many more people have another day
to get in the harvest? How many lives we may have spared or saved by letting
the kingdom and countryside know one day sooner? None of this would have been
possible without you, Emma. You are without a doubt the most amazing woman I
have ever known.” Her cheeks begin to glow rosy and she attempts to shift away
from him to collect a morsel from the tray, but his arms lock tighter about her
and prevent her motion.
“I’m being quite serious, love. You are remarkable. And yes, I will consent to
being dragged from my desk and my letter to Liam so long as you are the one
commanding my attention.” His right hand had begun a slow slide up her back and
over her shoulder while he was speaking and now it lightly rests just at the
collar of her robe over where her heart beats and trips rapidly. Tenderly and
delicately, his fingers brush against the small triangle of bare skin directly
below the hollow of her throat and slowly slide the sides of the fabric apart.
“You need food more than you need me.” Her admonishment comes out quite stern
in spite of the airy distraction that quavers in her voice, and in any other
situation, he might agree with her. Yet for all his earlier devotion to
carrying out his responsibilities, Killian remains a man and one with his own
selfish wants and needs at that; his body hungers in a multitude of ways, but
the overriding urge at this point of his day remains fixed upon satisfying
Emma’s neglected desires. His roaming hand finally succeeded in revealing the
thin linen of her nightgown—a soft, delicate fabric dyed a dusky rose that
compliments the pale cream of her skin and the green of her eyes to perfection;
the only question that lingers in his mind about this particular garment is
whether or not she knows that he picked it out precisely because the color
matches the lush pink of her nipples when she’s aroused.
“You see, that’s where you are wrong, my dear. We find ourselves once more in
sole possession and occupation of a capacious room and an extended period of
privacy. I am fairly certain that it is sufficiently dark outside that nothing
should appear to distract us from the vitally necessary revelation of what
carnal rites you and I shall be embarking on for your delectation.” Two
languorous, yet determined tugs later, the bow tied in the belt of her robe and
the one secured at the top of her shift come undone and a second wandering hand
joins its mate in delineating and discovering the curves and lines of Emma’s
body: the long sweep of thigh, the rounded angle of a shoulder. With an
unhurried fervor, Killian peels the fabric away from her flesh and uncovers
aching, impatient skin to his gaze and touch.
Her breaths become panting, melodious sighs—unconscious, unrelenting entreaties
for more. “I find that mere food, lovely no doubt though the bread and fruits
and cheeses you brought may be, pales in comparison to bringing you pleasure
and watching you transform into a goddess when I make you come. Tell me you
thoughts, Emma love. Share all your wicked needs with me.”
And disparate though her desires may be from the tender reverence of his
caress, no trepidation nor fear enters her heart or mind; her lover will be
whatever she requires him to be. She spears her fingers through his hair,
tugging harshly on the short strands, and angles his head for a deep,
plundering kiss. Her lips force his apart, and she determinedly sucks at the
lower lip, nipping it hard more than once. He moves with her, not engaging in a
duel, but letting her lead where she yearns for him to follow. Just as quickly
as the kiss began, she pulls away with another deliberate bite. “When I walked
into the library this afternoon, it was because I remember the very first
fantasy that you shared with me. My intention was to make your first dream of
me come true. But now, having watched you wield your authority, observed you
commanding others and dictating the life and death of the masses, I want you
right here. Don’t move a single page! I want you to remember—every time that
you sit here to issue some decree or hammer out the details of some treaty—that
you had me spread out across this desk for your pleasure. I want to know that
you’ll think of this always; I want to know that you will send these pages off
somewhere far away, and that no one save the two of us will know that we fucked
on top of them.”
A devious, smug grin stretches his lips—a cunning look with which Emma becomes
everyday more familiar and which she now associates with his exceptionally
erotic and pleasurable creativity. His hands now meander from their previous
occupation with her shoulders and breasts down her sides to further bunch the
soft linen of her nightgown up around her waist, and then curving around her
hips and firmly gripping the soft globes of her ass. In one fluid motion, he
lifts her and rises from his chair, gently placing her on the edge of his desk
and kneeling before her like a supplicant; with tender caresses, he coaxes her
thighs wider and slips her legs over his shoulders, pressing kisses to the
inside of each knee and dragging his lips closer and closer to her uncovered,
quivering sex. Without any prompting, she leans back on her elbows and shrugs
her robe and nightrail off her shoulders, baring her breasts to his hot gaze
and her own arousing touch. The first time he had commanded her to pleasure
himself in front of him, her movements had been shy yet far from uncertain; no
such timidity remains between them, and Killian has even been forced to
reprimand her for stroking and fondling herself while it had been prohibited to
her by their play and his express command.
Watching her knead and mound one of her breasts and pinch the already dark
rose, engorged nipple of the other, while never once looking away from his face
has become the single most carnal and inspiriting sight he’s ever seen. Over
the past month of his tutorship, her sensuality has grown, become refined and
enhanced by their shared experiences; where before she had enjoyed simple
appeasement of the senses, now she revels in exploring new sensations and
delights, thoroughly enjoys the lavish and wanton decadence Killian has
revealed to her. In this, they both possess a certain amount of luck in having
found and accepted the blatantly sexual attraction between them—for each, the
pleasure and satisfaction of their partner is paramount, creating a perpetual
cycle of seeking to outdo the other in attaining heretofore unknown peaks of
bliss and ecstasy. In those fraught, silent moments, every deity is thanked and
the universe praised, while the lovers’ eyes consume the object of their
greatest desire.
It only takes a single flick of his tongue through her moist folds and a
careful suckle of her clit before she comes for him, warm juices flowing into
his mouth as she gasps and spasms, head thrown back as her orgasm rushes
through her with unexpected intensity. He cannot hold back the masculine pride
that bursts from him in a low chuckle that has her writhing even more for him.
His left arm draws her thigh more securely to his shoulder, draping over her
hip and low across her belly; his tongue delves deep into her still trembling
core and his nose brushes through the honey-gold curls of her mound. Killian
opens his eyes, unsure precisely when he had closed them to more luxuriously
indulge his taste and smell. Emma’s head is still bowed back, arcing her chest
so that her pert breasts are thrust high into the air; her flesh shivers,
shudders as she comes down and as he laves and sucks at her nether mouth. Her
right hand splays flat on the desk, causing the minutes of creases to the
parchment and smudges of the ink. Even if it takes another bloody night and
day, he silently swears, he’ll have new copies made of every bit of business on
this desk and not let a single item she’s touched leave his possession! Gods
forbid some ambassador’s report or instructions ends up imbued with the
faintest whiff of her essence and is left to molder unappreciated and
dishonored in some musty chronicle or archive!
The thought fills him with a possessive, jealous rage and drives him to leave
Emma boneless and beyond sated this night. He plunges two fingers in her hot,
pulsating channel, twisting his wrist at the end of each thrust and curving the
tips. His rough haste makes her moan and cry out just as when his cock will
nudge her womb in ravishing, powerful strokes; and when he begins to nip and
abrade her sensitive flesh with his teeth, she truly understands what it means
to be hungered for, to be devoured by one’s lover. She moans his name, unsure
herself if she intends by her pleas to be begging for release or begging for
him to fill her. He worries her clit and the lips of her sex, dragging wordless
cries from her sinfully lush mouth—each sound increasing the already rapid beat
of his heart, the raging, needy pulse of his cock. The buttons on his trousers
ping against the hard wood of the desk and roll silently to a stop somewhere on
the carpet. He rises and takes his length in hand and strokes himself, marble
hard and hot as molten steel, teasing her sodden and aching cunt.
Desperate for what he is denying them—delaying gratification only, yet to her
aroused mind they may as well have been fasting for an eternity—Emma sits up,
joins her hand to his wrapped around the burning, velvety shaft, and drags his
mouth down to hers for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Her ankles lock around each
other, heels digging into the unyielding skin and muscle of his ass and
unsuccessfully urging him to close the distance between their bodies. Angered
at his apparent refusal, she bites down hard on his lower lip before breaking
the kiss altogether; he only has a moment to note that her eyes have never held
such insatiable fire before. She slaps him across the face, twin stars of green
fury staring accusingly at him. “I said, I want you to fuck me!”
Already hanging by a thread, his control snaps as he plunges deep into her
core, fusing their hips together. The unleashed power of every thrust has her
gasping or shrieking his name and forces her further across the desk. He drags
her body back flush to his, crushing her hips to him in a bruising grip. He
feels the bite of her nails scoring across his back and the sharp sting of
teeth to the skin just above his heart. Each pin prick of pain seems to make
their frenzy, their mad inferno of wanting blaze hotter and hotter. Reaching
blindly, one of his hands finds the belt of Emma’s robe while the other pinions
her wrists above her head. He takes a moment to unlock her legs from around his
waist, then bodily flips her onto her stomach before plunging back into her
drenched heat. Another moment and her arms and wrists are tied behind her back,
one of his hands pressing roughly between her shoulder blades and the other
uses the knots securing her in place as a handhold.
She holds her head up, arching her back slightly despite the hand pressing her
firmly to the desk and creating a new angle that has him buried completely
inside her at the end of each thrust. Somewhere in his mind, Killian knows that
she’s all but biting on her tongue to hold back the screams of pleasure, her
sounds coming no less frequently yet far more muffled than only moments ago.
Each snap of his hips, the head of his cock presses against the end of her, the
opening of her womb—he has never been as close to or as completely in harmony
with another person, never so intimately met and entwined as in this violently
erotic moment. Desperate—absolutely insane with desire and the need to fill her
with his seed, he reaches around her hips for her clit and finds it crushed
against the wooden edge of the desk, a surface now slick with her juices. Her
walls have been clamping and milking his cock since he bound her hands, but he
dedicatedly manipulates the tender, responsive pearl of flesh. Her body
contorts and writhes against his hold, her chest lifting impossibly high
despite his hand still firmly pressed against her spine. Her cannot see her
face for the curtain of hair concealing her, but a quiet, high-pitched keening
comes from the depth of her being and her pussy tightens like a vise around
him. He comes, eyes completely blinded and ears filled with a pealing ringing
to rival a thousand temple bells, entirely lost to the sensation of their
physical, emotional, and spiritual connection.
Emma wakes first, body crushed and cradled by Killian’s larger frame. She sighs
and waits for her lover to rejoin the world of the living, feeling sore and
used and the most happily content she has ever experienced in her life.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
     I realized that I needed to clear up some assorted timeline issues
     (which was why it took me a little longer to get to working on this
     chapter). I worked out a calendar, which has been added to an A/N at
     the beginning of chapter one, and assigned a birthdate to each of the
     characters to be revealed when necessary. The dating system will
     follow the non-American standard—Day. Month. Year—with the years
     being numbered in the medieval style, using the king’s initials and
     the numerical year of his reign. So Liam’s birthday reads 27. Tertia
     (or 3).KWS17 (17th year of the reign of King William I of House
     Sonoian).
     At the beginning of chapter one, which is set in Septimor (July),
     Sophia has just turned 4 years old. Emma remarks on her as appearing
     older, but it is more than possible for her to simply have tall
     genes. Also, she may sound older, but this has also been a conscious
     choice; her precocity and perceptiveness are modeled on the royal
     Tudor children—the Lady Mary Tudor, the Lady Elizabeth Tudor, Edward
     VI, and the Lady Jane Grey—who were all naturally highly intelligent
     in addition to being given a course of rigorous education as
     befitting future leaders of politics and court. In her statement to
     Emma in the previous chapter about making certain that Killian eats,
     it was meant to point out that Sophia has recognized her father in
     crisis mode before, even though he has never yet let these crises
     impinge on their family time. As with many intelligent children, she
     sees things even when the adults would keep something from her.
     At the present moment in the story Killian is 33, Emma is 28, and
     Liam is 40. Milah has been dead for just over 3 years, her ship
     having gone down when Sophia was 9 months old. Although royal
     breastfeeding practices and the weaning of infants are variable over
     time and culture, it seemed logical and possible for Milah to have
     gone away only after having mostly or completely weaned a 9 month
     old. She and Killian had been married for nearly 4 years when she
     died and she was 35 at the time.
Thankfully for the portions of Emma’s body that begin to insist on their need
to be freed, Killian wakes not long after her and pushes himself off the desk
with impressive rapidity and agility. “Gods, Emma! I’m so sorry, darling!”
She wiggles her fingers impatiently, and with another mumbled curse he unpicks
the knot on her impromptu bindings. “If you are apologizing for giving me
precisely what I asked of you, then you are a fool! If you are apologizing for
ravishing us both to a point beyond ecstasy, then I may just have to put an end
to my tuition in these matters. For your health, naturally.”
The obvious sarcasm and tease in her voice compels him to grin like an idiot,
cheekiness earns her a firm slap on her exposed arse, but the husky purr of
satisfaction in her tone and in her words fills him to bursting with pride. His
mind taunts him with an image of her by his side: dressed in silk, graceful
neck draped with diamonds and pearls, and an expression on her face that
positively screams of her utter happiness to be by his side and belong to him.
In this vision, she is the envy of all ladies and his fortune in finding her is
cursed by all men. He finishes untying her and pulls her immediately into his
arms, his hands smoothing down to massage feeling and blood back into her
abused extremities.
“I was apologizing for being so lost to the pleasure of being inside you that I
gave no thought to any discomfort that might result from our vigorous
occupation. Can you forgive me for being a mindless slave to my passion for
you?” Her answering blush and smile warm him to his toes and go far in
assuaging his guilt. One of these days, he’ll ask her why any praise causes her
to stammer and flush—perhaps during the impending string of long, cold winter
nights and when he has her once more bound and at his mercy, for in the heat of
their abandoned embraces the truth flows more easily past her lips.
She clasps his hands and laces their fingers together, glancing at them
distractedly before lifting her eyes to his. “I cannot fathom just why you
chose me, but when you speak of me like this and say such wonderful things, how
can I possibly fail to forgive you? But if you would truly be absolved of any
guilt, please let me keep my promise to Sophia about taking care of you—you
need to eat something before you perish from hunger. Don’t think I didn’t hear
the rumbling of your stomach just now!”
He eagerly submits to her fussing, unable to halt his mind from searching his
memories for the last time anyone else ever showed the same level of concern
and care for his well-being; when he realizes that he cannot recall such an
event beyond his recollections of his mother’s care during his childhood, a
part of his heart breaks for all that might have been and another piece re-
knits around the territory that he begins to think of and know as belonging
solely to Emma. Far from being displeased or shocked by this self-revelation,
Killian discovers that the thought of being under her power, of being at the
mercy of another person makes him feel strong rather than vulnerable, complete
rather than exposed and wanting.
Together, they enthusiastically devour the finger foods on the tray,
occasionally pausing to playfully nibble and suck on proffered stretches of
skin. Despite having worked in near perfect communication and harmony for the
past several hours, they yet find much to discuss regarding the plans for more
letters to be written and posted on the morrow and regarding changes to
Sophia’s lessons that will result from the shift in the seasons. When Emma
moves to gather up their dishes and remove the tray to the kitchens, Killian
grasps her wrist in one hand and takes her chin in the other to lift her gaze
toward his. “For once, my dear, I think you can be selfish and let someone else
clean up the little bit of mess you made. I have noticed that you find little
to no pleasure in having another do work which you are fully capable of
performing, and it is an admirable trait. But the tray will keep, Emma, until
tomorrow. I sincerely doubt that what remains will be enough to attract any
mice or flies in the intervening hours. Your sleep, however, cannot wait. Let
me walk you to your rooms.”
She frowns at him, only surprised for a moment that he has noted her discomfort
with being served and having her needs or wants instantly attended to by
others; but then Killian appears to possess the remarkable ability to discover
anything and everything about her with a single glance. With a resigned sigh,
she accepts the gentle support of his arm around her waist as he escorts her
toward the family wing.
 Perhaps it is the possible reprieve from her anxiety regarding the King’s
visit or perhaps it is the looming certainty of disaster and suffering on a
massive scale, but Emma finds herself feeling remarkably at peace and unusually
introspective this evening. Just as on the day she saved Sophia she could have
never envisioned herself as any man’s doxy, so now she does not know what she
would do without her lover and her student. If fate had never brought her to
Killian’s attention, then she would have been powerless to do anything about
her father’s records; even if she had been granted an audience with the
regional governor, an old journal would not necessarily have constituted enough
proof to move him to act. Untold numbers of her countrymen would not have been
forewarned and might have starved or perished by disease or exposure, perhaps
even herself. If he hadn’t asked her to become a part of his household and
teach his daughter, her days would still be spent in endless, mind-numbing
toil; if he hadn’t sought for a place in her bed, her nights would be achingly
lonely. Empty. Her life without the two of them was empty, barren, and bleak.
The gray vista conjured by this word, of the blank stretches of a vast, flat
desert sends a piercing dart of pain through her chest and causes an
uncontrollable shivering through her entire being. She feels undeniably cold
and forlorn, filled once more with an agonized grief the likes of which she has
not felt in several years—not since Snow died, abandoning her and sentencing
her to a life apart. Unconscious to the tenor of her thoughts, Killian moves
his arm from around her waist and chafes his hand up and down from her shoulder
to her elbow to restore the warmth he supposes she lost during their amorous
encounter. His action, his automatic response to a presumed need reverses her
thoughts away from her lost and wasted years. Here, with Killian and Sophia,
she is needed and wanted; her life has a bright meaning and purpose that it
never had before, because she had never allowed herself to care for another.
She had barricaded her cottage and her heart, leaving them to slowly diminish
and decay underneath a coat of whitewash; saving Sophia, then coming to know
her and adore her, coming to know and admire Killian to…
“Your door, dearest.” His words halt the flow of her thoughts, but do not alter
their pathway. She slips a hand to his face, gently tracing the darkened
hollows beneath his eyes with her fingertips. He takes a deep breath and leans
into the warm comfort of her skin against his. He can see the thoughts
practically flying through her mind as their gaze remains locked, unblinking.
Normally, he can read precisely what she’s thinking in her eyes and in her
face, yet her expression remains impenetrably fixed. So, he waits for her,
patiently accepting her caresses and tenderly imparting his own to her waist
and sides.
“Will you—You told me once that my room was my sanctuary, where I could be
undisturbed and utterly private. Would you stay with me, until I fall asleep? I
have a feeling that being private here with you would not be disturbing in the
least.” With a blush that quickly hides behind the curtain of her hair, Emma
opens her door and grasps his hand to bring him inside. The fire burns cheery
and bright, lending a soft red-orange glow by which they navigate toward the
bed. She slips her robe from her shoulders with practiced ease and climbs
swiftly beneath the covers, turning back the side she clearly intends for him.
If the shock of her request had begun to dissipate, her eagerness for him to be
in her bed further astounds him. For a moment imposed over this vision of Emma
is an image from his memory. Milah, seated in a much grander bed, back ramrod
straight against the mound of pillows; her nightgown of the finest linens,
satins, and lace cut long to cover her ankles and secured with a thicket of
ribbons up to her chin; bed linens tucked tightly on his side yet pulled loose
on hers; luxuriant hair pulled tightly into a coiled braid as elaborate as any
coiffure for a ball; bright candlelight illuminating the room, but darkness
reigning behind the drawn bed-curtains.
He shakes his head to clear the sharp, unforgiving memory and meets Emma’s
gaze. Her eyes glitter softly, invitingly in the flickering firelight. Her
blonde tresses flow around her bare shoulders. Her bed contains all that is
warm, earthly, sensual, and appealing—a haven and bower in which to rest and
rejuvenate from the cares of the day. Suddenly bold and curious as to her
reaction, Killian decides to strip completely; yes, she has seen him naked many
times before, but she has never expressly sought his attentions and enticed him
so thoroughly as she has today. His cravat had been discarded hours ago, so she
is denied a much slower, more torturous tease, but she avidly admires and
applauds the slipping of every button from its moorings. Her breathing
accelerates when waistcoat and shirt are simultaneously shrugged from his
shoulders, skimming past miles of warm, glowing flesh. Her reaction delights
him far more than he could articulate; and yet a part of him becomes guilt-
ridden for yet comparing her to his wife and finding Milah lacking in anyway.
Though she cannot divine his thoughts and yet remains ignorant of many of the
details of his marriage, Emma knows that these moments are now a test for her
in some way. She knows that there remain portions of him which she has not yet
touched, where she may never be allowed to enter let alone change. But for all
the silences and secrets still between them, she knows with certainty now that
she loves him; the ache at the thought of never having known him, the grief and
terror that arose at the possibility of losing her place in his life, in
Sophia’s life informed her precisely how she feels, more than words could
accurately define. No matter how fleeting their liaison may become in the
grander scheme of both their lives, she plans to devote every moment to loving
him as best as she possibly can. And right now, the best that she can do is
make him welcome in her bed, in her room; his presence not an invasion of her
privacy, but an enrichment.
Finally, blessedly bare to her eyes, Killian slips beneath the sheets. He lies
on his side, facing and mirroring her posture with head perched on his hand.
With a smile and a chaste kiss to his lips, Emma slides closer. His movements
are awkward at first, but they end up with arms wrapped around the other and
Emma’s head resting against his chest, ear filled with the contented sound of
his heartbeat.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Emma smiles to herself when Killian’s breathing quickly evens out in the deep,
measured respirations of sleep, knowing that whatever may yet remain unsaid
between them she understands her lover well enough to know that he would have
slept little or not at all without her. Neither of them may be accustomed to
sharing a bed with another person, but pointless worry and the cares of the
kingdom would have had him pacing back and forth in front of the fire in his
lonely room; her request that he keep her company provided him with the excuse
his mind needed to recline and relax, allowing nature to work its subtle magic.
===============================================================================
 
Killian stalks the length and breadth of the chapel like a man beset by jinn
and demons rather than angels, fists clenched in impotent rage and crushing
agony. His father’s voice echoes against the cold stones—vaulted ceiling,
incense-begrimed walls, and apathetic tombs filled with bones and charnel seem
the perfect audience and setting for the gray, lifeless sentiments thrown in
his face. Duty. Honor. Pride. Kingdom. Family. Ancient obligation. Blood and
birth.
The long-forgotten cadence of his mother’s voice joins in with a hard,
unyielding tone the likes of which he cannot recall having heard before. Her
disembodied echo takes on a shrill and accusatory quality as if shocked and
outraged by his action, his inaction, or indeed his very thoughts. Shame.
Embarrassment. Fool. Disgrace. Disappointment.
A chorus of courtiers, the voices of enemies and friends both past and present
join in the disdaining mockery; his plight clearly held up as an object of
vicious scorn and malicious entertainment as the pounding, relentless
reverberations force him to his knees, hands clutching his head from the pain
resonating through his skull in pitiless waves. He recoils when he realizes
that he kneels not on cold stone but in a puddle of hot blood and scrambles to
his feet again. But he slips, and the pool grows swift and deep, rising to
drench his flailing legs and sluice down his arms from his elbows as he
attempts yet again to rise.
“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” He startles at the pure venom and rage in the voice of
elemental thunder that overwhelms all the others, lancing fresh arrows of
torment across his mind. In place of the altar is now a marble coffin—one he
knows for a certainty is empty of a corpse—the source of the boiling scarlet
flood; the blood gushing from the sepulchre rushes ever higher, pulling against
his body like the outgoing tides and knocking him off his balance yet again. He
forces his limbs to obey him, swimming now and close to drowning in a roiling,
churning sea of blood as red lightning cracks a black and pitiless sky.
Fleetingly, he sees the broken outline of a wrecked and battered ship on the
horizon. As if the sight saps all his strength and spirit, he gives in to the
inevitable and ceases to fight the hot waves and lets them crash over him.
Yet rather than blissful, drifting oblivion every nerve blossoms with pain as
his body slams against unyielding, wet sand. He rolls to his side, coughing and
spluttering and spitting up the blood that filled his lungs, mouth, and
nostrils; his skin burns, scored and lacerated by the jagged-edge bits of bone,
glass, and rock which form the beach. When he finally manages to wipe away some
of the gore from his eyes he spies another wave-tossed body lying crooked and
wrong on the crimson sands—legs, arms, and neck all bent at impossible angles.
Moreover, the body is pristine, skin white as porcelain and hair glittering
golden amid the angry flashes of light. He cannot move his battered and
sluggish frame fast enough, crawling awkwardly through the shifting shards in
his haste to confirm what his mind would deny for eternity if denial could make
it truth.
He mournfully gathers the cold, broken corpse into his arms before truly
looking at the face and finds yet more horror to shock and shatter his mind
when he does—the bright gold curls only cover half of the head, while chestnut
locks drape about the other half. Like a jester’s mask, the marble hard face is
divided perfectly down the center—one half Milah’s with her blue eye and one
half Emma’s and her green. The mismatched orbs glitter like unclouded glass,
yet remain fixed and dead.
You destroy everything you touch.
===============================================================================
 
Killian wakes to several surprises, namely that he does not find himself alone
and soaked in sweat from his horrific nightmare. He trembles and shudders
uncontrollably, the frigid, biting air of his dreamscape having somehow seeped
into the very marrow of his bones. His normal reaction—to bolt upright into
immediate wakefulness and action—is halted by the unexpected weight of Emma’s
sleeping form pinning half of him to the bed. Having been just ripped from a
convincing vision of pressing her cold, lifeless form to his chest, he cannot
instantly credit the feel of her very warm and very alive body twined around
him. Slowly and oh so gently, he brushes his hand along her skin from its
resting place around her waist and up the curving slope of her side and breast;
every inch burns hot to his touch, feverish against his icy palm and
fingertips. The flutter of the pulse at her neck reassures him, releasing the
tight constriction of the breath in his lungs; a calming whiff of lavender is
stirred by the same puff of air into her hair, which he touches reverently. His
fingers detect the barest hint of warmth in the strand he toys with, heated by
her living flesh and the radiated heat of sleep. He’s awake and she is both
real and blessedly alive!
His arms instinctively clasp her even tighter, even closer to him so that every
corner of his being unequivocally receives the message that it was all a
dream—he has not yet lost her. He places a kiss to the top of her head, once
more breathing in her natural scent and the lavender oil she favors for her
hair. Neither contented nor truly comforted with this, he tenderly tips her
head back from its resting place against his chest and places another kiss to
her forehead. Never before has he taken the time or possessed the driving
compulsion to truly worship every inch of her, but in the emotional pendulum’s
swing from abject misery to blinding unworthiness to supplicant gratitude he
finds the fierce will and visceral need to accomplish such a liturgy of
devotion.
The line between Emma’s sleeping and waking blurs for both of them, for she had
been in the midst of her own, less traumatic dreaming when Killian’s lavish
kisses and murmurs of profound thanksgiving and adoration pressed themselves
upon her unconscious awareness. In shifting both of them to accomplish his
reverent veneration, her arms had resisted being compelled to relinquish their
hold upon him and instinctively pursued the movements of his body in order to
keep him within their compass. Her breathing deepens sharply and then comes in
faster and faster pants the more fervent and ardent his caresses and kisses
become.
His divine service, his order of adulation of her form is exquisitely thorough.
He knows for certain that she no longer sleeps when a soft nip to her
collarbone yields a whimper, but he continues without direct speech and moves a
hand to begin his devotions to her breasts. When he finally sucks a berry-sweet
nipple into his mouth, she writhes and arches beneath him, offering herself up
and submitting her being in a timeless, wordless gesture. He obliges by
unerringly burying two fingers into her tight, ready cunt and earns his name on
a breathless gasp. He quickly adds a third and ruthlessly stimulates the pearl
of her sex, feeling her quim grasp almost painfully around his questing hand.
He suckles hard and bites down on her breast, a moan of triumph breaking
through his silence when the walls of her sex wildly clench and quiver.
Her hands which had been clinging desperately to his shoulder now thread
themselves through his hair and pull. Her voiceless request for his mouth is
answered by a penetrating, ruthless kiss; even bound to his bed and receiving
the solid spanks of his hand on her flesh, even knelt before him and receiving
his cock in her mouth, even as last night bent at his pleasure and being fucked
senseless she has never felt more under his control, under his thrall than with
this kiss. She feels branded and owned, but not as if she were a mere
possession to be coveted and displayed; she feels cherish, protected. She feels
like she belongs.
She tugs at his hair as the kiss goes on and on, delirious with her need to
share her revelation with him. Yet he refuses to relinquish his command of any
part of her body; his lips and teeth and tongue do not plunder, but yet they
sound and fathom every bit of her mouth; his fingers continue their decadent
assault on her welcoming and still pulsating pussy, somehow rousing her higher
and higher with yet another orgasm swiftly rising from her depths. The hairs on
his chest both abrade and soothe the hypersensitive skin of her breasts when
she manages to writhe just high enough to brush against him. His skin is hot
and slick where it comes in contact with hers, both too much and not enough as
her body shatters once again under his maestro’s hands.
He finally releases her mouth to trail back down her breasts, but they are a
mere stopping point in his journey and have already been visited at length. His
lips stroke her mound, whisper soft as if murmuring nonsense into her skin. She
finally opens her eyes to find his hot gaze locked on her face, shards of blue
fire and black ice piercing in their intensity and focus. Her ears appear
worthless and she reads his words from his lips and the desperation in his
features: tell me you want me, tell me you want this.
“Always. I always want you, Killian.” He devours her, and for a time no more
words pass her lips save for his name. He licks his fingers clean before
plunging them back in and entreating her quim to provide more satisfaction, to
release more of the silky-sweet evidence of her arousal. He runs his tongue
along every wall, meticulously mapping and surveying every millimetre for the
slide and friction and touches that please her most, mercilessly pursuing every
glorious shudder that racks her body. He sucks at the lips of her sex, nudging
her bud constantly with his nose or brushing against it. He bites and nibbles
at the soft flesh of her inner thighs and presses chaste kisses to her
hipbones. He glories in her scent, musky yet clean, wishing that he could
wallow in it, bathe himself in her essence so that he would never have to be
without it. The ache to bury his cock into her gripping, enticing sheath burns
along his spine, but he’s greedy for more, in a desperate frenzy to make her
come and wring every last drop of passion from her ever-giving body.
He works her through a third and well on the way to a fourth orgasm when her
frantic cries and forceful wrenching of his ear reach through his fanatic
focus. “Sweet Danu, have mercy! Mercy, Killian! Mercy! I can’t—not without you!
I need—need you in--inside—inside me, Killian! Now, lover!”
He lunges gracelessly, covering her completely and crushing her into the
mattress before lining up his cock and entering her with all the finesse of a
green lad. All it takes is the gentle rippling of her cunt around him and he
spills himself, shaft and head pulsating in thick, hot streams. Emma clenches
her legs around him, rapidly flipping their positions without disturbing the
still-hard length inside her and begins to ride him with their sweat-slicked
chests and bellies sliding against each other. She presses her body harder
against his, lacing their fingers together and pinning his hands to the bed.
She keeps her rhythm slow and constant while she waits patiently, watching his
emotions flash across his face with the tightening of his jaw or a ripple of
the set of his mouth as his eyes are resolutely shuttered and lidded against
her gaze.
She lifts herself slowly while clenching the walls of her pussy around him, the
thick drag of retreat leaving her feeling momentarily bereft and abandoned, and
then releases and sheaths him once more, so that she is filled and completed in
the best possible way. Her movements pull a whimper from her prince, who
finally opens his eyes. Agony! Utter misery and desolation the likes of which
she knows on a fundamental level, yet the cause in him she does not yet
understand. She halts and rises back up above him, which causes another glimmer
of torture, another terrified glance. He sits up and gathers her in his arms,
burying his head in the valley between her breasts as he mumbles over and over
again. His words are quiet, spoken in the pitiable voice of a lost and lonely
child. “Please don’t leave me.”
She wraps herself around him as tightly as she can, hands moving in soothing
circles over his back and in his hair. Their bodies remain locked together as
they rock back and forth—lost to the moment not in desire or in pleasure, but
in intimacy and communion. His trembling eases slightly and his body, if not
yet his mind, recalls itself to its present agreeable situation and his hips
rock upward. Her overly-stimulated sex contracts violently in protest, the body
reacting in ways that it hadn’t while the mind had been lost in the firestorm
of their passion. Killian groans, both pained and exhilarated, while she
continues to soothe and comfort. By gradual inches and growing mutual sympathy,
their motions recapture the bliss of being joined. Emma says nothing, makes no
promises with words to never leave him; but her eyes brim with all the emotions
she feels for him, and her body loudly proclaims her silent covenant known in
ways that defy the limits of language. She doesn’t know what sparked his
terror, does not know the grief and the recriminations and the errors that yet
eat away at his soul; but the spectres of the past do not frighten her and
cannot eject her from her place at his side. Not without a fight.
With a gentle, compassionate hand, Emma wipes the tears from his eyes and his
skin. She places tender kisses across his forehead, delicate caresses of her
lips over his eyelids, his nose, the sharp cheekbones, the stubborn jaw and
chin. She retraces the same journey that he had begun on her body, just as
earnest as he in her devotion, but with a soft, soothing, humble touch; her
worship as fond and as affectionate, resulting in a soul-cleansing release for
them both that leaves them shattered and remade in a new image, sated and
refreshed and reborn as the tides of sleep drag them inexorably under, each
entirely entwined and enmeshed around and within the other.
===============================================================================
 
Emma wakes with the sunrise, Killian’s head pillowed on her breasts and arms
clinging tightly around her belly. His slumbering, sated body resists letting
her go, but she squirms and twists about and finally manages to free herself.
He goes on sleeping and she doesn’t move to stir him—the exertions and cares of
the night and of the day before have entirely drained him mind and body;
between the two of them, she and Mr. Fairfax know enough to begin their day’s
work without him. She pens a brief note and places it under his hand before
brushing a kiss to the top of his head. His mouth curves into a brief,
contented smile for a moment and she can’t help thinking that he looks more
handsome when he’s relaxed and ruffled from sleep. Quietly she finishes
dressing, leaves the room, and locks the door behind her.
I haven’t left you, and Danu being kind, I never will. Rest, beloved. I’ll be
in the library when you wake.
E.
Chapter End Notes
     Religion doesn't play a major part in this story, but I borrowed the
     name of the goddess Danu from Celtic mythology.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
     My first impulse is to apologize for making you all wait this long
     for an update; I know that many of you love these characters and are
     enjoying the story that I have set them in. It truly warms my heart
     and encourages me that you have come to care about my words so much.
     However, I will not apologize for circumstances beyond my control,
     nor do I ask for anyone’s pity. I have a recurring illness that has
     required two common, yet still invasive surgeries within the last
     three years and often need to take pain medication that interferes
     greatly with my energy levels and any concerted efforts at
     creativity. I have been working on this chapter for a month now and
     finally feel it is ready. I can make no guarantees about when the
     next chapter will be ready, but I thankfully am feeling consistently
     well enough to be working; if the lack of certain updates turns you
     off from the story, I am sorry, but I do understand. Thank you.
Upon later reflection, the next few weeks pass in a furious blur of activity
with the only happening of genuine importance to Emma being the calm, well-
rested smile on Killian's face when he finally comes downstairs to join her and
Fairfax in the library the morning after spending the night in her bed. In
truth, her hours and days were almost impossibly filled to the brim, and yet
she managed to juggle the tasks of governess and concerned landowner seemingly
without effort. After completing her temporary duties as scribe, she decamped
to her farm the next day with Sophia and Francine in tow. Given that the
princess’ own wealth and station depended on the land and the people who worked
it, Killian had agreed that firsthand knowledge of the often back-breaking
labor involved in managing and husbanding the fields could only enrich his
daughter’s education.
Given Emma’s intimate knowledge of her own lands, providing Sophia with pure
information as well as its practical application proves quite easy and a source
of pride—both in her own abilities as a manager and in her pupil’s advancement
since beginning her education. Quite naturally speaking to her matchmaking
sensibilities, Francine had presumed that the choice to begin lessons in
husbanding the land with Emma’s acreage stemmed (no doubt) from a more romantic
than practical sentiment, and so had taken the time to provide for a cozy
picnic for four; her assumption likewise did not take into account the
seriousness with which Graham views his new duties—to Emma as his direct
employer and to the trust she extends him in placing her wealth and livelihood
in his hands—and his new position vis a vis said employer and his former
station in life. Having maintained a kindly, yet clinical correspondence with
her regarding the care and conservation of her fields and hearth the past
month, Graham had become fully cognizant as to the disparity between them. For
all her seeming humility of class and birth, he had sensed as if by instinct
how far above him Emma is in wisdom, understanding, poise, and position;
indeed, in his role as footman he had been made privy to many of the secrets of
a noble household on occasions where aristocratic visitors had been in
residence and, from comparison of the two, had realized that the superior
graces and manner of his employer far outshone all others. To his mind, Emma is
quite simply the finest lady he has ever or will ever have the chance to meet,
and any of the more tender feelings he may have once cherished for her have
become subsumed in his absolute respect for and admiration of her.
As she had only her own labor to rely upon during this year’s sowing season,
the current active fields of her farm comprise a very little percentage of her
possible yield and the harvest of her produce lasts but the single day.
However, the number of farms, mills, fisheries, and assorted artisans who owe
their livelihood to the royal lands of Thistledown Hall are sufficiently
numerous as to provide Emma with plenty more educational opportunities for her
charge. The next day dawns and finds the trio once more advancing beyond the
immediate environs of the manor and onto the nearest locality of the
increasingly frantic crop harvest, that of the apple orchard.
Much to Francine’s dismay, they are all three given appropriately sized canvas
sacks by the farm manager in which to collect as much of the occasionally
fragile fruit as possible; however, she resolutely holds her head high,
listening carefully to Master Waters’ instructions on the best way to pick an
apple and the right sizes and colors to look for. He stoically marches through
the ranks of his assistants, barking the odd order while briskly filling his
own sack to capacity and making the odd addendum to Emma’s educational lectures
for Sophia. The apple harvest itself has already been in full swing since
Septimor, many of the earliest blossoms having fully ripened and some of the
varietals usually presenting a completed crop by the middle of Octavus.
Master Waters quickly points to the finished trees, outlining the workers who
have just begun the wintering processes. “Now normally, ladies, we’d not be
worryin’ about such thins jus’ yit, but with the arrival of winter comin’
unexpected early, we’ve orders from his Highness to begin now. Since we can’t
wait for the leaves to fall, we’ve lads an’ lasses strippin’ them from the
branches an’ pilin’ ‘em up as high as they can round the base o’ the trees.
Then, we’ll work on prunin’ back the branches an’ layin’ those on top o’ the
leaves. Last, we’ll send round to the dairymen for some fine loads o’ manure to
spread above that, what t’wil keep the bits below from dryin’ out an’ flyin’
away. Then, the snow will land atop that, lockin’ it all in to decay an’ work
itself into the soil; so, come springtime, we’ll have good, healthy earth
feedin’ the trees.
“And you see these ‘uns here be lookin’ a mite thin on fruit? Well that’s
because some on ‘em were all ripe to be picked, but others weren’t ready jus’
yit. We can mebbe give ‘em another week or twa, an’ then go for another
pickin’. Arter that, we’ll have to chop ‘em up an’ mix ‘em in wi’ the leaves
and the branches to go below the manure and feed next year’s crop.”
On and on, sharing his knowledge and love of his favored crop with the ladies
of the manor fills Waters with a great deal of pride, especially in having
secured the honor of being the first of the land managers to host them. He is
even granted the opportunity of introducing his honored guests to his esteemed
colleague the beekeeper, whose own crop and charges are discussed as well in
their relation to the success of the current harvest and to farming in general.
Emma, not yet having had the chance to make his acquaintance, informs Master
Nolan of her interest in herbs and natural remedies; honey and beeswax being
quite common ingredients in many potions, decoction, and salves as well as
being vital necessities for candle-making, she immediately strikes up an
informed conversation with him that ultimately garners a promise to keep her
well supplied with the fruits of his labors.
When the lunch bell chimes, Francine and Emma take turns carrying Sophia toward
their wagon where another simple picnic lunch awaits. Despite the differences
in their ages and positions, Emma has developed a fondness for the older
woman—one that stems from her overall good nature and kindliness, but also from
her obvious devotion to Killian and Sophia; that she doesn’t behave as if she
or Emma are in any way superior to the men and women working the apple orchard
helps, and that she doesn’t see it as part of her duty to instill a sense of
haughty condescension in their young charge. The prince has been lucky indeed,
or at the very least highly rigorous and selective, in the servants who
surround his daughter. While the princess never meets with abject bending to
her royal temper, neither does she meet with the rigid, confining strictures of
a narrowly defined and regimented life. Sophia is that rare child of the
nobility, inculcated with an awareness of her position whilst still allowed to
actually experience a childhood, neither overly proud and willful nor flighty
and ornamental.
After their meal ends, they make a point of thanking Masters Waters and Nolan
for all of their aid and information before pressing on to the next order of
the day—the apple mill. While the lands attached to Thistledown Hall are
blessed with a rich variety of soils and natural resources, much of their
economic prosperity derives from its export of wines, liqueurs, and other
fermented beverages. Their ciders and brandies in particular have provided the
area with an impeccable, deserved reputation both within the kingdom and
beyond. For Sophia, naturally, the pleasure of the mill can be found in the
loud crank of the grinder as its teeth shred whole apples to bits in seconds,
in the gush of the juice through the slats of the barrel as the press is
screwed down tight, and in the sweet, pulpy treat that results from her ‘help’
in the arduous labor.
Much of the rest of the operations no doubt passes beyond her immediate caring
or comprehension: filtration, boiling, cooling, fermentation… All terms that
matter little in the face of fresh-pressed cider and applesauce. However, Emma
does her level best to keep Sophia engaged and interested in the processes
involved here on her lands, as well as the effects of their production on the
wider world. Her eyes go impossibly wide at the thought that what she sees in
this moment will quite possibly travel farther than she can imagine, which is
limited to the still prohibitively long distance to the capital city and her
uncle’s court. The thought leads to a rather endearing request that ‘her’
barrel of cider be sent directly to the King’s cellars as a gift; the foreman
is politely asked to mark and keep the keg aside until Killian is consulted,
but Emma has little doubt that it will be sent by special courier as soon as he
can arrange it.
While the other crops have yet to be harvested or have yet to be brought to
mill, Master Scott explains the processes for extracting and preparing the
juice of the grape, the peach, and all the other fruits that make their way
through his presses and into cellars on Thistledown lands and across the
continent. Having discretely consulted with Mrs. Potts and Chef, Emma ensures
that Master Scott gives Sophia several “presents” of bottled juices and kegs of
wine to distribute to her subjects up at the hall in order to guarantee that
their supper tonight is a rousing success. Thankfully for the exhausted women,
their charge manages a short but much needed nap on the ride between the mill
compound and the manor, allowing them a brief respite before getting her washed
and changed for the supper meal.
===============================================================================
 
The conversation around the dinner table that evening flows as it always does
with a child in the house, revolving entirely upon the most exciting moments of
the day recalled with grand exclamations, sweeping gestures, and far more drama
than the mundane events truly entailed; Sophia’s raptures over the delights of
apple picking and cider pressing clearly overshadow the enthusiasm over
yesterday’s adventures at Emma’s farm, providing Killian with plenty of
amusement and the rare opportunity to innocently and openly tease her. The meal
progresses as most before it with the occasional comfortable silence as the
diners enjoy the excellent food, and yet a single change in routine heightens
Emma’s normal impatience for the formalities to end.
As prearranged between them, Killian had devised a simple, inconspicuous signal
to inform her that he would appreciate her company for the evening—rather than
accept another glass of wine as part of the void between the final entrée and
dessert, he would request a cup of coffee with the sweets course. Should Emma
be of a mind and mood to join him, she would ask for the same; however, should
she not feel inclined for their more adventuresome activities, she would accept
the glass of wine. On the few occasions when she had declined the coffee, they
had still spent at least some of the evening together in discussions regarding
Sophia’s education, pleasant conversation, or the odd game of cards or chess as
they both sincerely enjoy each other’s company regardless of the relative
innocence of the night’s chosen activity.
In all this time of getting to know about one another, Emma had discovered that
he possessed a decided sweet tooth and was never one to pass on one of Chef’s
latest confections. However, not only does Killian ask for a cup of coffee, he
makes a point of informing the footman not to bring in a serving of the dessert
course for him; while Francine and the other upper servants at the table share
a look of surprise and concern, none of them dares to question their master’s
possible motives for this unorthodox action. Sophia on the other hand lacks
their tact and discretion. “Are you sick, Papa?”
“Only you, my dear, would think me ill for turning down dessert! I am quite
alright, darling. I just find that sometimes waiting or denying myself
something I enjoy makes it taste all the better later. For example, you like
your pot of chocolate, yes? Well, if you had it every day at every meal, don’t
you think you’d not enjoy it as much? Or Chef’s honey cakes? They taste so much
better because they are special treats and take a lot of effort to make. Don’t
you agree, Miss Shepherd?” His eyes sparkle with mischief and something more,
something dark and deep and bittersweet.
“I suppose your father is right, Sophia; although, not having had honey cakes
before, I will have to trust his judgment. I do know that while I like honey, I
must always remember that it takes the bees a lot of effort to make it for us;
and that too much of it can make little tummies upset.”
“And we know how much you dislike an upset tummy, don’t we Sophia?” The footmen
bring in the dessert course as normal and Killian slowly savors his hot drink
politely while the others eat the latest confection, all the time keeping his
gaze hooded and discretely directed away from Emma. His evasiveness worries her
slightly as she’s never known him to make such an obvious point of keeping
something a secret from her. However, she has genuinely become fond of the
bitter beverage as a palate cleanser of sorts, Chef occasionally managing in
his enthusiasm to over-indulge his patron’s preference for sweets; and so she
asks for coffee as well almost out of habit, covertly noticing an amused and
approving grin on her lover’s face and wondering what enticing thoughts might
lurk behind his cool, detached facade.
When they all rise after the last of the plates have been cleared, Francine
motions for Sophia to proceed in front of her as they all begin to leave the
room. Killian walks swiftly around the table, seeming to inadvertently be
brought up short by Emma standing in his way. As if to steady them both, he
catches her shoulders and discretely whispers to her before pushing back to the
proper distance. To everyone else, it looks like an apology and the blushing of
her cheeks is easily explained away by embarrassment over the momentary
awkwardness of the social gaffe. “Francine, Miss Shepherd, I do believe that I
will invoke a father’s prerogative and put my daughter to bed myself this
evening. While your excursion was no doubt delightful today, I did miss my
favorite daily distraction. Fairfax was so surprised to get an uninterrupted
day’s work from me that I dare say he needs an early night himself to recover
from the shock! Take the evening for yourselves, ladies. Shall we, my dear?”
With a gallant bow, Killian takes his daughter’s hand in his and presses a kiss
to her knuckles. Her amused giggle becomes a peal of laughter when he gathers
her up forcibly in his arms and strides in the direction of the family wing.
Emma and the other upper servants watch them with fond eyes, their animated
chatter and a bit of bright joy slowly fading with them into the distance. But
a warm glow remains in her heart, knowing that she will not be resigned to
loneliness and a cold bed this evening. Take the next two hours for yourself,
but then hurry to me.
===============================================================================
 
“… And then he said that it was true! That we send barrels and barrels of cider
to the capital all the time! And then I asked if we could send the barrel that
I ground and pressed directly to Uncle Liam. But Miss Emma said that we would
need to ask you first; and then I said, but I am the princess, so shouldn’t he
have to obey me on principle? But then she said that you were my father, and
that princess or no, I still needed to ask your permission.”
Despite the short lapse of time since she has become a part of their lives,
Killian has grown inordinately fond of hearing Sophia’s narration of what Emma
said and did throughout the day. Their family time used to be dominated by
stories and make believe; now it is consumed with everything his daughter
learns from her governess, and watching her joy in the discovery of life and
the world around her makes him yearn for that simplistic wonder, for the sheer
adventurous spirit that comes from one’s first, sweet taste of knowledge. It
makes him long to whisk them both away to the glittering cities, to the vast
forests, to the raging oceans, to the glowering mountains, and to the wide
plains of the world just so he can experience them all for the first time again
through eyes not jaded and embittered by harsh familiarity, with a heart
unburdened.
“Papa, are you certain your tummy doesn’t hurt?” He smiles down at her,
silently cursing himself for the least amount of inattention on his part toward
her.
“I just have a lot on my mind, darling, and some very important things to talk
about. Remember how I told you that sometimes we need to keep a secret? That
there are things I will tell you that only you and I and Uncle Liam may know?”
“Because we’re royals, right Papa!”
“Yes, dear heart. Because these secrets are very important to the kingdom, so
you musn’t mention them to anyone else. Not even to Francine or to Miss Emma.
Now, I need to tell you something that you may not want to hear. Uncle Liam is
the King, but you remember that he also has a council that advises him, yes?”
He kisses the top of her head as she earnestly nods it, eyes wide as if
memorizing the very shape of his words, as if sensing their importance to her.
“Uncle Liam doesn’t have a son or daughter to follow him, like I have you, so
the council has asked him to officially name me as his successor. Which means
that if something bad should happen to your uncle, then I would become king.”
“Is this because he’s very sick, Papa?”
“Yes, darling, but remember that that is another secret which we have to keep.
Now, hopefully his doctors can keep him with us for some time longer, but there
are no guarantees in this life, Sophia.”
“Like when Mama had to go away. She loved us both, but the gods needed her
more.” He smiles, but internally chokes on the necessary lies he’s told over
the years in regards to Milah’s death. Killian stopped believing in the gods
long ago, but such blasphemies are not for innocent ears.
“Exactly. And since Uncle Liam is so sick, it means that he cannot marry and
have a son or daughter of his own. Unfortunately, because that makes me your
uncle’s heir, the council can on occasion tell even me what to do. Because
remember that I have to think of the good of the whole kingdom.”
“They want you to get married and have more babies, don’t they?” Aside from the
shock of her anticipating his announcement, the downcast tone of her voice
jolts through his chest like a thunder clap.
“Yes, darling. But where did you hear that, and why does that make you so sad?
Wouldn’t you like to have a step-mother to love you and perhaps a baby sister
or brother to help look after?”
“Francine. She’s said it before, to Chef and Mrs. Potts; and please don’t get
mad at her, Papa, because she says that a wife and some more babies would make
you happy again! And I want you to be happy too, Papa, even if it means
replacing me with other babies. But she also said that the kingdom needs a
little prince, and when I asked her what was wrong with a princess, she said
that the ‘stocrisy wouldn’t stand for a girl on the throne.” Even if he hadn’t
the comparison of overhearing the nanny’s interfering remarks about Emma and
Graham, he swears that he couldn’t possibly have ever wanted to physically harm
an old woman more than he does now. That she could be so willfully ignorant or
so callous as to make a statement like that and not explain it to a young
child! He reaches to gather his daughter in his arms, grateful for this nearly
missed chance to set the record straight.
“Oh, Sophia! The sad truth of this world is that for most men, the men who are
in power in this kingdom, she speaks common wisdom. I don’t believe this and
neither does your Uncle Liam, but many people do believe and accept as fact the
idea that boys are better than girls, specifically that boys can rule a kingdom
better than girls. You, my darling Sophia, are more than a match for any other
child I have seen, boy or girl, and I have no doubt that you will make a fine
Queen some day. But proving that will take time and patience and courage on all
our parts.
“Now, as I said, your uncle doesn’t have any children and you are my only
child. Until you are all grown up and can have children of your own, this means
that there will be no one else to follow you should the worst happen to us all.
So, when the snow thaws and your uncle comes to visit, several ladies will be
coming with him; ladies who the council hopes will—one of them—suit enough to
become my wife and your step-mother.”
He laughs at the wrinkles that form on her nose and forehead at the thought of
someone coming in to interrupt their routine, fleetingly remembering that there
was no such distaste or dissatisfaction expressed when Emma had joined their
household. “If all goes well, then we will be married and make several brothers
and sisters for you in the coming years. But I want you to know that no matter
what happens, I will always love you. No wife or little brother or little
sister could ever take your place in my heart and, if it were up to me, I
wouldn’t remarry at all; it would be just you and me forever.”
“And Miss Emma.”
“What? A mutiny in my own house?!”
“Just you and me and Miss Emma forever, Papa. She’s ever so smart, and I do
need someone to teach me how to be a lady. Do you know that she can play the
hammer-chord, but that she didn’t even know that she could? When we were
arranging our gardens in the greenhouse the other day, she asked for some
colored rock to make a pretty border like in her mother’s garden on her farm.
And she made the prettiest pattern with them and danced her fingers in the air
and started to hum one of the tunes Maestro was teaching me on the hammer-chord
the other day, which is when I said that I didn’t know she could play the
hammer-chord. And then she said that she had never heard of a hammer-chord and
asked me what it was and I showed her to the music room. And it took her a
moment because she wasn’t used to holding the hammers, but then she started
playing music just like Maestro!”
Killian listens in bemused silence, wondering at his own ability to be so
constantly surprised by the enigma that is Emma Shepherd; knowing something to
be true in the depths of your being and having that instinct confirmed by the
evidence of a child are two very different things. Every piece that falls into
place makes him more and more certain of the course he has set himself upon, of
the die he has cast and of the risks taken. Yet there is one piece, loathe as
he is to use it, that could prove key to the success or failure of his
enterprise.
“Would you like me to share another secret with you, Sophia?”
“It’s bedtime, silly Papa! How about a story instead?” He tickles her
mercilessly for her cheek, delighting in her childish squeals of laughter.
“A story, is it? Well then…” He smiles again, slipping on his storyteller’s hat
to more giggles and clearing his throat theatrically. “How about the tale of
the Lost Princess? Once upon a time in a kingdom not very far from here there
lived a princess. Now, the princess was very sad because her father refused to
let her marry the man that she loved very, very much indeed…”
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
     From the bottom of my heart, thank you all for your well-wishes and
     prayers for my recovery. Fortunately, the treatments aren't too
     severe. but needing to take a pain medication that interferes with my
     normal brain processes can get very frustrating for someone like
     myself who kind of needs a fully unimpeded mind. So excited that I
     was able to get this one worked through much more quickly. I also
     forgot to mention on the last note that the Hammerchord is a musical
     instrument similar to a harp and a dulcimer-think of a harp lying on
     its side, and small hammers are used to strike the strings to produce
     music (although one can pluck the strings as Emma learned to). Also,
     as with earlier chapters, this one goes slightly back in time from
     the previous one; so, we are seeing something that Killian
     experienced earlier on the same day as the previous chapter. Thank
     you again for reading and supporting me; it's a truly humbling and
     rewarding experience. -JJ
From King William II, etc. to Prince Killlian Sonoian
Brother,
While I have no doubt that your Miss Shepherd is convinced of the truth of her
assertions, I simply cannot order such drastic measures without extensive
corroboration from my own stewards and those of my tenants-in-chief. Should the
situation truly be as dire as both she and you claim, would we not have other
notices provided to us by nature and by our subjects whose own livelihood
depends upon the land? Would the priests and prognosticators not be preaching
death and doom in the streets if such portents existed in abundance?
Furthermore, if we were inclined to give in to what will no doubt prove to be a
moment of panicked hysteria, we would be short-changing the harvest
severely—losing some whole crops entirely and not reaping the full benefit of
others. We cannot countenance, let alone command, such drastic measures on our
lands; and we strongly  advise  you, brother, to cease and desist.
You may, by all means, continue to promote this rash theory of yours amongst
the other nobles and upon your own estates, provided that you do not bully or
browbeat them into doing your bidding nor that you allow the masses to run wild
in their misguided terror; however, you should not expect many to follow your
example. There is too much to be gained by maintaining the traditional harvest
schedule and too much to be lost by attempting to hurry nature's courses along
by hasty action. However, on the off chance that winter does arrive early, it
is far more likely to strike in the north first, which means that our southern
estates will have enough warning should your Shepherd girl's prediction prove
true. And we are likewise confident that we have adequate funds in our treasury
to make up for any deficit in raw goods.
Sincerely, etc., etc.
Post Script-(Written in the King's hand) I should very much like to know what
has gotten into you that you jump and startle like an old woman at a flight of
birds these days. Our entourage should be leaving within the fortnight to make
our way to Thistledown, and we expect a right royal welcome for ourselves and
the ladies who will be joining us. And we shall have a word or two to say to
you regarding what we have discovered about the identity of your Miss Shepherd;
either she knows not who she is, or she is not who she pretends to be, and I
would have you on your guard. –Liam
===============================================================================
From Will Scarlet, Esq., Captain of the Prince's Guard
Highness,
Our first gambit has received a reply, and her Grace is most eager to secure
letters authorizing her to travel through our lands in order to meet the young
lady. I enclose her letter and await further instructions.
From Regina, Duchess of Malfi to Concerned Party
Dear Sir or Madam,
Your knowledge of your neighbors' odd histories and peccadilloes does you
credit—I have indeed been searching for my step-daughter and, given the time
past the likely, any step-grandchildren who may have found safety and asylum in
your fair kingdom. Given the delicate wording of your inquiry, I must presume
that the one has passed beyond my attempts at recall, but that hope need not be
altogether extinguished. I beg of you, whoever you are or whoever your master,
please ease the burden of a mother's heart by telling me what may be known of
dearest Snow. That you possess information I am certain, for no search through
your domains has been allowed previous to this very day, and yet your missive
has finally managed to reach me.
I do not claim to understand the furtiveness of your letter, yet it leads me to
believe that your motives belong not to yourself, but rather to a superior who
has their own reasons for wishing to remain anonymous at the present. However,
my need for answers and the duchy's desperate situation require that I act with
all haste. By the time you receive this, my amanuensis will have already posted
the appropriate documents with our embassy at court and have petitioned for a
passport and letters of safe conduct through Crown lands.
===============================================================================
Killian examines both missives repeatedly, internally cursing both his brother
and the duchess for their swift, decisive actions; Will had warned him that
Liam's own spies would discover the information regarding Emma's parentage
sooner rather than later, but he had not anticipated that her Grace would
actually petition to visit without the slightest shred of evidence that her
step-daughter was still alive, or that a child might exist. Almost thirty years
had passed with no word of the missing heiress or claimant to the ducal lands,
and yet the woman clearly viewed the advent of any piece of news as imminent
salvation.
He vents further spleen on his brother's casual, arrogant dismissal of the
warning and suggestions for surviving the coming harsh winter months. The royal
coffers might be full, but Killian knows full well that a full King's purse
means nothing to the common laborers who have their own fields to reap in
addition to their required service on manor lands; in time honored tradition,
as Liam would no doubt say, it would be the crops and harvests of the lords
that would be gathered in first. The women and young children, also expected to
carry their own weight when it came time to render feudal service, would be
conscripted into the lord's fields to gather what could be salvaged of the
harvest instead of being given leave to save their own crops and winter stores.
Just as with the hard winter those 15 years ago, families like young Graham's
would starve; those that didn't starve would sicken; those lucky enough not to
succumb to illness would freeze.
Bloody stubborn, stiff-necked noble pride! Killian may never have wanted for
food or shelter himself—a fact for which he would thank the gods, if he
believed in them anymore—but having lived in the country for so long, having
labored alongside the tenants and workers who help him manage and husband the
land, he sees firsthand the struggle and the labor which circumscribes the
lives of the commoners and of the poor. He knew precisely what he was asking of
his brother and his king when he sent that warning, and yet Liam all too easily
brushed aside the possibility of the mass suffering of their
people—of his people.
He presses his head to the glass, wishing that Emma had not decided to take
Sophia out to the apple orchard today so that he might talk with her about the
implications of his brother's refusal and formulate plans to help mitigate any
potential disasters. A strange ache runs through his being at her absence
because he knows instinctively and from their new intimate familiarity that
speaking with her on the matter would not only ease his burden, but that
together they would, nay will, be able to devise several solutions to the
problem at hand.
The fact that Liam will also be bringing meddlesome courtiers and irritating,
unwelcome guests along with him only adds to Killian's distress and misery.
Liam and the Council and Parliament would shackle him with a worthless,
ornamental bride, not see that he is provided with a partner and an equal. They
would give him an empty-headed, biddable queen-in-waiting, instead of allowing
him to possibly ally himself with a genuinely noble woman of personal wisdom,
of a powerful and independent…
The thought which crosses his mind can undoubtedly be construed as highest
treason in certain quarters, but the fleeting image fills him with a bright
flicker of unquenchable hope. He quickly tears through his papers, searching
for the formal request that he remarry. When he locates it, he scans the entire
document, desperate to determine if his memory has served him correct. He
smiles, calling for and startling Fairfax out of his accounts.
"I've a new assignment for you, Edward. I want you to go through our section on
the acts of parliament and rule of law. Make certain that we have absolutely
every volume. I want you to go through everything, scour them all looking for
legal precedent regarding the marriage or remarriage of potential heirs.
Specifically, look for instances where there was no Heir Designate or Heir
Presumptive. First, can parliament, the council, or the king forcibly compel an
heir to marry without the individual's consent? Does this political demand have
a basis in law, or can I refuse to conform? If so, what are the consequences of
refusal? Second, in instances where there is neither Designate nor Presumptive
Heir, does the potential heir personally have the power to reject a proposed
candidate for matrimony? Third, if a marriage is already contracted or pre-
contracted by an heir, do the Powers have the authority to dissolve the
betrothal or the marriage? I want answers as soon as you can provide them to
me."
"So, 'tis true then, sir? The council and parliament mean to bring you to heel
on the issue of your remarriage? I must say, that's exceedingly bad form on
their part! I understand their concerns about the succession, but surely they
don't mean to disinherit her Highness!"
"I fear many of the people would not see it as disinheritance if Sophia were to
remain a princess whilst a younger brother can still feasibly be produced to
become heir to the throne. You know, Fairfax, that my views on women in power
are widely different from the norm, as are yours. But if you can get me the
information I require, there may be a delay tactic or two that I can use to
keep the bloodhounds at bay. Or something better yet… If you please,
Fairfax—time is not on our side, I'm afraid."
With a bow and a knowing smile, the steward gathers his things and moves to the
farthest, least comfortable end of the library where the legal statutes are
kept. Killian pauses a moment to reflect and gather his thoughts; Fairfax's
assistance in the matter will be perfectly legal and above board, but the use
to which his master intends to put said researches will be ruthlessly and
universally condemned by the entire nobility. And yet, for once in his life,
the rigid strictures of duty and honor might peaceably and perfectly yield to
the siren song of his personal desires. He places several loose leaves of blank
paper to the side of his blotter and a fresh one bearing his personal crest in
the center. He meticulously trims his quill before dipping the nib in the
inkwell and letting his inmost thoughts flow from his heart to his pen.
===============================================================================
In consequences of her lover's mysterious behavior and decree, Emma happily
discovers that her two hours' wait provides her with ample time to request and
receive a full, hot bath earlier than her wonted time; for, while she has been
able to bathe nearly every day, she has not found herself with the either the
patience or the leisure each night to simply soak and luxuriate since her first
evening at Thistledown—nor have she and Killian as yet made the discovery of
the delights of a shared tub. However, his words—though relatively
innocent—were filled with such unspoken longing, such anxious and yet joyful
anticipation, that she finds that she feels restless and unsettled. Though the
warm water soothes her muscles and the soap and oils pleasantly tease her
senses, she cannot relax nor calm her impatience.
She had asked the maids not to disturb her again that evening and locked her
door so that no one would be able to enter and find her missing, yet she
remained in her own room, uncertain as to what instructions Killian might have
given to his valet and the maids regarding his own evening's activities. Going
up to his bedroom and curling up in front of the fireplace with a book sounds
incredibly tempting, but she cannot risk encountering someone else who has
access to his chamber and then having to explain away her presence.
She paces, unaware until this precise moment of recklessness just how much she
has come to rely throughout her whole life upon keeping her thoughts and
reflections at bay by preventing them through action. In her years with her
mother, they had labored from dawn 'til late in the night on one task or
another; after Snow's passing, she had kept similar hours simply to keep the
farm running and her body and soul together. In her time at Thistledown, she
has given her days entirely over to Sophia's care and education, while the few
hours respite are spent in the stillroom crafting simples and soaps and more;
her nights pass in pleasant company or pleasurable activity with Killian… Thus,
it has been quite a while since she has allowed herself the extended leisure to
truly think and examine her life and what she feels.
She discovers to her surprise that she finds she possesses more fulfillment,
more satisfaction in her few days here than she owned in all her many years on
the farm, even in the halcyon days of her childhood before her father went off
to war and never returned. And it is not that she did not love her parents, nor
was loved; it is that there was always a self-sufficiency to the love between
David and Snow, that if they were the only two people in the world they should
be more than contented with that lot. Emma was an extension of their love and
happiness, but not essential to it; and further, she believes that there was
nothing wrong with such an all-encompassing devotion. It was simply who they
were.
But in being on the periphery of that intense devotion, Emma had recognized
instinctively that such a partner, yea even a playmate, was missing in her
life. On the rare occasions where they went to market as a family, she had
noticed that most families were far larger than her own and that life in the
village lent itself to forming happy, affirming bonds and connections with
others of like age and society. Yet her parents chose to remain aloof, keeping
quiet and alone on the farm and only venturing beyond when need required.
In reflecting on these thoughts and early impressions, Emma's mind goes a step
further and recalls to her adult consciousness some of the long-forgotten
memories and impressions of her past…
Snow had sung her a lullaby and placed her in her little trundle bed by the
fire hours ago, but the lingering excitement from their visit to the village
had kept her up. She had played ball with another child for the first time,
wondering at the sheer joy of having someone else's full attention for longer
than a few minutes. Oh, her mother and father would both play with her, but
they were quickly recalled to their various labors and tasks for the day, and
the sheep tended to run away from the ball or her more boisterous endeavors to
play. The horse and cows would nudge her and knock her over if she tried to
engage them, and don't even get her started on the overly aggressive chickens!
Perhaps her parents' thoughts had been running along similar lines because
their low voices suddenly became louder and agitated. "What about hiring a
young boy to help me with the chores? We wouldn't work him too hard at first,
but maybe his example would be enough to help steady her."
"We've been through this before, my love. We cannot take the risk. It's too
dangerous to overly expose her or ourselves to another person; we don't know if
they're still searching."
"I know that they are. Your father and step-mother love you, Snow; they always
wanted what was best for you, even when they disagreed on what that "best" was.
You are also your father's heir, and he will refuse to give your inheritance
away."
"But what if he's still wroth? I cannot give up you or Emma, and if he can find
a way, he will separate us. She may be his blood, but so am I, and her
happiness will matter little to him. If he even allows her to stay, he will
banish her to the servants' quarters, perhaps claim her as his own bastard so
that the taint of your blood will never come near to rule and power. She'll
live the life of the lowest drudge, perhaps beaten and starved for simply
existing; and that's if he's feeling generous!"
Emma had never heard her mother's voice tremble so with fear and pain, and her
impulse was to "waken" and wrap her childish arms about Snow. But she heard the
soft sighing of fabric and the softening of sobs as her mother pressed her face
into her father's chest. "I disagree with your assessment, but you do know him
best, my love. I wish that you had not given up so much in choosing me."
"David, if I had chosen anything or anyone except you, my life would not be
half as complete as it is. I couldn't go on without you, nor would I want to.
Every day, I thank the gods that sent you from your master's to my father."
"You should be thanking them that my parents were so thorough in my education!
If I hadn't been raised on a farm, I wouldn't be able to provide for you now;
and if I hadn't learned enough to become a steward for our lord, I would never
have been sent to your father."…
She gasps when the memory fades back into the dark chasm of her mind. Greater
understanding and a fountain of pity springs from the new image of her past
revealed by this recalled information. The greater perfection of her speech as
compared to that of other farmers and peasants and servants, the oft remarked
upon grace and beauty of her person and poise, her knowledge of such things as
music and the hammerchord—a revelation which had genuinely startled her with
its full implications… All of these and more point to her parents as having
begun their lives less humbly than they ended, her mother in particular.
Yet what can this knowledge avail her? The truth had surely died with her
parents, who had died young for certain, but whose own parents were likewise
probably gone to the grave as well. Any chance of reclaiming her birthright had
passed; her life was here now, with Killian and with Sophia. Even if her mother
were of noble blood, from what country had she fled? Any inheritance had in all
likelihood been passed on to the nearest living, undoubted relation. She could
even have hailed from a kingdom that did not accept female inheritance of
property or titles! And what manner of fiefdom could provide her with the same
comfort, let alone the same love and care, that was freely given to her here at
Thistledown? Here, she was loved for herself, not for who she was born to be or
for what material possessions she had brought.
Emma shakes her head to clear it of these startling, troubling flights of
fancy. She knows who she is and what she is: Emma Shepherd, governess to a
Princess, lover of a Prince, owner of a small, but prosperous farm. She retains
her independence and her own modest income. So, what more could a modest,
honest, loving woman ask for?
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Emma knocks on the hidden door softly, as she always does, unwilling to disturb
his privacy by presuming to enter without permission. Killian had laughed and
showered her blushing cheeks with kisses when she confessed as much after he
had asked why she never simply entered. Even upon his declaring with both words
and actions that as she herself comprised an integral, vital portion of his
most intimate moments and personal space her presence could therefore never be
termed a violation or invasion, she still refuses to break the habit. Normally,
however, he would meet her at the door and greet her with a kiss, yet this
night she only hears him bid her come to him.
He sits in his preferred chair, unusually slouched and staring into the flames
and the sparks sent up by the cheerfully crackling logs. His playful mood from
earlier has somehow been erased in the last two hours, in spite of time spent
with Sophia, telling Emma that a great burden weighs heavier on his mind than
even his beloved child can lift with all her innocent delights. She crosses the
room quietly, perches on the arm of his chair, and reaches out to card her
fingers through his hair; she knows that her silent comfort and calm, steady
presence will eventually cause him to open up about what torments his thoughts.
Killian smiles, slowly closing his eyes to better savor her touch, and reaches
for her free hand to bestow several lingering kisses to her knuckles. He loves
the strength and capability displayed in her fingers, in the calloused and
work-roughened skin that yet possesses the tender power to soothe.
The silence stretches between them, uncomfortable for Emma only in that she has
no idea how to ease his mental struggle; if it were not for the knowledge that
something unspoken lies upon his heart, she would just as fully enjoy the quiet
sharing of space as he does. He finally opens his eyes on a sigh and stares up
at her wonderingly. “I had a plan for deliciously simplistic love play tonight.
Watching you try to work out what was in my mind while we were at supper… I do
adore surprising you in delightful ways.”
“And yet something has changed your mind? Or at the very least drawn from you
your livelier thoughts; what is wrong, Killian?”
“Not changed entirely, but rather unpleasantly redirected for a time. I
received a response from Liam today—he has heard no other reports similar to
ours and, as such, does not believe there is sufficient cause to alter the
harvest schedule.”
“But the crops! Killian, if he doesn’t order at least some of the crops in
early then hundred, thousands will--”
“Will starve or sicken; the ones that manage to survive the privations and
diseases will freeze or otherwise die in many an awful, lonely way, I know. But
the reality is that my brother—and sadly many of the other nobles in this
land—have no true idea of the suffering that this winter will cause. They have
money, which can provide as much comfort and luxury as one is willing to pay
for; they do not understand what it is to go without. I have ordered an
inventory of any of our surpluses from previous years, so that when the stores
from this year run dry we are prepared to ration out more for my tenants. But
this only applies to my lands, Emma. I am truly blessed, but even I cannot feed
the entire kingdom. Food will need to be imported, even the staples we would
normally produce for ourselves; prices will rise and the poor will suffer the
most. And none of this takes into account the fact that in some counties the
people are spread thin—winter storms will make roads impassable and hundreds of
farmers, herders, and their flocks will not be reachable until too late. All
because they live too far from a village or town, or wouldn’t think to seek
shelter there before the worst snows arrive.”
The desperate grief and misery in his eyes takes her by surprise, although she
knows it should not; despite having never known the pinch and ache of a hungry
belly, except for perhaps a night without supper as a childhood punishment,
Killian genuinely feels the plight of the people who depend upon him and even
those beyond his ability to comfort. Emma slides her hand underneath his chin
and turns his face toward her again before pressing a gentling kiss to his
lips. “Your compassion does you credit, dear heart. I may not know your
brother, but it sounds like you could teach him a lesson or two about love for
his subjects. It pains me to know that my king can so flippantly dismiss your
advice, however, you cannot solve the kingdom’s problems tonight. We’ll think
of solutions and plan for the possibilities tomorrow.”
His smile transforms briefly, a look and an emotion crossing his face which
flies so quickly that she cannot even be certain she saw it, before tilting
higher into a mischievous, devious grin. “I do approve of your presumption in
being party to my scheming, Miss Shepherd, as you are quite the cunning partner
in crime. But I think your mind is rather focused on my promise of delight for
this evening than in aiding and abetting me.”
With a flick of her wrist, the fabrics of her nightrail and dressing gown part
enough to allow her to straddle his lap, placing her knees on either side of
his thighs while not closing all distance between them. Her own smirk matches
his perfectly, a shared emotion and look that exactly expresses the same
thought one to the other. “Merely thinking practically, my darling prince. You
have warned your brother and done all you can for your people today; now is the
time to refresh and indulge your own senses, so that you may be well rested and
well satisfied come morning light.”
She nips at his full bottom lip before soothingly caressing the moistened flesh
with her tongue. He places his hands on the bunched fabric on her thighs, only
his thumbs softly and slowly stroking bare flesh. She takes his passive stance
as an agreement to let her lead for the moment, giving rein to her desire to
kiss and explore at her own pace. She makes each minute count, languorously
supping at his quiescent mouth; stroking and enticing and enflaming while
sweetly gratifying her own need, all the while impressing upon Killian her
inherent and continued innocence in her quest for erotic discovery. Despite
their months together, every new act and each lingering caress possesses a
delightful freshness, a simple joy atop the decadent layers of primal passion
and carnal excess that deepens and enriches their emotional as well as physical
connection.
His hands begin to massage her through the tantalizingly thin layers of silk
and linen, both barriers gradually creeping higher until bunched about her
waist and exposing delicate, aroused flesh to the cool air. Before she can move
to close the gap between their bodies and seek the friction her swelling sex
demands, Killian’s grip shifts and tightens so that she remains slightly
suspended above his lap. She whimpers at his denial of her unconsciously sought
craving, hips rocking forward in supplication and fragile beads of moisture
pearling on the increasingly blushing and quivering lips. Yet Emma refuses to
speak, allowing her body to make its own demands, its own silent requests for
the pleasures only he can provide and increasing the obvious sensual hunger in
each more blatantly imperious kiss.
 He pulls back before she can suck his lower lip into her mouth once more and
chidingly clicks his tongue at her. “I told you that I had plans, lover, and I
fully intend to execute them. Especially as they include feasting on you as
part of my denied dessert.”
With a strength of body that no longer surprises her and inevitably fills her
with a distinctly primitive, feminine smugness, Killian rises from his chair
while keeping her knees locked on his hips. He carefully holds her core away
from him so that she cannot grind her dripping, aching sex against his dressing
gown, despite the fact that she has looped her legs around his waist and locked
them at the ankles. She mewls impatiently, latching on to the exposed triangle
of flesh below his throat and laving it greedily with her tongue, sucking and
biting the skin as if it were a more favored part of him.
“I believe a lesson in delayed gratification is in order for you, dearest,
which is precisely what I had in mind for my insatiable vixen. I want you naked
on your back, bend your knees to your chest and then spread your legs open—keep
them as high as you can whilst still bent. Then spread your arms out above your
head, comfortably. Do you understand?” Emma’s wicked smile shoots a bolt of
lust straight through his body, from the crown of his head to his toes and from
the top of his spine to the tip of his hard, needy cock. But he refuses to let
her seduce him, unconsciously or otherwise, from his purpose this evening. He
slaps the firm globe of her ass before dropping her on the bed and going to
fetch his tray of delights.
Until Killian naturally, she had never fully realized the various benefits of
having worked hard for most of her life—the flexibility and stamina honed in
her years on the farm now lends itself to exquisitely different, yet quite as
thoroughly satisfying endeavors. But while she has had her hands and legs bound
several times already for her lover’s delectation, only once has he commanded
such a demanding, difficult, and vulnerable position. Before, he had had her on
her stomach, arms secured behind her at the small of her back and feet pulled
up against her buttocks with a pillow underneath her mound that allowed for the
perfect display and presentation of her sex. Remembering how he had warmed a
pair of large marble spheres and teasingly worked them into her tight pussy has
her clenching with need as she awaits his return, as does recalling how he had
driven her to the brink of ecstasy time and time again before flinging her from
the precipice. She wonders if this is the night where he introduces her to even
more of the dark, wanton desires he had hinted were yet to come for them.
Emma tosses her head from side to side, burrowing a comfortable niche for
herself in the fluffy pillows and dispelling some of the tension of keeping her
limbs in position and of denying her body’s call for friction and release. With
all the aplomb and officiousness of a royal servant, he comes back to her side
carrying a large silver platter filled with several small covered dishes, a
short candle, three paintbrushes, the set of marble spheres, and neat coils of
white silk rope. Without acknowledging her, he sets the tray on one of the
tables nearby and arranges something beyond her sight; when he finally
approaches the bed, he carries her bindings.
He crawls across the bed, meets her gaze, and reaches for her left ankle,
placing a gentle kiss to the thin, sensitive skin before slipping the first
loop on and securing the knot. He repeats the process with each limb, tenderly
caressing before binding her in place. He loops a line around her waist,
securing to it the points already anchored at her ankles and knees. Her arms
are secured at her wrists, tied together above her head and then to one of the
finials of the headboard. Killian leans down to kiss her, but after only a
fleeting brush of lips, he pulls away, carrying a pillow with him; he carefully
lifts her hips and places the cushion beneath, angling her sex up so that it is
presented to him as depicted in manuscripts of an ancient fertility offering.
Finally, he takes a thick satin ribbon and carefully covers her eyes, tucking
the ends under her head and careful to keep it loose enough for her to easily
cast off.
“I want to make certain your eyes are closed so that you can focus on the way
this feels, Emma love. But if you begin to panic, let me know immediately; this
is all for your enjoyment and your pleasure as much as mine. It will not be for
long.”
She nods once and leans into the caressing fingers against her cheek, darting
her tongue out to lick the thumb that trails across her lips; they had
discovered the very first time he first bound her that being deprived of both
movement and sight had made her unaccountably, violently anxious and
frightened, and that even when her limbs are free she does not care for the
pressure of a tied blindfold against her face. She hears him walk away, as well
as feels the loss of warmth radiating from his skin, and then the soft clicks
and clinks associated with the silver dishes. He also strikes a match for the
candle, she presumes, yet she remains as motionless as possible, allowing the
anticipation to inexorably build within her, to fall and crest while rising
ever higher.
The first sensation is that of the slightly cool, hard, and smooth marble ball
gently rolling along her skin from the hollow at the base of her throat, down
the valley between her breasts, and then up and around one globe, slowly
circling closer and closer to the rosy tip. Yet he stops just at the edge of
her areola, changes direction altogether, and rolls down the plain of her
stomach and mound. Emma gasps as the fingers of his other hand tenderly spread
open the lips of her sex, sliding the sphere through her juices before widening
her passage and inserting the now warmed marble into her trembling cunt. Her
muscles flutter wildly—half inadvertently and half with intent—deliciously
squeezing his digits and the toy.
“After tonight, darling, this particular set is yours to keep and use every
day. They come from the Far East and are meant to strengthen a woman’s passage;
you can keep them in for as long as you want, or for just a few minutes at a
time, but the idea is to use your muscles to prevent them from slipping out.
Tighten around them and release, just as if they were my cock. This set was
actually hollowed out, a chime placed within each; when used in harmony, the
chimes will send out a vibration through the marble and into the walls of your
pussy. Any time they strike each other with each contraction of your muscles,
they’ll radiate this sensation…”
As he spoke, he had repeated the same teasing process with the second sphere,
finally allowing the marbles to carefully clash as he spread her cunt around
it. Emma lets out the most erotic of moans as he manipulates her clitoris in
tandem with forceful strokes of his fingers to her walls and the spheres,
explaining to her by touch how to use them in aiding any self-pleasuring she
would perform for herself or for his enjoyment. “Be a good girl now, and keep
them from falling out. I may not be able to hear the chimes, but I will see
your sex clench and your mound will vibrate with the tension of holding them
in… and with pleasure.”
She gasps as he swirls one of the paintbrushes over a nipple, covering it with
a warm, sticky fluid—honey, if she had to guess, but she can also smell
something fresh and sweet, something with a hint of cold to it. She moans as he
pulls the paintbrush away, no longer tortuously stimulating her aching bud, a
soft “yes” and a hiss coming through clenched teeth as he treats the other
nipple to the same treatment while softly blowing on its mate. The warring
sensations of hot and cold have her flesh tightening impossibly before he
places something weighty and cool on top of the straining peak.
But her whole body shudders with suppressed tension and pleasure as his warm
brush begins to anoint her clitoris with the same deliberate, tantalizingly
warm pressure. She clamps her mouth shut to prevent herself from begging—as
much as she wants to promise him all sorts of wanton, sordid pleasures if only
he will give her an orgasm this instant, she knows that pleading will do her no
good. Oh, it will give him plenty of smug satisfaction, but when Killian has so
completely laid out his schemes, nothing will sway him toward giving in until
he is good and ready; and Emma knows that the sensual torture can and will
become much worse, if only so that her penultimate satisfaction will be greater
once he orchestrates her release.
The paintbrush disappears from her skin once more, but she feels a stream of
the warm liquid falling against the lips of her sex as if he is slowly, yet
liberally pouring it onto her or letting it drizzle down from the saturated
brush. The warmth moves up, trailing enticingly onto the flesh of her stomach
and then onto the curves of her upper arms. Her pussy flutters wildly as she
feels his fingers at her passage again, this time inserting something oddly
shaped, yet yielding and cool—a berry or a piece of fruit perhaps? For the
first time, her patience and need to see and know wears thin and she struggles
against her bonds, inarticulately moaning for Killian to cease tormenting her.
A dark chuckle and a delicate kiss to the tip of her nose are the only replies
she receives from her lover.
She attempts to count the seconds and minutes, but it does her no good, for he
cunningly refuses to engage in any sort of patterns that would help her focus
and so dispel any of her burgeoning need. At last, he brushes her lips with
something cool and then asks her to part them slightly, placing a strawberry
between her teeth. He licks at her painted skin and bites into the berry before
possessing her mouth in a furious kiss, all his own desperate desire spilling
over into the creamy plundering. Emma responds in kind, savoring the sweetness
that is his mouth combined with the cream-covered berry and releasing a
frustrated, debauched moan. And still he eats at her lips, long after the fruit
is gone, as though her very kiss were all the food he needed to sustain life.
Something of Emma’s desperation and his own growing excitement must finally
break through the haze of combined bliss, for he breaks away suddenly and
presses his forehead to hers. “All tied and at my mercy, and yet you can still
command and unman me with a kiss, my love. I do not have the words to express
how utterly your slave I am, how completely your thrall.”
He brushes his nose against hers before pulling back slightly and whisking the
obscuring scrap of satin away. This close, her eyes cannot focus right away,
nor can she hide the drugged, pleasure-denied glitter of lust and devotion
flowing through her and into him. Despite his claims to the contrary, his words
always strike her powerfully and directly to her heart; while normally she
would respond with an honest gaze and a soothing touch of her hand, her
bindings prevent such a gesture and she settles for one of his—brushing her
nose against his cheek. His smile communicates as easily as anything else, so
she knows that he understands what she means without words. He takes a step
back and motions behind and to his left with his hand.
Emma gasps at the sight before her—herself, not just bound and helpless but
utterly transformed into a living delicacy. She had been so wrapped up in
Killian before that she had not noticed the change to the room, that now a
mirror stands quite close to the bed—close enough that she can see her sex,
flushed with arousal and stuffed with fruit and dripping with her own juices
and honey; her breasts covered in swirls of honey, cream, and even chocolate
while tipped with ripe raspberries; her skin decorated with yet more sweets,
just as if Chef had designed her as part of some exotic, living menu. And she
can see all this in the mirror that her lover has provided, so she can watch as
he nibbles and savors her as his dessert, so (hopefully) she can later watch as
his body fills hers and he rides her into ecstatic oblivion.
Without a word, he catches her eyes before untying the sash of his dressing
gown and letting it fall from his body. He watches her eyes dilate with yet
more lust, watches her sex clench around the berries and her mound quiver with
wanting him. Just as she never ceases to delight in his form, so he will never
not be in awe of how responsive she is for him and him alone; only he can
reduce her to trembling desire, only he has the power to access this sensual,
abandoned woman beneath the proud, untouchable exterior she presents to the
world.
“I want you to watch, Emma. Watch and feel; see what your body does to mine,
how I ache and long to worship you with my cock buried in your cunt. I want you
to see just how glorious you are, how beautiful and lush in your wanton
depravity. I want you to feel the same aching lust for you that fills me even
as I’m chasing my release, even as I’m watching myself disappear inside you and
feel the glorious rippling of your pussy. I want you to see yourself as you
come undone for me, as I take you over the edge again and again and again.
Watch and see and feel what you do to me, Emma love.”
Every moment comprises of the most exquisite, divine torture imaginable as he
patiently, methodically licks the sticky-sweet mess from her skin. She had
never truly considered all of the tiny, oft-unnoticed areas of flesh
susceptible to the languid flick of Killian’s tongue, to the gentle yet firm
caress of his lips; yet it seems that he possesses his own map of her body, a
priceless treasure trove of all the sensitive places most apt to make her moan
and writhe and ache for him. Whenever she closes her eyes, she receives a
barked command to watch or a sharp slap to her ass or a flick to her throbbing
clit; he gives no quarter and no mercy as he plunders and plumbs every single
nerve ending that will sing with pleasure for him.
When he reaches her breasts, she finds that she cannot look away from the
mirror image of herself—the absolute hunger and determined focus in his gaze
plucks a primal, carnal chord within her, so that her whole body does not cease
to tremble, to vibrate for him like a perfectly tuned instrument. She watches
him devour her flesh, taking her nipple and much of the globe into his mouth,
lashing the soft skin with his tongue, suckling deep and hard enough to pull an
answering tug from her still stuffed, yet desperately empty sex. Every
accidental brush of his cock against her resonates in the depths of her core
until she fancies that she can hear a constant chiming of petite bells. The
honey, now cool and hardening seems to constrict tighter and tighter on her
clitoris so that every throb of desire, every clench of her wall, every beat of
her heart increases the pressure in the tiny pearl of desperate flesh.
By the time he reaches her stomach, impossibly close and yet infuriatingly
distant from where she wants and need him most, she can see her greedy sex,
relentlessly clenching and quivering under his assault so that the red juices
of the berry gush continually from between her lips. A keening, inarticulately
eloquent wail rises from her chest and out her throat before a begging litany
flows from her lips.
“Goddess, mercy! No more, Killian! I can’t—I can’t—please let me come! Please
suck on my clit and then bury your tongue in my cunt! I need you in my pussy
because these fucking marbles are not enough! Mercy, please! I’ve been so good,
haven’t I, Killian? Don’t you want to get to the best part of your dessert and
eat up all my juices?! All for you! Only for you! Only you could make my cunt
this wet, this ready to be fucked! Don’t you want to taste what all this
torture has done to me? Don’t you want to lap it all up and then fuck me
senseless? Just give me your fucking cock already! Oh, GODDESS!!”
A long, lingering lick up from the sensitive skin below her sex, through her
slit, and across the engorged pearl of flesh sends her spiraling into a free-
fall release harder than any she has ever yet experienced. Her mind barely
registers the hungry slurping sounds and intensely desperate groans he makes as
he delves for every drop of sweet, every piece of fruit, and every hint of her
ambrosial nectar. Every flick of his tongue and each slide of his fingers sends
another furious wave of pleasure crashing back into her body, bowing her back
and rippling long shudders up her spine. Yet, she never stops watching them in
the mirror, as commanded, and in the days and weeks to come when her conscious
mind will remember those hazy first impressions her sex will clench and tremble
with the perfect echoes of bliss.
She feels her bindings loosen and the slippery glide of the marbles as he pulls
them from her still-quivering sex, and then the long, glorious drag of his cock
being thrust deep into her wide-open cunt. She wraps her legs around him, sorry
for the distance that prevents her from pulling him down into a kiss until she
focuses on the mirror once more. She cannot stop from moaning at the absolutely
delicious titillation of watching him plunge in and out of her, of seeing the
lips of her sex as they embrace and stretch and pull along his proud, marbled,
virile flesh. His hips snapping in harsh, yet beautiful rhythm reminded her of
the wild, harnessed power of an unbroken stallion as they pumped ruthlessly,
perfectly into her own; his back, long and straight, drips with sweat at his
exertion, yet remains unbowed by his strenuous efforts.
His hands on her hips keep her from sitting up and pulling her body flush to
his, a feral and primitive counterpoint to the tender considerate lover of
earlier. Aware of what it does to him to watch her seek her own pleasure, Emma
smirks and places one hand at her breast and allows the other to drift down to
where they are joined, forming a “v” with her fingers so that her palm
stimulates her clitoris and simultaneously strokes his cock. His own look of
fierce concentration falters for a moment, as does his pounding, relentless
pace before he answers with a grin of his own.
He effortlessly drags her up before tossing her onto her stomach, pressing her
head down to the mattress with her face still toward the mirror before roughly
mounting her again. His every stroke plunges deep into her core, seeming to
strike her very womb with incessant, unerring accuracy. The end of every thrust
forces a grunt or a cry from her lips even as she snaps her own hips back into
his; mindlessly lost to the ancient rite, it is as if they seek to lose all
sense of two separate bodies, whether by sheer force of will or ruthless
physical annihilation.
Somewhere in her mind, she registers Killian’s fingers—slick with her arousal
and aided with warmed oil—slowly working the tender flesh around her anus and
on the puckered skin itself. She grinds her hips back against him, glorying in
the moment and the ecstatic sensations as well as enjoying the sight of his so
perfectly manipulating her body and her pleasure. When he carefully works a
finger in, she gasps at the unfamiliar, dark pleasure of being stretched, being
filled beyond what she knew she was capable of; his slow patience in
introducing this a glaring contrast to the violent fucking of her cunt. His
second finger and the inadvertent brush of the sheet against her clit topple
her over the edge into another hard release; the vicious clamp of her sex milks
his cock so deliciously that he cannot help but follow her with a victorious
roar of completion.
Emma feels nothing but the blissful floating of a pleasure saturated body as
Killian fetches the warmed, wet cloths he prepared and tenderly cleans her
flesh. All she feels is a drugged warmth as he rubs oil into her arms and legs,
massaging deep into the muscles so that they don’t twinge or cramp come
morning. If she notices his absence as he meticulously cleans away their mess,
it is only so far as she registers the return of his warm, comforting body
before she curls into him and drifts gently off to sleep.
===============================================================================
 
Though thoroughly sated, Killian finds himself unable to sleep and yet
discovers a quiet restfulness in watching the rise and fall of Emma’s chest
beneath the sheets. It is curious, what he feels for her—this potent mixture of
protectiveness, possessiveness, adoration, admiration, and raw lust. He never
once dreamed than anyone could so easily, so quickly become so vital to his
life and his happiness—not even Milah wielded this much power over him, and
certainly the only other would be Sophia. The two very different loves of his
life who make him complete in ways that he did not before realize he was
lacking; both who possess unwavering conviction in his ability to protect them
and to care for them, though perhaps all unconscious. He would do anything and
everything to keep them safe and, more importantly to him, to keep them with
him—such is the strength of his devotion and his love. He only hopes, knowing
that his messenger is already half-way to the capital by now, that when the
time comes to ask for forgiveness that their love is strong enough for them to
see the reason behind his actions, as well as the fathomless well of emotion
which prompted them…
 
To Will Scarlet, Esq., Captain of the Prince’s Guard
Go to Malfi, Will. Deliver this directly into the Duchess’ hand; provide her
everything you have sent me regarding the Shepherds. Emma is the missing heir
she seeks and, gods willing, will be more. Speed my embassy, Will, and do not
delay leaving the kingdom for anything. Be prepared for the worst winter in 15
years; just get this message to the Duchess with all speed.
 
To Her Grace, Regina, Duchess of Malfi, etc.,
Dear Madame,
I do hope you will forgive any perceived offense for the undue haste and
urgency with which I apply to you, all without precedent, yet perhaps not
entirely unexpected by yourself. I have just received word from my brother King
William that you have these last eight-and-twenty years been searching for your
step-daughter the Lady Snow White, who legally remains the sole heir to your
lands and those of your late husband; he has also informed me that both he and
your Grace are convinced that my daughter’s governess is the daughter of the
said Lady Snow and the young man with whom she eloped and fled your duchy all
those years ago.
Indeed, I have long been aware that the woman I know as Miss Emma Shepherd
possesses too many refinements in body, mind, and character to have sprung from
anything less than noble stock, and I can and will enumerate the many
circumstantial proofs which led to my conclusion in a later communiqué should
you require them; furthermore, this letter carries with it my own personal
assurance of your safe conduct throughout all crown lands on account of this
lack of uncertainty, so that you may hasten on your journey here to be reunited
with her at Thistledown Hall where she has been employed and lodged these past
three months.
 However, I cannot claim my motives in sending this information to you to be
entirely without bias or great personal, selfish consequence, and it is my 
sincerest hope that this proposition of alliance will be the first—and as such,
only—application of its kind which you will have cause to entertain. As you no
doubt are aware of my position as my brother’s heir, I pray that you understand
and forgive the somewhat arrogant expediency of this missive, and consider the
urgent attendant duty with which I must ask you to grant your favor and
blessing to my request for your granddaughter’s hand in marriage.
For those of us graced by fortune and the gods to be born of noble and ancient
blood, the holy sacrament of matrimony remains a most grave and serious
undertaking, as the health and safety of the entire realm hangs in the balance
of our decisions. Though I have known Miss Shepherd for only a few months and
all of those in the false colors of an inferior, her manifold graces and
temperament have ignited a fond and genuine admiration for her, such that had
her supposed birth not posed an insuperable impediment to a union which would
have such a vital impact upon the kingdom and the blood royal, I would have
happily taken her to wife with nary a personal regret or concern. Knowing now,
however, that her lineage matches my own urges me to apply to you without
delay; for I firmly believe that a marriage alliance between our families would
not only be politically expedient and felicitous, but that to be united
together with her would bring us both great happiness.
The bearer of this letter will provide you with the documentation from our
kingdom which proves the Lady Emma’s identity beyond question, but I understand
and sympathize with your deep-seated need to see her for yourself. At long
last, your Grace, you are to be rewarded for your unwavering conviction that
your step-daughter or her possible children yet lived: the confirmed existence
and location of the rightful heir to your duchy and the opportunity of an
equitable and suitable match for her to perpetuate your family’s august name
and bloodline. I fully understand that, having finally found your true
grandchild, your Grace would not wish to be easily or swiftly parted from her;
however, I must impress upon you the sincerity of my affections and care for
her happiness in marriage, as well as the desire and need for a speedy
resolution to our such negotiations. Emma will need time to adjust to her
altered circumstances as a tenant-in-chief—though her acumen as a small-holder
is unparalleled and no doubt assist her in swiftly learning her duties—and also
will require a great deal of guidance from such a one of your standing. Your
Grace is most welcome to remain a guest in our kingdom indefinitely, or Emma
and I can make an extended tour of Malfi and your other lands for our honeymoon
so that she can remain close to you for an extended period.
Yet time is of the essence, so please be swift in your reply. I do not doubt
that rumors persist, but it has ever been the practice of our house to lend
gossip no credence nor credit, so I trust entirely to your discretion in what I
must say next. My brother the King is dying, your Grace, much sooner than a
fond, dutiful brother would hope or wish to contemplate. Once he passes from
this world into the next, I shall become king and my only daughter Sophia will
then become heir to the throne in my place; I have been repeatedly urged to
remarry and produce more heirs of my body, but have been stubbornly unwilling
and uneager to do so until necessity in the form of a direct order of council
has compelled me otherwise. Should you smile upon my suit, you may rest easy in
your twilight years, cognizant that your granddaughter will wear a crown in
addition to the ducal coronet, perpetuate your family name, and have a kingdom
at her disposal in order to guarantee the safety, security, and felicity of her
lands.
I once more pray that my suit finds favor with your Grace, and honestly
proclaim that I shall not find any rest or peace until I have received your
reply. I remain, humbled supplicant as I am, your servant,
Killian, Regis Fil.
 
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: Jut a reminder that as this is a fictional work, some of the
     natural laws of the universe can be bent or stretched for creative
     purposes. The erotic acts depicted, both bondage and food play,
     should be engaged in with due caution and consideration. A lover
     should never be bound for extended periods of time specifically in
     moderately to severely uncomfortable positions; all bound areas
     should be repeatedly checked by the Top to ensure that muscles are
     not cramping and circulation is normal. Food play itself can cause
     opportunistic infections to develop, especially when using sugary
     substances on or near the vaginal area, so douching afterward is
     highly recommended. Be smart and be safe.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
In the weeks before the onset of winter Killian’s days fall into a predictable
if somewhat rushed pattern, much like Emma and Sophia’s only with less variety.
But before progressing further with the narrative, it behooves us to pause for
a moment, to take a step back and glance down from a heavenward view.
In the kingdom of Domitia, the House of Sonoian was not the first—nor,
undoubtedly, will it be the last—of the dynasties to sit upon the throne and
wear the crown. Indeed, Liam is not only the second of his name, but second of
his line to rule. After 33 long years of political unrest, civil strife, and
oppression of his subjects, King Jacobus IV of House Luteis was imprisoned by
the united commoners of his realm and, after standing trial for his dereliction
of duty and crimes against the state, beheaded. The man who became known to
history as William I, his first cousin and son of his eldest aunt, was offered
the crown based upon his royal blood on both sides of his family, his gender,
and his understanding with the leaders of the populace that a fairer and more
equitable government would be molded under his guidance and governance. He was
a charming, vigorous twenty-four years of age with a pair of acknowledged
bastards to prove his virility; conversely, Jacobus had been in his late
forties with nary a pregnancy between two wives and was more devoted to
patronizing the arts than to dallying with a mistress or enhancing the
kingdom’s prestige and glory through wars or alliances.
As part of his effort to increase the legitimacy of his reign in the eyes of
Domitia’s nobles, he chose as his regal bride Lady Matilda Gentian, Princess of
House Luteis and younger sister of Jacobus IV; with an eye to winning over the
masses, the story spread that William had loved his young cousin since
childhood and could not bear the thought of taking another lady as wife and
queen. Given the eight year age difference between the bride and groom, tales
of a royal love match were doubtless much exaggerated, at first; but over time,
the couple developed a strong, genuine bond of affection so deep as to lend
credence to the earlier rumors. Their personal and political strengths
complemented each other well and, despite the growing concerns over the lack of
an heir, they remained firmly devoted to one another.
Indeed, for many years to come it was this conviction to remain faithful which
made them enormously admired by and beloved of their common subjects—a
popularity which saved them from an early aristocratic coup and entrenched them
more firmly in the throne. After the death of Jacobus IV and the violent
upheavals in the form and management of the government, many of the ousted
nobles and former favorites retired to their little fiefdoms to lick their
wounds and scheme in private. While some could naturally claim more land and
status than others, by this time the propertied class had managed to
consolidate their gains into vast swathes of contiguous estates, often centered
around a particularly prosperous village and castle, or manor; thus, they were
able to command an entire region’s worth of resources and collect them all into
a small, easily defensible area. And while the time of roving, pillaging bands
of knight of rival lords was long in the past, the nobles’ sense of their own
superiority and supremacy remained.
Discontented with the Commons’ choice of William of Sonoian, with his
unquestionably royal wife who stubbornly denied them the stability of an heir,
and with his willingness to simply share the power of government with the
“upstart rabble,” several of the most senior ranking dukes and counts hatched a
plot to seize the crown and the treasury; holding the kingdom’s wealth and
symbols of power hostage would necessarily turn de facto rule into a return of
the absolute oligarchy they had previously enjoyed. The right words to the
wrong servant, however, caused their plans to be revealed to a few influential
members of the recently liberated and increasingly prosperous citizenry—a class
now fiercely protective of their kindly and benevolent royal couple and of
their freedoms under the new regime. Several would-be usurpers lost their
heads, their lives and lands forfeited for their treason.
Thus, by the time Liam and Killian were born, the crown had direct jurisdiction
over and possession of plenty of lands, allowing the king to provide his
second-born son with the princely inheritance of the wealth and titles of the
Duchies of Reynauld and Sommere. Had Killian been of less than genuinely noble
and honorable temperament, enriching a “spare” with what amounted to a small
kingdom’s worth of power and monies could have proved a political and economic
disaster. But as it was, William and Matilda had raised both of their sons with
love for each other and love for the people whose lives and livelihood were
theirs to protect by their regal station; his own personal happiness was
entirely subsumed beneath a bond of brotherly affection and his sense of
responsibility to his and his brother’s subjects.
So, with the exception of a small estate just outside the walls of the capital
city for visits of national concern, all of Killian’s lands lay in the
southernmost region of the kingdom; and while Thistledown Hall was certainly
his favorite, it was by no means his only residence. His other properties each
boasted a small manor or hunting lodge at the least, though many retained
defensive castles—the years of Jacobus IV, and indeed much of House Luteis’
dynasty, had left the south vulnerable to attack and even current quiet and
prosperity could not completely override deeply ingrained caution. Diplomacy
only works when all parties involved genuinely desire peace, and neither Liam
nor Killian trust to words alone to keep populace and land safe from danger.
Despite finally sending off his orders to Scarlet and staying up simply
watching Emma sleep, he wakes long before the sun rises and carries her gently
down to her room; after laying her beneath warm sheets and blankets, he stokes
the fire to ward of the dawn chill and hastily scrawls a note which he places
on the stand by her bed. With a lingering caress of his fingers along her
sleep-rosed cheek and an all too brief brush of his lips to her brow, he
returns to his room and swiftly prepares himself for the arduous day ahead.
Before retiring to his chamber last night, he had alerted Fairfax to the
commencement of his plans; as he descends the front steps, he notes with
gratitude and pleasure that Triton is saddled and ready to leave, shifting
restlessly alongside the mounts of his steward and his three guardsmen. Killian
effortlessly swings himself up onto his mount and allows himself the briefest
glance back at the still slumbering manor before signaling to his retinue and
setting heels to his horse’s flank. He sees that his orders were obeyed to the
letter and each man is riding one of the most prized stallions from his
stables, every animal bred for their speed and stamina, knowing that every
ounce of their considerable strength and agility will be necessary for the
day’s long travels.
Their first stop of the day is the estate buttery, where the work day has
already begun; normally, the employees would still be asleep in their rooms in
the dormitories or just leaving their parents’ nearby homes. While a goodly
number of his workers at all of his various manufactories are the older, spare
sons and daughters of his farm tenants, an increasing number of them over the
years have been migratory laborers or individuals who had more recently moved
to the area. His estate businesses were all considered quite revolutionary in
that he willingly provided food and board in addition to wages, in order to
encourage skilled immigrants to become fixed locals and to provide a modicum of
independence for those farmers’ children who wished to become masters of their
chosen craft.
Master Scott and the head vintner, Master Gilles, wait for him in the
building’s massive doorway, light and noise spilling out from behind them. Each
of them holds a sheaf of documents, ready to discuss the business at hand with
their master and hand over their reports to Fairfax for later perusal and
inclusion in the estate ledgers. Killian dismounts handily, moving the instant
his feet touch the ground—a fleeting echo of a laugh in his mind that sounds
suspiciously like Emma’s reminds him that he won’t be feeling quite so jaunty
and energetic by the time he dismounts again in front of Thistledown.
“Master Scott, Master Gilles! My thanks for being so prompt in spite of the
hour. I have a busy schedule ahead of me for the next fortnight or so, and
according to reports I’ve been receiving it looks like our haste will be
rewarded sooner rather than later. First, I would like to discuss the current
needs for the worker dormitories. I want every single one made as warm and
weather-proofed as possible; any repairs that you were thinking could wait,
make them the first priority. Any spare moment the coopers have, put a hammer
and nails in their hands; the blacksmith and lumber mill have been alerted and
extra stocks should be headed your way.
“If there are any other specialized items necessary, send a note to the manor;
one of the footmen has been training as a clerk under Fairfax, so he will be in
charge of organizing all such requests. I know that you haven’t had as much
time as some of your fellows will have, but I trust that you have included
requests for dormitory linens in your reports?” A brief nod from both Masters
affirms their compliance.
“Excellent. Now, Scott… I believe that my daughter requested a special delivery
of a cider barrel to her uncle? Go ahead and send it with a one-half shipment
of our usual six month allotment for the court. We can’t afford to be sending
our full consignment at present. First, because we might end up needing some
for ourselves here, and second, because what we manage to salvage from this
season’s harvest will probably end up being one of our rarer vintage years. The
more we can save now, the more we can sell at a better price later on.
“I also want you both to be prepared for an influx of some of my tenants to be
staying at the dormitories and possibly looking to supplement their income by
working. I remember enough of that harsh winter to know that I want my people
safe, no matter the expense. At every town I stop through, I will be
encouraging people to take refuge at the manufactories or to engage lodgings at
their closest village or town. No one is to be turned away, especially once the
cold sets in. And since idle hands are the devil’s playground, those with the
necessary skills or willing to learn them will be paid for work. Find out what
people are good at making, and I will see that you get the raw materials they
need. Anything that can get them through the long months with their sanity
intact and then help us survive the lean months afterward. The granaries,
dairies, and butchers have been alerted to send an increase in your normal
rations, but send them detailed figures as soon as you have them. Now, let’s
discuss the inventories on hand and the projected yields…”
Master Gilles clears her throat meaningfully, pulling him from the thread of
his thought. “I beg your pardon, your highness, but may I speak freely for a
moment?”
“Naturally. What is on your mind?” The head vintner shares a quick look with
her associate before drawing a deep breath to say her piece. A tall, well-
muscled woman whose calves are easily strong enough to break a man’s neck,
Master Gilles rarely allows anyone to see anything but the highest level of
self-confidence in her thoughts and opinions. She’s worked hard for Killian’s
family for 12 years, earning her position and stellar reputation for excellent
grapes and vintages with fierce dedication and keen judgment. He trusts her
implicitly where the interests and status of the winery are concerned.
“Well, sire, Master Scott and I were tallying the figures and discussing our
options, and we had an idea regarding the court shipment. Since the King is
going on progress and—provided the winter hits as early and as hard as
predicted—won’t be residing in the capital anyway, we were thinking to hold off
on the normal shipments. First, the carts being sent at their normal speed will
not make it into the capital in time; they’ll need to be stored at whatever
town is nearest when the first storm hits, and you can guarantee that no matter
whose land they get stuck in, you’ll be paying a pretty penny for storage and
likely a ransom to boot.
“Second, even if the weather should hold until the drays reach the city, the
king himself won’t be there to receive and enjoy them. And with his Majesty out
of residence, neither of us trust his Master Pantler further than we can toss
the wee fellow. Finally, winter or no winter, the King will eventually be
making his way down here. If we keep back the stores we would normally send,
not only will we have the very best tuns to serve when he finally arrives, but
we also can guarantee a nice margin of barrels and bottles to sell come spring
and summer in case we find the coffers in need of replenishment.”
While the suggestion surprises Killian, he cannot fault the business acumen and
logic which supports the proposed plan. Many of his estates pay their taxes by
sending their raw produce and products to the royal court in order to keep the
many courtiers and officers supplied with their necessary allotments of food
and drink; part of a person’s salary for being a servant of the Crown or a
member of the governing council was lodging and board while waiting on the
King, so maintaining them all has always been an expensive prospect.
Thankfully, Liam’s travelling court will be quite small in comparison to the
full Court, but even that will come with a constantly ebbing and flowing
contingent of servants, messengers, and couriers—not including the odd official
who will no doubt be stopping by for hurried consultations with the King on
matters of state…And though his cellars and storehouses are well-stocked,
Gilles and Scott’s scheme will certainly worked toward easing the financial
burden of the royal visit on his lands.
“It is a sound plan, Masters. It actually makes a great deal of sense regarding
all of our court consignments, so if you don’t mind, I’ll make a note of this
and implement it across the duchies. In light of this, let’s do as you say and
scrap the entire court consignment. But I want you both the personally ensure
that our best barrels are placed as far back in our storerooms as possible,
clearly marked so there is no mistaking them if we are forced to sell or broach
more than we anticipated. Agreed?”
The Masters readily assent, pleased with their lord’s approval of their
judgment and his implementation of their idea. Undoubtedly, when the first new
sets of orders arrived with such haste, they like all of the rest of the Master
craftsmen and workers had grumbled and groused about the increase in their
labors that the predicted short harvest would entail. A shorter harvest meant
long hours now of working by moonlight as well as daylight, and interminable
hours of lazy boredom during the cold months. And yet, beneath the gruff
complaining lies a bone-deep satisfaction in having this particular prince as
their liege-lord—that he shows such deep concern for his people, and not just
for the lands which they tend for him or the wealth they provide his
storehouses. Their lives, insignificant perhaps to history and the greater
workings of the kingdom have cherished value and meaning for him; his honorable
nature makes him a lord proudly and readily served.
He shakes the hands of both Masters and ensures that Fairfax receives all of
the necessary reports, securing them in a weather-proofed saddlebag, before he
orders his men to mount up once more and continue on their journey. “I’ll do my
best to remind you, but if we can afford it come next planting season make
certain to see that Scott and Gilles are duly rewarded for their idea.”
Somewhere on the road to the village of Thistle Glade, the sun peeks his head
above the horizon and slowly begins to warm the early autumn air. When their
horses hooves clatter across the cobbles of the town square, a small crowd of
citizens is already assembled and waiting for him, their breaths occasionally
puffing white as they stamp about to bring heat to their bodies. At the sight
of him, the whole throng bows and curtsies as one while the aldermen step
forward to greet him.
He shakes hands and greets the village elders by name, smiling and asking after
wives and husbands, children, and grandchildren to each individual’s delight.
The mayor hands him a sheaf of petitions and reports, which Killian holds onto
while speaking to the crowd. “Thank you all for coming, and I do apologize for
the earliness of the hour and for taking you away from your duties. I hope for
this to be as painless and as brief as possible; Fairfax will read out the
proclamation, and then you will be given a chance to ask questions. I have many
towns and castles to reach today and in the coming weeks, so that time will
necessarily be brief. However, if a concern arises later after further
deliberation and thought, please bring it to one of your aldermen so that they
can transmit your questions to myself or my stewards. Thank you all again for
being here so promptly this morning.”
He motions Fairfax forward, who already has the document memorized but holds it
aloft anyway while reading in a clear, sonorous voice:
“By order of his Royal Highness, Prince Killian of the House of Sonoian, Duke
of Reynauld and Sommere, Count of Mortain and Lord of Iere. In that it hath
been forecast and predicted that the coming winter shall be both long and harsh
and thereby threatens the health, happiness, and safety of his well-loved
subjects and liege-men, our most noble Prince in his abundant loving-kindness
and generosity hath made preparations throughout all his lands and domains in
order to preserve life, limb, and property to the fullest extent of his powers
and abilities.
“First, may it be known that all citizens should look to the suitability and
location of their homes and upon wise reflection determine whether the
isolation of their abode be or not be too great to adequately protect them from
the rigors of the said impending cruel weather. It is most conscientiously
advised that all those living above one and one-half miles from the nearest
neighbor or from the closest village, town, estate building, manor, or castle
should arrange for alternative shelter. Those who can afford the costs are
urged to seek winter lodgings by taking rooms at an inn or letting rooms in a
private home. For those who cannot afford this option, let it be known that his
Royal Highness will allow his subjects and citizens to seek shelter at the
estate buildings, the manufactories, and the great halls of his castles
throughout his lands, on the understanding that rigid discipline will be
enforced in the dormitories and all save family groups will abide strictly with
their own sex.
“Second, those who wish to work while lodging in the estate buildings, the
manufactories, and in the castles of the Prince’s domains will be provided the
opportunity to do so and will be compensated with a combination of wages,
board, and food. All able-bodied individuals of proper laboring age will be
expected to contribute to their keep in some commensurate manner. For example,
children under the age of fifteen will be expected to attend daily lessons and
to fetch and carry for the kitchens at one meal per day; other necessary chores
will include cleaning the dormitories or hall, cooking, laundering and mending,
mucking the stables, tending the fires, etc.
“Third, billeting will also be provided for the cattle and livestock of those
who elect to take lodging in the Prince’s manufactories, manor buildings, or
castles. In order to ensure that undue burden is not placed upon the estate,
nor upon any single herdsman, his Royal Highness commands that all stored
winter feed for said cattle and livestock be brought with the citizen at the
time of his or her removal to the dormitories, etc. Further, in order to
prevent later disputes, the Prince’s clerks will be present to take an accurate
and faithful accounting of the inventory of goods, chattel, and personal
effects which each individual or family brings with them, and all cattle and
livestock will be marked with an appropriate brand if not already so
distinguished.
“Fourth, given the arduous and dangerous nature of travelling during the winter
months, any man or woman willing to shovel or plough snow and clear the king’s
roads between storms should alert the Prince’s officials as soon as possible.
Wages, bread, and board will be provided in compensation for this vital service
to the Crown and community and such individuals are strongly encouraged to
abide in their closest town or village in order to be present immediately upon
the break in the weather. Subjects who elect to perform this labor are likewise
advised to be fully aware of the possible threats to life and limb that may
result from thus engaging their services.
“Fifth, to discourage boredom and generally quarrelsome behavior due to
forcibly remaining indoors for an indefinite amount of time during storms, any
individual residing in a manufactory dormitory, a manor building dormitory, or
the great hall of a castle will be encouraged to take up a new craft or acquire
a new skill and provided with the means necessary to accomplish it. At the end
of the winter, his Royal Highness’ clerks will collect one-half of the
completed items produced and the remaining raw materials while the crafter will
be allowed to keep the remaining half of the fruits of their labors to dispose
of as he or she wishes. Anyone wishing at the end of the winter to join a new
trade or guild will be aided in obtaining an apprenticeship.
“Lastly, should any quarrel or crime be engaged in which requires the presence
and deliberation of the Prince, a courier should be sent to Thistledown Hall as
soon as the weather safely permits travel. Citizens are encouraged to ensure
that such a situation does not come to pass if it is at all avoidable, as
seeking redress from his Royal Highness will endanger the lives of many to
resolve and quell the grumblings of a few. The normal laws and process of the
King’s justice shall remain in force and in effect throughout the duration of
the present crisis, and lawlessness, which would not regularly go unpunished,
will be dealt with mercilessly while all lives remain suspended in greatest
peril by cruel weather.
“May the stars smile on your comings and your goings. God save the King!”
“God save the King!!”
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The closest border castle on Killian’s lands lies only an hour’s hard ride from
Thistledown Hall, but such a journey does not keep to the well-maintained roads
nor does it take into account the dozen or so small hamlets and villages that
dot the countryside in between. Given its proximity to his main residence,
Thistle Glade was spared the least amount of time for questions on the schedule
that he and Fairfax devised for his tour of his lands.
As the day waxes and then again as it begins to wane, Killian has already made
a mental note of several recurring issues and questions brought up by his
citizens so that he can ensure their inclusion in subsequent orders to his
soldiers, clerks, and Master Craftsmen and in future readings of the
proclamation. Hopefully, doing so will ease any qualms his subjects have and
make each stop end more quickly. The sooner he can see to it that all his
tenants will know where to turn to for a safe haven, the sooner he will be able
to rest comfortably in his family’s arms and company without the burden of
worry or guilt. He may be a selfish man to long for a relief from the weight of
his duties and responsibilities by whiling away the hours with his daughter and
his lover, but he knows that there are worse vices with which a prince can
indulge himself.
But those sweeter thoughts find themselves interrupted by the harsh reality of
his orders to the garrisons of his castles. After clattering into the bailey
and dismounting stiffly, Killian and his entourage are met at the entrance to
the great hall by Sir Lac-Lan Domitae, his marshal for The Bluffe—a hulking
edifice carved out of the stone cliffs that tower over the river which marks
the border between Domitia and their southern neighbor. A younger man who keeps
his face and his head bald as an egg, Sir Lac-Lan studied in the capital under
Killian’s personal Senechal, Sir Mulan Domitae, and chose to serve the prince
under his tutor’s guidance. The knight’s booming voice rings out in welcome as
he leads the royal party into the great hall. “I know it’s a mite early for a
heavy wine just yet, so I brought in a crisp, light vintage to help slake your
thirst. Is it true that winter is arriving so soon, Your Highness?”
“Indeed it is, Sir Lac-Lan. Would that it were not so; not only will it be
early, but if it is anything like last time, then the winds will be colder and
the snows deeper than any you have known thus far. We might be spared some of
it since we are so far south, but I would not bet my mount on it. I have a copy
of the proclamation to be copied and distributed, but I’d like you to have a
herald announce it at noon on every market day from now on.”
They fall to discussing the minutiae of Killian’s plans to save his people from
destruction, he and Fairfax making changes in the margins of the town and
castle’s copies with Sir Lac-Lan asking pointed questions and providing a
suggestion or two based on his knowledge of the citizens of the surrounding
area and the locals. Despite wishing otherwise and seeing the hour grow later,
Killian finally broaches the least savory of the topics they need to discuss.
“You’re going to have a lot of extra eyes and ears about the place, Lac-Lan,
but I want you to find ways to discretely practice drills for subduing an angry
mob. I don’t want my people injured, but my soldiers fall under that category
as well. Working together as a unit will be vital, but I also want one-on-one
practice disarming to stun, not to kill. I don’t want to consider it, but if we
have a mass of people rioting over food rations, we need to be prepared for
when, not if. Desperate people can be convinced to do stupid things.”
“I have already had a letter from my tutor on this matter; she has suggested
any number of ways and means by which we can practice without the townsmen
being any the wiser. I too do not relish the possibility of shedding Domitian
blood, but if disorder and lawlessness occur, we will be prepared to meet it,
Your Highness. I know your next thought is to the safety of your citizens
within the walls of this castle. I cannot prevent rape and assault in the
town—although we will most definitely prosecute it if called upon to do so—but
I have called in the town’s locksmith and locks are being added to the rooms
which have been set aside to house families. They will be as protected as I can
make them.”
Killian sighs with relief, thanking his stars once more that he has earned the
fealty and faith of good women and men like Sir Mulan and Sir Lac-Lan. If only
all commanders and soldiers were as concerned about the common weal and the
safety of the people under their care. He shakes his marshal’s hand and then
rises as the castle garrison marches into the hall in order to hear the
proclamation; another round of reading and questions, then a hard ride to the
north, and he end his day at the side of his beloved ladies.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you all for your positivity about this story, your encouraging
     words, and your patience! I have, on the whole, been feeling much
     better; but I have been doing some intensive outlining and re-working
     of certain chapters and passages to accommodate changes made to the
     later portions of the narrative. I hope, in coming months, to hear
     that you think the hard work has paid off. (:
     Regarding the class and training of Knights: upon the decision for a
     citizen of Domitia to become a knight, the parents or legal guardian
     of the child sign legal custody over to their local lord or to the
     state (the average age at which children are selected to begin
     training is seven years old, the same for acceptance into the clergy
     or royal service). Thereupon, the child may choose to keep their
     first name or select a new one; however, by legally becoming a ward
     of the state or a lord, they legally renounce their family name and
     take up the name of their master or of the kingdom. Thus, as Knights
     in service to Killian, Sir Mulan and Sir Lac-Lan could use the
     surname Sonoian; both, however, have chosen the name of the kingdom
     (rendered Domitae as a family name) at the prince’s request.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When she wakes Emma’s body feels slightly sore and stretched, but only in the
manner of a lingering ache from a hard day’s work—or in her case, a night’s
worth of intense pleasure. She knows without opening her eyes that Killian has
long since left—the sheets smell more of her than him and while she feels
comfortably warm, the heat lacks a certain indefinable quality that she has
only experienced when his body lays beside hers. She smiles as she imagines the
care and caution it took him to carry her from his bed, down through the secret
passage, and then tuck her under her own blankets gently enough not to wake
her. The tender, beautiful gesture makes her heart ache sweetly, for she can no
longer recall a time when her comfort, security, and happiness mattered to
anyone except herself; she fully understands and accepts that she does not come
first in his life—nor, to her mind, should she—but she warms at knowing he
considers her welfare a priority.
She blinks her eyes open, noting the hints of dawn light peeking through the
opened curtains and the blithely crackling logs on the fire—more tokens of his
care for her wellbeing, since touches of frost line the edges of the window
glass and a definite chill bites at her exposed nose and cheeks. Even as a part
of her rejoices at this small proof that winter will indeed come early as she
and Killian predict, another part of her mourns and grieves for the many
sorrows which might yet be prevented, if only King William will change his
mind. For all that they have not been together long, Emma thoroughly knows her
lover—he will worry throughout ever storm, pacing fruitlessly to expel his
anxiety, and then he will rage when reports of losses and casualties finally
come in, and then he will blame himself for not having done enough and not
having protected those for whom he considers himself responsible. And she will
share and ease his pain as only she can, yet somehow she too feels the weight
of duty and obligation pressing down on her.
Her place being with Sophia, she knows the unlikelihood of her witnessing
firsthand, as Killian will, the cost paid by the people for the King’s decision
to do nothing. She does not understand it or sympathize with the reasons which
prompted it, though Killian at least appears to recognize the rightness in
being overly cautious, in not wanting to spread undue panic, or even to being
so bound to traditions. But then, Emma has also never been called upon to make
a choice which affects so many souls, so perhaps it is she who is narrow in her
thinking and cannot see the wisdom in patience, in waiting for events to
transpire as they will.
She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs of dreams and banish the ghostly
phantoms borrowed from future worries. She has her own, more pressing matters
to attend to, staring with finding an old dress and shift in her wardrobe and
then getting a princess ready to go help press grapes at the Buttery. Master
Gilles had warned them both the other day, when she had extended the invitation
to the first pressing of the season, that it would be hard, dirty work, but
since coming under Emma’s tutelage and learning to appreciate the joys of
getting mud, soil, sap, and flower oils on her hands on a daily basis, Sophia’s
enthusiasm for arduous tasks has increased exponentially, especially if it
involves a serious lack of cleanliness and a bath provided afterward. The
Master Vintner had also informed Emma and Francine that according to tradition
all those helping with the first day’s pressing wore white and asked them to do
likewise.
Emma thanks her stars that Killian’s generosity did not extend to having a
white day-gown made for her because all of her new dresses are too finely made
for her to ever dream of damaging them permanently and none of them have been
sufficiently worn or stressed to be considered old enough to be discarded after
the pressing. She’s become accustomed to wearing a corset—apparently a
thoroughly necessary undergarment nowadays—so she slips one on before donning
an old shift and the palest of her old sack-gowns, needing to dig down to the
very bottom of her wardrobe before she can find the chemise; briefly, she
wonders if and when she discarded some of her older garments, or if perhaps she
left some of her things out and one of the maids mistook them for castoffs.
Unable to discover the truth of the matter in this moment, she picks up a strip
of old lace she had removed from one of her mother’s gowns and ties it around
her waist for a serviceable belt.
When she arrives at Sophia’s rooms, she smiles at the clear sound of an
argument in progress and then at the sight of Francine attempting to button a
light summer dress over last year’s thick winter chemise—an undergarment that
their young charge has clearly outgrown. “There you are Miss Emma! Please tell
Fran-cie that that I can wear a summer shift! This one is too tight and all
itchy!”
“I don’t doubt that… I think we can safely do as she says, Francine. We’ll all
be putting off our summer clothes soon anyway, and come springtime she’ll
likely have outgrown this year’s dresses; when it comes to that, we’ll have to
rework them or give them away or use them as scraps for quilts and bits of
needlework.”
The nanny nods and begins rummaging through the wardrobe for a better fitting
chemise while Emma helps Sophia out of her dress. As she unbuttons the front of
her shift, she notices the princess’ lips pursed in a pout and her nose and
forehead crinkled up in what she and Killian privately refer to as Sophia’s
“troubled thinking” face.
“What is on your mind, darling? You seem worried or upset.”
After a considered pause, Sophia heaves a dramatic sigh. “I like all my
dresses… I don’t want to give them away or have them cut up.”
“Well, we aren’t going to be doing any of that right now, sweeting. I was
talking about several months from now when they no longer fit you, and if we
can’t let them out at the seams and refashion them any further. But, when they
are too small for you like this shift, they won’t do you or anyone any good at
all just sitting in the wardrobe, will they?”
“No, but I could always come in here and just look at them.”
“True, you could, but then that would only make you happy, and only for a
little while. Now, you have plenty of fancy dresses, but some people don’t have
very many dresses at all. Wouldn’t it be better to let someone else be made
happy if you gave them a dress that they could actually wear, and wear it
often?” Sophia’s face scrunches a little more as if Emma has presented her with
a complex equation before finally nodding in agreement, at least in principle.
She thinks of another angle, trying to convince her serious, precocious pupil
of the benefits of sharing and repurposing things that she wants to keep as
they are. An idea hits her quite forcefully. “Do you remember the dress I wore
when I first came here for a visit?”
“Oh, yes! You looked absolutely lovely!”
“Well that dress belonged to my mother a long time ago, and it was the only
nice dress I had; and since I had to come and pay a visit on royalty, I had to
wear my nicest clothes, even though the dress barely fit me. But you see, I
used to keep the dress locked away because even though it was very pretty, just
looking at it made me sad with missing my mother. Then I wore it, and I
remembered how beautiful she was and how the fabric made her eyes shine and how
she laughed. By keeping it in the wardrobe, I let myself forget those happy
memories as well as the bad.
“And now that I live here, I have a reason to wear and to make pretty things,
and when I cut the fabric into pieces I will be able to make something that I
can see every day! So, if I use some of the fabric in a needlework project, not
only will I be able to remember the time that I wore it as a dress and truly
met you for the first time, I’ll be able to remember my mother happily and also
how special that it was to her, too.”
Sophia listens attentively through the process of buttoning up her summer
chemise, but she begins to frown toward the end of Emma’s speech and the
putting on of stockings. “I was little little when Mama died so I can’t ‘member
her. But if I make something with these dresses, I can ‘member which one Uncle
Liam gave me for the ball where he danced with me first and the one that Papa
had made but let me wear Uncle Liam’s instead and the one that you saved me
in…”
“That’s right! You can keep your memories alive by using them to make something
else!” Emma’s heart drops and shatters anew at the great loss both she and
Sophia have endured with the deaths of their mothers. She knows that Milah is a
very sensitive subject for Killian—one they have never truly approached—but
certainly it could not hurt, asking if he has a dress or some other memento of
her, for Sophia’s sake? But she refuses to let the melancholy settle and cloud
her mind; for now, the sun is still shining and warming the earth, and troubles
will find her soon enough without her seeking them.
She repeats what she remembers from yesterday, about the long honored
traditions of the grape harvest that Master Gilles had shared—that in the days
of old people wore white to the first pressing to appease the stars of the
harvest; that the white of their clothes symbolized the pure light of the
thousand suns in the heavens being colored bright by the joy given to man
through wine; and that it was once whispered that on the night of the first
pressing, the stars themselves would sometimes come down to dance with mortal
revelers and taste the fleeting happiness to be found in a human’s arms. Emma
warms to her theme, spinning lovely tales of children cavorting with the stars
and making merry with the fairies, distracting them both from dark, sorrowful
thoughts.
“Don’t know a thing about stars myself, young ladies, but I do know that we’re
all like to come home sticky with sweat, sun-kissed, and ready for a nice bath.
Yet none of that will happen if we don’t get ourselves along now.” Francine
chivvies and chides them both, but with a good natured glint to her eyes that
belies her apparent ignorance and disbelief. Clearly, the old woman remembers
her own days spent bringing in the harvest and trampling a pressing or two,
remembers the golden magic of early autumn nights and the power of a black sky
dotted with diamonds and pearls of white light.
Sophia chatters gaily in the wagon, pestering James with questions about their
horses or asking why the leaves are only just starting to turn gold, amber, and
garnet if winter plans on arriving early this year. “Miss Shepherd, ma’am. I
know you have been busy of late, but the Stable Master reminded me to ask you
‘bout the saddle soap he was hoping you’d make for him. Said you make it finer
than the farrier in town does, and he’d like to lay in a supply down in the
stables themselves for indoor work when the storms are ragin’.”
“I hadn’t quite forgotten, James, but we have all been a touch busier of late
haven’t we? Tell him that I will get started on that right away; I’ve had the
maids collecting the fire ashes for me, so I should have plenty to finish at
least one batch today. Sophia, do sit down and leave the poor man alone! Now,
remember what Master Gilles said about harvesting the grapes for wine?”
The princess purses her lips and blows a raspberry at Emma before turning
around in her seat and folding her hands primly in her lap. “The best days to
harvest grapes are the two weeks of the first waning half-moon of autumn, and
should ideally be cool and overcast or foggy, so that the grapes retain the
mass-imum ‘mount of moisture. If the ‘cast does not include cloud cover or fog,
the grapes should be harvested in the early morning hours before the sunlight
hits the vines. Once the sun begins to warm the grapes, they will—ummm…”
“Contract.”
Sophia glares at her for the interruption, her expression so comically similar
to one of Killian’s—raised eyebrow and all—that it takes a great deal of effort
on Emma’s part to refrain from laughter. “They will contract and lose some of
their moisture, which means less wine.”
“Very good. And when did she say was the very last day you could harvest?”
“With the first hard frost. Those grapes are used in a special vintage that
only she knows how to make that she calls Crystal Wine, on account of the ice
crystals that make it extra sweet. After that, the vines start to hipernate for
the winter.”
“The word is ‘hibernate,’ but very good. We shall have to tell your Papa how
far along you have come in committing facts to memory; I know for a fact that
it is a skill that comes in very handy for a prince or princess.” As they draw
closer to the Buttery complex, they hear a faint but steadily growing sound of
music and singing. The grape harvest in the Sommere valleys always draws a
large crowd of migrant laborers, but the days of the first pressing possess a
festival air to them which Master Gilles had warned them about in advance. Not
that she or any of Killian’s Master Craftsmen would hire dangerous, shifty
folk, but rather that an air of levity and a softening of social strictures was
to be expected on such an occasion.
When James finally drives their team around the building, they can see the
fields around the pressing vats filled with dozens of wagons and dotted with
blankets and baskets. The entire assembly stops their song and cheers the new
arrivals, a tradition not based on the status of the vehicle’s occupants, but
rather on joyously greeting each new group of people to the celebration and to
the easing of the burden of the labor. A woman picks the tune up again on her
gittern and a fellow joins in with his pipe before the whole crowd begins
singing once more, and the workers in the vats resume treading in circles. The
simplicity of the folk who make up the gathering causes Emma to smile, and to
thank the stars that she wears her poorest clothes; not that anyone here
appears in want of food or walks about dressed in rags, but were she in her
finer clothes she knows that she would stand out more readily. Disguising
Sophia’s parentage and her nobility of carriage would be impossible—although
she, Francine, and Master Gilles had considered trying to—but arriving dressed
as a governess would have physically marked her as different from everyone else
here, perhaps made her a spectacle or an object of curiosity... And the last
thing she desires is any kind of scrutiny.
Thanks to the number of people present, it will be some time before the little
group from Thistledown has their chance to press the grapes, so they wander
about among the gathered folk—among whom are some of the Thistle Glade
villagers who have developed the habit over the years of bringing trinkets,
wares, and whatnots to sell in the carnival, celebratory atmosphere. A maid
from the inn sells pocket pies for her mistress—big and little sized shells of
pastry stuffed with meats and vegetables, or sugared-fruits and spices; the
blacksmith hand-makes little metal discs with grapes, stars, and half-moons
carved into the surface, hung on leather necklaces or bracelets cut to size in
front of his wagon; a carpenter whittles an impressive number of the thin
little pipes such as the musician plays on, or whatever little bauble a person
wants made; a seamstress, taking advantage of the captive audience, sells towel
linens for cleaning up after a go in the press, ribbons and strips of cloth for
tying up hair, and little handkerchiefs with the grapes, moons, and stars
motifs embroidered on them.
Emma smiles and laughs at Sophia’s enthusiastic questions for each trader and
her obvious enjoyment of the festivities, loving to see these precious signs of
childhood in a little girl whose birth has often made her act far too solemn
and too serious for her age. She wonders if Killian was the same at this age,
if he too was full of curiosity and eager to learn everything he could about
every subject. The image of a small boy with black hair and somber blue eyes
causes a strange ache in her chest, but she refuses to let thought or
reflection take hold in her mind—this is a day for frivolity and youthful fun.
She catches the newest tune quickly, singing and dancing around in a circle
with Sophia and some other children from the crowd.
    Before cock’s crow/we’re in the fields/to pluck the grape/the harvest’s
   yields./By autumn’s moon/in fogs of white/empty the vine/‘fore morning’s
light./Then on we tramp/and on we stamp/the earth to shake/‘tis wine we make!/
    ‘Neath virgin feet/the wine is pressed/in vestal wreath/like stars are
dressed./But stars they give/and stars they take/their joy received/in wine we
                                     make.
On and on, the verses and choruses repeat, faster and faster until the words
blur and dissolve into a babble of meaningless sound and the dancers collapse
with breathless, panting laughter. Master Gilles finally takes a break from
supervising the groups at the vats and joins the Thistledown Hall contingent
for a lunch of fresh fruit, cheese, and some of the pocket pies. She listens
attentively as Sophia rhapsodizes over everything she has seen so far and all
she remembers of the Master’s lecture, showing no hint of discomfort around
such a young child who is her social superior or any impatience to be anywhere
else. Combined with her obvious managerial skills, Francine states in a less
then quiet aside, it is a shame and a pity that the woman has no child of her
own with whom to share her trade during the day and to help keep her company in
the lonely evening hours. Emma does her best to stifle her giggles when the
keen-eared Master Vintner looks straight at her and rolls her eyes dramatically
before looking back to Sophia. Apparently, such a discussion about her lack of
children and husband has been had before, and it does cheer Emma to know that
she is not the only one to “benefit” from the nanny’s marital well-wishing and
scheming.
Finally, Master Gilles declares them ready for a turn at the pressing and
clears a group of rowdy younger men and women from one of the vats, replacing
them with a slightly more watchful, maternal group of workers. Each person’s
feet are washed with a strong soap and dried before they are allowed to walk
across a thick linen carpet and climb into the vat. Emma’s first steps into the
press are awkward and stiff and she does her best to settle herself on the
firmest footing before reaching out to lift Sophia in with her. The grapes form
an incredibly strange walking surface, like walking over slippery, broken
tiles; or like cool pebbles at the bottom of the stream, yielding as they are
constantly moved about by the currents.
“Mind you, lasses! Keep a hand to the wall as you walk around—t’will keep you
steadier and off your arses.”
“Language, Master Gilles! Our dear Sophia needn’t learn quite that much about
your days in the vineyard!” The workers in the vats keep up their marching but
to a man everyone’s eyes are on the young princess and her governess. With all
the movement around them, both are up past their ankles in grapes and juice;
Sophia crinkles her nose adorably as she feels some of the fruit burst beneath
her feet, and the sight, as well as feeling the sensation herself, causes Emma
to laugh aloud. Slowly, but with great deliberate, stomping steps, Sophia
begins to walk and circle the edge of the vat—obviously wobbling all the while.
“Ooooh! It’s cool and squishy, like stepping on a bug!” Her definitive
exclamation of curious delight is met by cheerful guffaws all around. Eminently
pleased with herself, she hops forward with more speed than grace, carelessly
flinging out a hand to catch at arms, legs, or clothes that will help keep her
momentarily steady and upright, without bothering for once to question whether
such behavior is appropriate or not. With a shrug and a constant eye for her
charge, Emma joins the round of pressing and once again lends her voice to the
others whenever someone starts a harvest tune.
The sensation is indeed as odd as Sophia had described; soon, their legs are
sticky up past the knee with splashes of drying juice and their dresses
continuing to stain purple-red from the hem upwards. Eventually, the level of
their floor begins to sink until more barrels of cleaned grapes are dumped in;
the new weight further compresses the fruit and pulp at the bottom of the vat,
forcing more liquid down through the heavy metal sieves at the base and out
through the collection pipes into the empty barrels. As soon as one tun is
filled to its mark, one man wrestles the full, heavy barrel out of the way and
another man places a new one in its place, and the cooper secures and seals the
top before the new wine is rolled off into the storage rooms to ferment. If
everyone seems a touch anxious about getting the barrels filled as quickly as
possible and the workers in the press put a little more force and speed into
every step, it only feels at one with the effervescent gaiety and recklessness
of making the liquid courage and happiness of the year to come.
===============================================================================
 
After seeing a happily splashing Sophia bathing under the strict eye of a
dotingly frazzled Francine, Emma quietly slips away for an afternoon in the
stillroom; her heart and mind swell with pride at the reminder that her
therapeutic and cosmetic practice has grown increasingly popular, with several
of the older staff requesting salves for aching joints or tonics for
coughs—both of which will be required in greater amounts and with greater
frequency once winter sets in—and with many of the younger set requesting
specially scented soaps and oils for their hair. And since everything she makes
comes almost entirely from the excesses or waste of the household, it costs
nothing at all to produce them, and the servants in turn do not have to go into
town to fetch their necessaries and they can save their pennies for the better
items they might want or need from the apothecary.
She had been incredibly pleased when the Stable Master had praised her recipe
for saddlesoap as the finest he could find outside the Capital, although
initially daunted by the sheer size of the order requested last week; she
hasn’t yet made her way with Sophia down to the stables themselves and so has
no idea of just how many horses Killian owns, but given the quality of his
animal stock and the obvious care shown to all their tack and harnessing she
certainly understands why so much soap would be deemed necessary. Thankfully,
her already plentiful supply of ashes will only grow throughout the winter
months, allowing her to be a little more discerning and liberal as to the
quality and quantity of what she already has. As soon as she walks into the
stillroom, she wraps an apron over her dress and begins sifting her ingredients
into a large iron cauldron. She sets up logs on her side of the fireplace
before grabbing a piece of kindling and carefully reaching through to set it
alight from the kitchen side. Once burning, she places the smoking twigs in the
midst of the logs and blows carefully, waiting for the fire to catch.
She puts the last ingredients into the cauldron and swings it over the fire to
begin heating and melting. She hums softly, tunelessly as she goes about her
various tasks for the day: placing a kettle, packed tight with lavender flowers
and then filled with water, over the fire and then feeding a copper tube into
the spout; setting a glass beaker on the ground by the hearth and resting the
opposite end of the tube against the inner edge; going to her cubbies and
gathering the herbs and oils to be added to the soap for scent; frequently
pausing to stir the liquefying soap in order to prevent it from sticking to the
bottom of the cauldron or burning; setting up another kettle, condensing tube,
and beaker with rosemary leaves; going through her bunches of drying herbs and
flowers, and then sorting them away into their proper cubbies or jars for later
use. The needs of the whole household are definitely more than enough to keep
her on her toes, especially when combined with her duties as Sophia’s
governess.
In truth with so many people living at Thistledown Hall, it would be beneficial
to all for Emma to take on one of the maids or a tenant’s child as an
apprentice in the distillery, but she finds these moments of quiet privacy to
be all too precious to her. She had at first considered Sophia, but it will be
some time before the princess can join her on a regular basis—some of the
plants can be quite toxic to children even in their normal state, but even more
so once concentrated or in vapor form, while an adult’s body becomes equipped
by maturity and size to handle exposure. Thus, any student in herb craft would
need to be an adolescent at the least, and she has yet to meet one that she
would trust to take the practice seriously and behave with the appropriate
level of caution. So, for now, she plans on enjoying this sanctuary, this
retreat from the near-constant socialization of the rest of her hours.
She begins to hum the pressing song they learned earlier in the day, but her
entire focus remains locked on the now boiling cauldron of soap and on stirring
it constantly for several minutes before deeming it finished and swinging the
mixture away from the heat. Carefully but quickly, she wraps her hands in
protective mitts and lifts the full container, pouring the steaming liquid into
the long pans set on her work table. Emma gives the trays an appreciative sniff
before setting the massive pot to the side and using her stirring spoon to
spread the mixture evenly; as soon as it has cooled and slightly hardened, she
will cut it all up into palm-sized blocks. The sight of the finished product
fills her with a strong sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, not only at
her expectation of the Stable Master’s approval, but because in this small way
she has managed to help the entire estate; in providing for some of the
seemingly insignificant needs of the people who work for Killian, she has made
economies that will benefit not only the workers, but also Killian himself. She
feels that she has lifted perhaps a feather’s-weight of burden from his
shoulders, yet managed to remove that burden all the same.
As the lavender and rosemary oils cook out of the flowers and leaves and
condense on top of the layer of water in the beakers, Emma pages through her
mother’s journal. The Garden Master previously had been delighted by the
knowledge Snow had written down in the herbal manual, and so had asked her to
look into any tricks to help the fruit trees and berry plants grow better in
the enclosed environment of the Orangerie; he had had some small successes in
using fertilizers and in pollinating the plants by hand, but he found that
their size and taste was always inferior to those plants grown in the outdoor
gardens or in plots found in the wild. Emma had a vague memory of discovering
one such patch with her mother and of Snow pointing to the particular herbs and
flowers which grew up by and thrived near berries always. The remembrance had
made her smile rather than saddened her and sent her off to look for a
reference; as she had told Sophia just this morning, the loss was made easier
by time and by remembering to hold onto the good memories, and then by putting
them to good use.
After carefully skimming the oils from the beakers and pouring them into
tightly sealed bottles, Emma begins the clean up process—washing and rinsing
the tools used and putting the items away in their proper places. She then
takes the bars of saddlesoap and stacks them carefully in a small wooden crate,
placing a note to the Stable Master on top and letting him know that she will
finish the rest of his order shortly. Just as she locks the door to the
stillroom behind her, she hears the bustle of the kitchen increase in volume; a
young groom ran in only moments ago with the news that the master had arrived
home and that dinner should be ready within the hour. Emma finds the lad eating
his messenger’s fee of a sweet biscuit and entrusts the crate of saddlesoap to
him before placing her apron in the kitchen-linens’ hamper and climbing the
servants’ stairs to the family wing and her bedchamber to freshen up for the
evening meal.
Chapter End Notes
     For terminology purposes, an Orangerie is similar to a conservatory
     or a greenhouse; in this instance, the building lies in the very
     large courtyard, hedged in by the wings of the manor house; nearly
     all of the space of the courtyard is taken up by the building, which
     is roofed with glass. The various spaces for plant life are both
     functional and decorative. In regards to the pressing, even today
     people are asked to wear white clothes when doing a human-powered
     press. This tradition dates back at least to Dionysian rituals in
     ancient Greece. For references to Emma and Snow's knowledge of herb
     lore and holistic medicine, I have primarily consulted Rosemary
     Gladstar's Herbal Recipes For Vibrant Health and Valerie Ann
     Worwood's Complete Book of Essential Oils and Aromatherapy. Both
     books stress the importance of handling certain concentrated oils
     with extreme caution and care, as the concentrates can either
     adversely effect the skin, or your skin can absorb the oils much more
     quickly and in greater quantities than is healthy. Lavender and
     Rosemary are two of only a handful of oils which are deemed safe for
     direct contact with children, adult, and sensitive skin. If you wish
     to experiment, please exercise caution and it is recommended that you
     wear protective gear such as gloves and goggles depending on which
     oils and herbs you are working with and in which chemical state.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Notes
     The events of the last three chapters, including this one, all take
     place on the same day. As Killian will be spending his days
     essentially in the same manner, there will be less of him in the next
     few installments after this; he will reappear every evening, unless
     directly stated otherwise. Please do not fret unduly over this as
     they will be snowed in at Thistledown Hall for several months and
     there will be plenty of time for Killian, Sophia, and Emma to
     interact with each other.
True to his earlier premonition, Killian dismounts from Triton's back with far
less vigor and flourish than when he first mounted just this morning; despite
his own aches and exhaustion he notices that Fairfax winces slightly, a sure
sign that the man's old service injury must be paining him, and resolves to
speak to him again about having one of the young clerks join Killian for these
excursions in the steward's place. That and drop a word into the stubborn man's
ear about having Emma make him a salve for the protesting, over exerted
muscles; Fairfax may be proud and a perfectionist when it comes to the
execution of his duties, but he too is only mortal and Killian would much
rather have the faithful servant fretting at being left behind than risking his
health out on the road. Yet another matter that will need to be seen to in the
little time remaining to him.
Killian gives Triton a halved apple and gratefully strokes the lathered horse's
neck before handing his reins off to the groom who will cool him, curry him,
and see that his other needs are met before bedding the stallion down for the
night. He gives a nod to the lad and begins walking into the house, James
immediately taking his station at his master's elbow and relieving him of
gloves and riding crop while making his report. "Master Gilles sends her
compliments and says the first pressing went very well indeed. And though
everyone about the place knew who we were, there was not a word spoke about nor
against it. I believe the folk were right cheered to have their princess among
'em and seeing her with their own eyes, and of course babes will make no
nevermind so long as a body will play as a child ought. Charmed the whole lot,
she did!"
"Good. And what of Miss Shepherd? Was there any talk against her or any
improprieties?" Going out among his subjects, with many of the villagers there
no doubt recognizing her on sight, had been a bit of a test on his part; her
change in circumstances was now common knowledge, so if any rumors had become
attached to her name and their relationship they would have begun to spring up
already.
"Not a jot, sire, though I would've spoke my mind against 'em if I'd heard such
gossip. No, she wore much the same as she used to before comin' on as governess
and worked just as hard as the rest when not tendin' to her highness. Quite the
common touch she has and a right fine voice. No one treated her any different,
nor looked askance; I think the folk about appreciate as she's lived just like
them before and has earned her place in the household."
"No doubt, James. Miss Shepherd may be quite uncommon and extraordinary, but
she treats all with dignity and respect; a trait I sincerely hope she will
instill in my daughter through example."
"Just so, sire. Anyhow, tomorrow we're for the woolen manufactory after a brief
stop at the sheep pens. Dependin' how long the weather holds fine, we might
fair finish a full tour o' the estate."
Killian nods distractedly, already thinking ahead to his announcement at dinner
and the many tasks yet to be completed for the day, and realizes that their
discussion has lasted them nearly to the doors of his chambers. "Very good. I
expect a similar report on the ladies' activities every day until I have
finished the rounds of my lands. Meet me at the stables if you can, but if not
then after the dinner hour and my evening with Sophia. Thank you for watching
over them, James; it means a great deal to me, not to have to worry for their
safety."
The older man bows deeply, sweeping a hand across the back on his neck in an
ancient gesture of respect and fealty. "'Tis a privilege and an honor, my
Lord."
Killian salutes the footman before turning to enter his rooms. He goes to his
dressing room where he finds his valet, Gautier, waiting for him with a
steaming bath and his evening clothes laid out and ready. It takes not a word
for their seamless, simple routine to unfold: first the removal of his travel-
dusted boots, then outer coat, waistcoat, shirt, breeches, and socks; his man
silently takes each article and leaves his master to gratefully lower himself
into the tub of hot water.
Upon reaching his majority Killian had put his foot down regarding the subject
of his own toilette, a matter which had resulted in quite a shock through the
halls of power at Court. A nobleman was not expected to bathe or dress himself;
indeed, especially where said noble also happens to be a royal personage, such
tasks are generally attended to be other men of high birth. Through their
physically close position to the prince and their intimate placement within the
household, these servant-nobles could and would control access to their lord
and influence his private thoughts and help shape public policy, in theory.
However, even as a young prince of the blood, Killian had already become wise
and grave beyond his years and found other men of his own rank and age to be of
a less intelligent, less discrete bent; but requesting the service of older,
more sober companions was out of the question—these men already assigned to his
father or his brother as the more influential and more powerful members of the
royal family. Thus, he had taken the radical step of declaring his privy
chamber to be just that—private and off limits to anyone who might destroy the
sanctity of his most intimate moments or betray his confidential trust. Even
his valet and the maids who saw to the tidying of his bedchamber were not
allowed to enter except by express command or invitation. He could be accosted
or disturbed in any of the myriad other rooms and hallways of his home, but not
here. Consequently, this was precisely why he never feared the exposure of his
and Emma's liaison through being interrupted or surprised by the servants.
The heat of the water begins to work its magic on his sore muscles, gradually
unwinding and uncoiling the tension born the unaccustomed, long hours in the
saddle and of worry. Unfortunately, he does not have the time nor the leisure
for a long soak, and the brief notion of his desire for spending a lazy hour or
two with a certain golden-haired beauty tempts his mind and asserts its wiles
on his body. He groans at his own lack of control before forcing himself to put
such thoughts away until he is physically capable of acting upon them,
contenting himself with a reminder that they will have the luxury of an
overabundance of time for such enjoyable possibilities in the coming months;
for now, he reaches for the soap—appreciating the notes of woods and citrus
that Emma had blended for him—and works the grime and grit of the road from his
skin. Banishing fantasies of erotic play in the water with his lover and
bringing his flesh under control, however, do not occur nearly as easily.
===============================================================================
Dinner is spent once more listening to Sophia's recitation of her day and all
they saw and experienced during the first pressing. For a man whose entire day
was consumed pondering weighty matters, her childish observations act as a
cool, soothing touch to a fevered brow. He even coaxes a comment or two from
both Emma and Francine, who, true to form, praises absolutely everything about
the day as being the best or the brightest in her memory, excepting of course
all occasions during which her dearly departed husband was still alive. But
Killian instantly sees that the vigorous exercise, the excitement and novelty
of the fair, and the time spent in the sun have burnished Emma's cheeks with a
joyous luster more commonly seen by him only at the climax of their amour.
Immediately, he sets a part of his mind to working out just how to encourage
such a healthy, becoming glow to more often grace and gild her lovely face.
Just before the dessert course is served, Killian orders his cup of coffee and
then addresses himself to his fellows at the table. "As you all know, my days
for the next two weeks shall be spent much as this one—in the saddle for most
of the day and inspecting my properties to ensure that they are all prepared
for the coming weather. So, my evenings shall be conducted thusly: I absolutely
refuse to give up my time with Sophia, so I will spend an hour or two with her
immediately after dinner; after that time, please make certain that every
member of the staff knows I will be available to each and every one of you in
my study for another two hours. Any issues or difficulties facing the
household, the estate, or any individual will be dealt with in that time. Am I
understood? Do you have any questions? Good. Now, I believe I have delayed
Chef's masterpieces long enough."
The servers respond to the flick of his hand and bring in the final course.
Emma takes the opportunity provided by this distraction to glance at Killian.
She catches his eye quickly, as he was already looking directly at her; he
motions to his coffee cup and then sweeps his hand toward himself. His face is
open and inviting and combined with his gesture indicates that he would like
her to join him in his chambers this evening, despite the undoubtedly late hour
he will be retiring. She lowers her eyes a touch and nods almost
imperceptibly—she will be awaiting him.
Once everyone has their desserts placed in front of them, Killian fixes himself
on the rather devious course of asking Fairfax to tell again the tale of his
injury, allowing the steward to entertain the diners with his storyteller's
flourish but also to bring the man's aching back and thighs to Emma's
attention. He knows the compassionate healer within his lover well enough to
anticipate that she will doubtless offer aid in relieving the man's symptoms
without Fairfax actually complaining of them; he also hopes to introduce the
idea of a younger man replacing his steward on their rounds without unduly
pricking the man's pride. At the least, he'll be able to speak to Emma later
and can ask for her opinion and help in handling the delicate issue.
"Come, Fairfax! A story! I don't believe Miss Shepherd has yet heard the tale
of your daring rescue of my father." The older ladies at the table start to
twitter and fuss, adding their own voices in encouragement. The steward blushes
at their enthusiasm and not so subtle requests for him to tell the story once
more for their eager ears.
"Very well. I was quite the young lad at the time and dedicated to the life of
a knight; I had the honor of being chosen to serve King William as part of his
personal bodyguard in spite of my youth, being only eighteen at the time. It
was around the time that your Highness was born, not that you'd recall that far
back of course. There had been some unrest about the war, certain citizens of
the capital whose warehouses had been seized by the government were quite
unhappy—they had laid back quite a lot of supplies that the army required and
had been hoping to sell them at a high profit to themselves. There had been
public assemblies of people opposed both to the war and to the seizures, most
peaceable, but raucous enough that the King and the Ministers did not go out
unarmed or without escort.
"To this day, I'm not quite sure what caused me to watch this particular man so
closely… Some of my comrades later swore that the stars spoke to me or pointed
him out. Perhaps it was that he was paying no mind to the rally speaker and was
watching the King so assiduously and coming ever closer to us in the throng. He
was nearly to the King's horse when he shouted, 'So falls tyranny; so returns
justice!' He drew a blade—an assassin's stiletto dipped in some sort of poison.
"I could see it all so clearly, the steel glinting in the sunlight as the man
sung in an arc; he had pushed another man in the crowd down and used his
trampled body as a ramp to launch himself in the air. I spurred my horse and
charged the king's mount, Brigantius. As I had intended, the horses of the
other guardsmen began to shy and sidle away from the King, creating room for my
horse to shoulder Brigantius out of the way. We barely made it in time, but the
blade pierced my horse's shoulder and went straight to its heart, taking the
poison that was meant for the King. Enraged at my interference, the man
shrieked at me and pulled a second stiletto, burying it in my lower back where
the bones protected my spine. It slid to the side—I felt fiery pain for a
moment and then felt nothing at all.
"I cannot remember anything after that save a great tumult and a confusion of
voices. My horse had died underneath me and the would-be killer, taking the
three of us down in a heap. Many of the assembled crowd saw us go down, saw the
blades meant to murder their King and they reacted with violent rage, for our
King William and our Queen Mathilda were so well loved that even with the
unrest none had dared to think of harming the royal family themselves. Within
moments, the citizens had the assassin bound hand and foot, delivering him to
the King immediately for judgment. I spent weeks in bed, fighting the fevers
and healing from my wound. The Healers claimed that I would never walk again,
let alone hold a sword; the Queen, your mother sire, graciously paid for my
care and told me that should I be blessed with a good recover, I could have my
choice of positions. I was able to grasp a sword and blade once more, but could
not wield them for more than a few stroke before the muscles of my back and
thighs would cramp and spasm. So, I asked to serve the family in the country,
and years later here I am!"
"But why would anyone wish to harm my Grandpapa? Who would do such a thing?"
The table goes silent, Sophia looking at one and all with genuine curiosity
while the adults glance at one another as if looking for someone to save them.
Killian curses his own pride and stupidity, for while his daughter has heard
this tale before she has never thought to question the reasoning behind the
events nor taken the story so personally. With her young mind rapidly learning
and constantly absorbing the nuances of adult conversation, it was truly only a
matter of time before she asked such a difficult question.
"Because your Grandpapa was the king." He breathes a momentary sigh of relief
at Emma's simplistic answer, but her calm explanation does not satisfy for
once.
"But that makes him special and a royal… who would dare to try and hurt a
king?"
Emma looks to Killian first, but his own discomfort with the topic of
conversation is writ plain on his face; she will be alone on this one. "There
are many, many people who would dare to harm a king or royal. I am not saying
this to frighten you, Sophia, but I cannot lie to you either. The man who hurt
Mr. Fairfax believed that your Grandpapa was not being a good king to his
subjects, and other men who believed the same helped him to get close enough to
strike. But it could just as easily been someone who worked for the kingdom's
enemies or someone who believed that he was not the rightful king or who wanted
to put another king in his place…"
She pauses, knowing that she already stands on treacherous ground and that a
child of four might yet be too young to understand the tensions between grown
princes and an old, dying king; too young yet to learn that sometimes a king's
greatest enemies can be the ones closest to him in blood. "There are any number
of reasons why a person might wish to harm or kill a royal person, but what you
must always remember, Sophia, is this: you and your father and your uncle are
protected at all times by good men and women like Mr. Fairfax. Whenever we go
out away from the Hall, you have people watching over you and keeping you safe.
As you grow older, we will help you learn to take care of yourself, how to help
your knights to keep you safe in the event of an attack; but for now, you need
to remember to show no fear or mistrust of your subjects here at Thistledown.
Every person here—from Chef to the smallest scullion, from Mrs. Potts to the
youngest maid—loves you. We will always do our best to never let harm come to
you, and you are safe here in your home."
Sophia had leaned closer and closer to Emma until finally climbing into her lap
and wrapping trusting, childish arms around her governess. Emma returns the hug
gladly, pressing her cheek against the soft curls of Sophia's head. Each of the
upper servants rises to leave, all of them passing by Emma's chair to caress
the princess' cheek or lay a hand on her shoulder as if confirming an unspoken
oath of fealty with the touch. She smiles becomingly at them, a polite word of
gratitude for every one. Killian's heart swells near bursting at the
sight—proud of his daughter, humbled by the devotion of his servants, awestruck
and enthralled by the woman he loves. And when she looks back to him for
reassurance, he reads her own love and loyalty for him in the crystalline
depths and finds that he cannot breathe.
Her words held such great power, but the soul behind them is unfathomable,
unknowably strong and deep. He clears his throat before standing and reaching
out to lift Sophia into his arms. She contentedly snuggles into his embrace as
he touches Emma's shoulder, firmly squeezes and then releases her before
walking out of the dining room.
"Papa, would you tell me the story of the Lost Princess for bedtime?"
"Again? Well, of course I can, if my princess wishes it!"
"Did anyone try to kill the king from that story, Papa?"
===============================================================================
Killian gracelessly collapses into his chair at his desk, grateful for the
stoic, silent support. His wrangling with Fairfax about keeping him here at the
Hall did not end easily, but the older man finally conceded when he argued that
he needed his most senior, most trusted servant here to handle all of the
requisition orders from each of the manufactories. And to work on the small,
yet hardly insignificant matter of an heir's marriage. Killian could trust such
research to anyone, but only Fairfax will be sympathetic while also thorough
and discrete in finding the necessary information. A hard knock brings him back
to the present and he looks up to see the Stable Master in the doorway. "Ah,
Master Noris! Do come in please!"
"You asked for me particularly, your Highness. What might I do for you?"
"First, you should know that I've arranged for Mr. Fairfax to remain at
Thistledown in my absences for the next two weeks, so his horse will not need
to be saddled and ready in the morning. Geoffrey will be taking his place, so
please have an appropriate mount readied for him instead. The second matter is
also regarding appropriate mounts. Once winter sets it, there will be plenty of
time for indoor activities; however, for the days when it is not actively
storming, I think now would be a good time to begin Sophia's lessons in riding.
"I would like you to go through the stables and select a horse you think would
work best with her, obviously not a young thing, but I leave the matter in your
capable hands. Also, please select one for Miss Shepherd as well. She has not
had a horse in years, and from what I have gleaned it was a solid plough animal
that she rode bareback as a child. She will need to know how to ride sidesaddle
and astride for when she accompanies Sophia during country rides and when we
must travel to my other estates or the capital. She'll need to be at least
proficient if not an expert by the time the king and his entourage arrive,
although Sophia's progress will be as slow as it needs to be."
The Master nods agreeably, mind clearly already at least partially focused on
rifling through his catalogue of horseflesh currently in the estate's stables.
"I've had my eye on one mare in particular for her Highness for a while now—an
older girl to be sure, but still spunky enough to work on a younger rider. For
Miss Shepherd… I will have to give the matter some thought. You know she's a
dab hand at the medicinal? Promised me she'd make enough saddle soap to keep
the lads and lasses busy through to next year and has already delivered a
crate! Not that I want you to be cutting into my budget, mind you, but not
having to buy it from the apothecary in the village or having it shipped all
the way from the capital will be saving us quite a bit in coin. I'll set the
lasses to working on the princess' horse, get her used to small, female riders,
and I'll keep an eye out for a likely mount for Miss Shepherd. Anything else,
sire?"
Killian smiles at hearing Emma's praises sung, at knowing that he isn't just a
blind fool in love and that everyone notices her finer qualities. "That will be
all, Master Noris. I did know about the medicinals, but not about the other.
Economies like this are just one of the many reasons you are my Master of
Horses. Pleasant evening to you."
He glances at the clock and cannot hold back a yawn. Thanks to his and Emma's
nocturnal activities, he has become used to long hours of strenuous exercise…
But vigorous dalliance, even into the early morning hours, is not nearly as
exhausting as spending most of a day mounted and riding. He takes his lamp and
heads toward his chambers, nodding to each footman he passes and bidding them
good night. When he finally reaches his rooms, he can feel his body dragging,
as if weighed down by the events of the day and the thoughts in his mind. He
goes to his dressing room and quickly strips, shrugging into a soft robe before
moving on to his bedroom.
Emma sits in one of his chairs before the fire, a large tome in her lap. He
takes a moment to appreciate the sense of rest and peace that immediately
washes over him, the sight of her so at ease in what is clearly his personal
space fills him with a soft joy, with contentment. She turns at the sound of
his sigh, a tender smile on her lips. He quickly closes the distance between
them, sliding his fingers under her chin to lift her lips up for his kiss. He
keeps the caresses gentle and slow, a quiet glow of happiness and longing as
opposed to a raging inferno of passion. "You are practically dead on your feet,
and we stayed up far too late last night. To bed with you!"
He smiles and cannot resist teasing. "Are you my governess as well now?"
"When you are foolish enough to require it, yes."
"And what have you been doing while I was hard at work?... Ah, The Wars of
Domitia, edifying reading certainly, but if the intent was to do anything other
than put you to sleep there are any number of texts I could suggest you try
instead."
"I suppose Sophia's question made me realize that history and politics should
be a part of her curriculum sooner rather than later. I am sorry if I went too
far tonight." She strokes over his jaw with her thumb, a gesture that he adores
but knows that she tends to do it when nervous about his response to her words.
He allows his fingers to tangle in her loose tresses, soothing himself with the
silken slide of it against his skin.
"You were perfect, as always, darling. But you are right about one thing: I do
need sleep tonight."
"Then I shall leave and let you get to it."
"You mistake me, Emma love. I—lying beside you—please stay with me? I find that
I rest better, am more at ease when I wake and find you beside me. I just would
like to sleep, with you in my arms." His speech is halting and even the dim
light of the fire cannot hide the blush that reaches his ears. She reaches for
his free hand and brings it up to her lips, carefully kissing the palm before
turning to lace their fingers together.
"Lead on then, my prince." His answering smile makes her ache with its beauty.
He places the book on the low table between the chairs, helps her to stand, and
never taking his eyes from hers he guides her toward the bed.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Summary
     A/N: Many things delayed the posting of this chapter, much of it
     relating to my inner perfectionist. There is a long note attached at
     the end of this chapter dealing with the keeping of time in this
     universe. I've tried to be concise and clear as possible; due to
     chracter limits, I could not include an author's note on the Religion
     and Religious Practices, but I will add it at the end of the next
     chapter I publish, as it will be especially relevant. Or, you can
     find it on my tumblr and FFN accounts. Thank you for being so
     patient; you will be rewarded with several ready-to-go chapters in
     the very near future. -JJ
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The rigors of the long day riding and the worries for his subjects finally take
their toll on his body and Killian falls asleep almost immediately after
gathering Emma into his arms and placing a gentle, chaste kiss to her lips. She
carefully reaches up to touch the still tingling skin, wondering at the
contradictory feeling such a casual, yet intimate caress can arouse in her. Is
this compulsion to alternately cherish and ravish, to innocently comfort and to
erotically enflame, unique to them or do all true lovers want in this way? She
well knows that the physical experience of love does not always require that
the genuine emotion reside in each person's heart; did his wife also need to be
both mate and meet with equal fervor? Sometimes, Emma can almost sense the
ghost, the presence of the dead woman who once possessed his heart and soul,
yet she has never feared comparison. The only person who could reveal the
secret depths of her mind lies at the bottom of the sea, forever lost and
silent and unable to stake her claim. And yet her mark upon Killian's life is
evident in his fears, his doubts, his nightmares. Whatever love she bore him
made terrible scars rather than healing cleanly.
Emma moves her fingers from her lips to his, tracing the lines of his
face—cheek, jaw, brow, nose—and brushing through his hair. He stirs only to
lean into each caress, seeking in sleep the soothing power of her touch. She
studies his face intently, rarely having the opportunity to simply observe him.
There is still power in every lineament, authority in every patrician inch of
him, yet there is a curious innocence, a lack of animation that makes him
appear the tiniest bit vulnerable: a man, and not the dignity and pomp of the
titles he wears while waking. She places a hand carefully over his heart,
taking simple pleasure in the steady rhythm pulsing beneath their skin, and
settles herself more comfortably against him. The ebb and flow of his breath
and the thrumming of his heart slowly lull her to join him in sleep, consigning
the cares of the day into the dark embrace of the stars.
===============================================================================
The last half of Octavus and the first week of Nona pass in much the same
pattern, with Killian absent all day, riding to the various townships and
castles across his lands to ensure that all are duly warned and prepared for
the harsh weather to come, and with Emma and Sophia conducting a tour of the
different mills, facilities, and manufactories across the estate, their time
spent pressing grapes and celebrating the harvest by far the most exciting and
memorable of their daily adventures. Their visit the following morning to the
sheepfolds becomes somewhat amusing in that the young girl finds herself
inordinately fond of literally all of the summer lambs and stridently insists
on keeping each and every one as a pet; dispelling her desire for them requires
several close, malodorous encounters with the adolescent and adult members of
the species and a reminder that the lambs will only be young for so long. While
used to such noxious smells from the manure mixed into the fields and garden
soil, Sophia reluctantly agrees, after much persuasion, that the combined
fragrance of even a small herd of inexorably growing lambs would quickly
overpower their adorable faces and diminish the appeal of their infantile
antics.
Having blessed the stars for helping them extract Sophia from the pens without
undue fuss and bother, they had hoped that the remainder of their day would be
marked by less excitement than the beginning. In that, their prayers find
answers far too well by the Master and the intricate inner workings of the
woolen mill. Master Fuller—despite the fact that her occupation allows her to
be constantly employed in every single portion of her craft throughout the year
and thus will not inordinately rushed by the advent of the early approaching
winter season—clearly feels that a personally guided tour, even for the
princess, is an extravagant waste of her precious time. Thankfully, her
journeyman apprentice is a patient, kindly young woman who does her best to
appear at ease with the exalted status of their visitor and does not hesitate
to attempt to explain the foreign sounding terms so carelessly brandished by
the Mater Weaver. Truly, even Emma's eyes begin to glaze over at the
increasingly technical language Master Filler uses about every single portion
of the cloth making process—from the shearing of the sheep themselves all the
way to the final round of chemicals used to set the dyes in the cloth, she and
her charge recognize significantly less than half of the supposedly descriptive
words, let alone comprehend or imitate the actions that they signify.
"As I doubt even your Papa understands absolutely every aspect of every
business venture his people are engaged in, I don't think I'll be testing your
memory on the cloth trade any time soon. If you develop an interest in it
later, we can always go back and ask for you to go through an apprenticeship or
at least receive some instruction from a journeyman." She means the statement
to be reassuring, but it naturally sparks Sophia's curiosity and instigates
queries.
"But I'm a princess! I can't be a 'prentice!"
"'I cannot be an apprentice,' sweeting. And why could you not, if that is what
you wanted? I do not mean that you would go through a normal apprenticeship,
but if you find a Craft that you find interesting then surely you can learn as
much as you want about it. Look at your Papa, for example: he is not a Stable
Master, yet he knows a great deal about the horses and the breeding program. He
knows much about farming and will pitch in to help with the planting, but he
does not work the soil every day. You can be a princess and still have a craft
you enjoy. Perhaps not ploughing the fields, but working in the kitchen and
medicine gardens is considered a Craft skill; so is making soaps, oils,
tinctures, and potions. We will find something you enjoy doing, do not worry!"
Killian publicly echoes Emma's sentiments at dinner, encouraging his daughter
to be open to trying to participate at least a little at each craft
manufactory; and he privately thanks her for discouraging the relocation of a
herd of "pets" to the manor proper before promptly surrendering to sleep, his
arms gratefully and firmly wrapped around his lover. The sky remains dark when
Emma awakes to the sound of tapping at the door between the dressing room and
bedchamber, Killian groggily untwining their limbs and being careful to keep
the warm blankets around her body so as not to let the cool air nip her sleep-
flushed skin. Unaware that she is likewise awake, he leans over to press a kiss
to her brow and finds himself pleasantly surprised to feel the caress of her
eager lips against his. As it has been two days without indulging in
intimacy—the longest they had gone without, save certain days of Emma's moon
time—it proves not difficult at all for her to convince him that a short,
speedily enacted delay will not overly upset his plans for the day.
She watches from his window, grateful for the lack of light in the pre-dawn
that keeps her hidden from any eyes that might accidentally track movement from
behind the glass shielding the Prince's bedroom; even with the height and
distance of the house between them, his figure exudes an unmistakable aura of
barely leashed power that sends a shiver of need lancing down her body. She
wonders if he has this effect on every woman, if he knows just how potent and
desirable his innate control and unconscious, commanding presence truly is, and
feels a heady jolt of echoed pleasure electrify her at the thought that those
women who lust after him will never have their own curiosity about his prowess
or their longing for him satisfied. As he fluidly mounts his horse , he manages
to swing the beast so that he faces the house and looks up, directly at the
window where she has been ogling him. Emma blushes as if caught, even though a
part of her mind knows that he cannot possibly see her, because he surely must
sense the weight of her stare. But then he and his guards put spurs to their
horses' flanks and swiftly ride beyond sight, leaving Emma plenty of time to
compose herself before going to wake up her charge.
Their trip to the lumber mill turns out slightly more successfully, Sophia
rather enthralled by the general clamor of sawing and joining created by the
various areas of the workshops, by the noxious yet chemically clean smell of
the various treatment liquids, and by the exquisite craftsmanship of the
carpenter's shop. Their first introduction is to the Master Wright who
maintains all of the vehicles for the estate and creates anything necessary for
the stables; Master Noris' charges may be the horses, but they find that Master
Wright cares just as much for them by making certain that every bit of saddle
and tack is properly fitted all the way to ensuring that the carriages and
wagons are light enough for them to pull.. He even designed the small wagon
which they have been using in their tour of the estate, specifically building
it with the young, insatiably curious princess in mind, giving it high sides
and a moveable shade so that she would be able to travel safely and
comfortably.
He shows them the mews, where he stores and maintains all of the carriages
Killian keeps, including the spacious and luxurious travelling coach blazoned
with the royal coat of arms—used only when journeying to the capital or going
into foreign lands on official embassies. While the conveyance may be such an
insignificant thing relatively speaking, seeing it for the first time fully
impresses upon her the scope and scale of Killian's life; she has casually
spoken of international trade and alliances in her studies with Sophia, but she
finally realizes that as the king's heirs either of them might be commanded to
travel far beyond Domitia's borders. She does not, however, take her awed
thoughts to their next logical step: that as Sophia's governess, she too might
find herself pressed into service in attending her charge on a foreign mission;
the true enormity of Killian's wealth and position blocks all else from her
mind.
And the flow of her thoughts becomes further distracted by the transition from
the quiet atmosphere of Master Wright's section of the shops to the cacophonous
chaos of the mill's main floor. Men and boys alike talk freely and boisterously
as they process the large, unwieldy planks of wood into their more manageable,
usable sizes. Master Charpente joins them at this point in the tour, explaining
the lumber lines in detail from start to finish: how the trees are first felled
in the timberlands of Reynauld near the White Mountains and taken to local
mills to be cut into large planks; these long planks then get loaded onto
barges or sleighs and shipped to the various corners of the duchy and kingdom.
Those planks will get sized down and transformed into building materials, or
whatever people need. But the jacks and farmers in the timberlands also plant
new trees, care for the growing ones, replenishing what has been taken and
providing for future generations.
Most of the lumber to reach Thistledown, he explains, goes into repairing the
old or fabricating new manor buildings; the rest dries and seasons, so that it
can be used as firewood. However, it occasionally happens that Master Charpente
or one of his apprentices finds a particularly unique bit of wood, which often
finds itself transformed into a decoration or a piece of fine furniture; they
also keep an eye out for matching wood grains if they need to repair something
that has been broken. He takes them into another hushed shop, although this one
is filled with quiet murmurings and the soft susurrations of wood carving or
sanding taking place. Each apprentice maintains his own workspace and bench,
tools and wood curls often covering much of the surface, while his completed or
in progress pieces sit on display for all to see. When they leave, Sophia
clutches a beautifully carved and deeply varnished figure of a horse—she had
sworn that it looked just like her Papa's horse and the blushing apprentice had
insisted that she take it to give as a nativity gift—and sports quite a bit of
sawdust in her hair and on her clothes. Being less fragrant than after visiting
the sheep and less dirty than after the pressing, she argues for being allowed
to take a bath before bedtime instead of before supper and gets by with a
change of clothes and a thorough brushing.
At table, Killian announces that he will be honoring the rest day of Startide
on the morrow and on the week to follow, spending the whole of the day with
Sophia to make up for their lost time during the remainder of the week. While
living and working on her farm, Emma naturally knew about Startide and that
many people considered the last day of the week as a time to rest and
recuperate from the long hours of labor; but having only herself to rely upon
to get all of the chores done and herself fed and clothed, she had fallen out
of the habit of marking it or enjoying it. So at first, she had been quite
surprised to learn just how seriously the day of rest was taken by all at the
Hall—all but the most essential of staff received nearly the whole day off from
their duties, so that they could relax and rejuvenate themselves however they
see fit. Apparently, Killian's stance on adhering to the schedule of rest days
remains as strict on his other estates as here at Thistledown.
Unaware of Killian's plans, Emma had already promised her time to the Master
Gardener in helping to improve the plants and soil quality of the indoor
kitchen gardens, so the next morning finds her in the Orangerie back in her
oldest sack-gown and wrist deep in dirt around the berries. Her mother's notes
had indicated that the wild berries tended to have several patches of various
herbs growing around them—borage, nettle, and the wild varieties of mint and
sage most commonly, but also the occasional leek and rosemary as well. Master
Gardener consulted her own journals, finding references to spinach and lettuce
thriving in and around berries; given that the interior kitchen garden was
going to be functional rather than decorative, they had discussed various
options and hammered out a plan for the whole plot—Snow's journals providing
them both with new insights on herbs and flowers that supposedly helped all
kinds of vegetables, fruits, and even other flowers.
Experimentation became their favorite word as they worked the soil and the
plants, chatting animatedly. Just as they were getting started, one of the
kitchen maids stops in and invites them to join the group heading into the
village; Emma notes that it is Mayre, the first woman among the lower servants
who had asked for a perfumed soap, and the first who had made overtures of
friendship. This and other instances of acceptance from the people who live and
work around her fills her heart in a way that not even Killian's love and
Sophia's easy affection can touch—she has a place where she belongs and
companions who care for her, such a simple, honest pleasure that she had no
idea she was missing until she discovered it. She thanks the young woman and
promises to join them on the next Starsday.
The next week sees Emma and Sophia spending a lot of time with the Master
Gardener, out around the estate looking for those patches of wild berries and
herbs before returning to the Orangerie to watch the current progress of their
experimental plots and to get more of the kitchen garden and medicinal garden
plants transferred inside. On one occasion, they even rope Master Nolan into
their schemes, discussing the feasibility of keeping one of the hives in the
Orangerie over the winter months; the poor man had been worried enough about
the chances of his charges surviving such an extended hibernation period, but
he cannot see how on earth they and anyone else with access to the Orangerie
would manage to keep the bees contained indoors, while also not allowing them
to sneak inside the rest of the house. For Killian, the same week sees him
going farther afield and remaining in the saddle longer, often riding up to the
Hall after supper and immediately closeting himself with his daughter before
her bedtime; he blesses Emma's ingenuity and thoughtfulness, as she invariably
interrupts his evening meetings with his clerks and upper servants by bringing
in a tray of food for him to eat. The comfort of her presence at his side in
bed allows him to drift off easily and dreamlessly every night.
Despite the general hurry and an air of tense anticipation, their days pass
peacefully and quietly. Until the day that Emma and Sophia continue their
explorations of the estate and something quite unexpected causes them all to
discover just how temperamental, how idealistic, and how stubborn a young
princess can be when she determines to have her own way in a particular matter.
===============================================================================
Dated 28. Octavus. KWIIS7 (In response to letter of 15. Octavus; Receipt at
Thistledown Hall on 3. Nona)
Your Highness,
I have received your instructions and enclosed missive and am leaving within
the hour to travel to Malfi. Word has reached the Capital, and is no doubt
trailing his Majesty's progress, that the White Kingdom's northern ports have
been by the first of winter's storms. I will make my way over the southern
passes and ask the stars for mercy in descending the slopes before they are
iced over. We cannot guarantee when I will next meet with a confidential
courier, so I will take Locksley with me; he is from that country and can run
circuits to check the passability of the roads and attempt the journey if he
deems it wise or feasible. I will only send him if absolutely necessary.
You should soon hear directly from his Majesty about a most interesting shift
in the political winds—it appears that for some on the council, your
willingness to take a bride does not satisfy all concerns and you will not be
the only royal groom; your daughter's marriage has also come under
consideration, despite her tender age, so be prepared to hear more on the
subject from certain concerned individuals. If you will forgive my lack of tact
and charity, one man stands to benefit the most by these two marriages now
being discussed most seriously after your own, although I agree that it is high
time someone took the King in hand and forced him to do his duty by his family
and his people—the man in question should not have been the one to secure it,
however.
To no one's surprise, the most acceptable candidate is your cousin on your
mother's side, the Lady Elsa, as Princess Marguerite of the White Kingdom
cannot conceivably be wedded and bedded before next summer at the earliest. I
do not like or trust their ambassador, Oliver; the man is an inveterate toady
with more than a streak of cruelty and malice in him, if one credits the
reports of several ladies and their servants who have laid claims against him.
As he is the favorite of his own King, however, his Majesty has been forced to
maintain relations with the man. While in Malfi, I will do my best to uncover
more information about him and about their Princess. Forewarned is forearmed.
I have also dispatched to Fairfax the books that he sent for, along with
notable commentaries on the pertinent volumes. I wish you both the best of luck
in finding the precedence that you require. May the Stars shine on your comings
and your goings. Be well, your Grace.
Sincerely, W. Scarlet, etc.
Chapter End Notes
     Time and Dates: The people of Domitia refer to their planet at Arva
     Cleme or Arva for short. It has one major satellite known as Luna
     Clarus, which has its own smaller satellite that can only rarely been
     seen from the planet surface, known as Parvus. Arva Cleme orbits an
     orange dwarf star, called Nova Aurant, at a 22.75 degree axis spin;
     the planet completes its orbit every 360 days, each Arvan day lasting
     27 hours. It is the closest planet to the star in its system; there
     is one other planet neighboring Arva with an arid landscape and rocky
     crust/mantle; a predominately water-covered planet with two
     identifiable land masses; there are also several gas giants before an
     outer ring of intergalactic debris terminates the limits of this
     particular solar system. From Arva, only three of the gas giants are
     visible with the aid of telescopic lenses, of which there are very
     few; astronomy is a limited science as the practice of it is
     prohibitively expensive. Pastrusa, the kingdom immediately south of
     Domitia, owns the best arrays, funds an academy of science, and
     guards their discoveries jealously; they believe that the results of
     their studies will further the "ignorant, pagan" religious practices
     of the kingdoms around them, but do not believe those findings
     disagree with or negate their own monotheistic views.
     As stated, the Arvan year lasts for 360 days and each Arvan day is 27
     hours long. The months of the year are as follows: Primor, Cordus,
     Tertia, Quartus, Quintus, Sextar, Septimor, Octavus, Nona, Decumar,
     Undecimus, and Uncia. On account of the axial tilt of Arva, the
     planet experiences the four distinct seasons as experienced on Earth.
     Each month of the Arvan year lasts for 30 Arvan days; the months are
     divided into 5 weeks, each week lasting a total of 6 days. The
     official Domitian and Blancean days of the week are as follows:
     Lunastide, Cendresday, Coleresday, Imberesday, Aurasday, and
     Startide, also known as Starsday. Traditionally, both Domitia and
     their eastern neighbor Blanc take a rest day from business and labors
     on Startide, but there is no particular religious connection to the
     day; by contrast, Pastrusans celebrate Lunastide (referred to by them
     as Novanday) as a holy day every week, marked by religious services
     and ceremonies.
***** Chapter 21 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When she wakes and sees Killian off for yet another long day of riding across
his lands and making all secure for winter Emma notices a definitive bite to
the air, warning Francine to dress Sophia warmly, and shudders involuntarily as
she moves about her room. She thinks, only much later and with the benefit of
hindsight, that the Stars might have been warning her about the outcome of the
days’ events and to look back carefully before embarking on today’s tour.
The day before had been spent at the dairy, where Sophia had been introduced to
the cows who provided them with their fresh milk and butter, as well as the
goats milked to make the favored local soft cheeses. Thankfully, all of the
calves and kids of the season had already been weaned and moved to the main
pens; likewise all of the chicks in the hen barns had reach an awkward,
unfortunate-looking stage in their maturation, saving them all from a repeat of
her attachment to young, adorable farm animals. Emma fondly remembers her own
childhood fascination with the babes of all their beasts, but she also
remembers just as clearly the first time she had truly become aware that these
very same animals were raised in order to provide them with meat and clothing.
She had never lived separate from the reality that their deaths kept her family
fed through the winter. After a lengthy and heated discussion, she had secured
Killian’s permission to take his daughter to visit the abattoir.
Sophia chatters throughout breakfast, flitting from one topic to the next
without any apparent regard for logical connections. “…And if I catch you one
more time, she said, I shall turn you into a loon! I have no idea what a loon
is, but if a Star turns you into one for bopping mice on the head, it cannot be
good! But then I have never seen a Star come down to do anything, have you
Francine? And why would she care about little old mice? They are awfully small,
but then they get into such mischief when one of the maids finds one in the
house, and Master Noris says they eat up all the oats for the horses.”
“In all honesty, Sophia, I think the story is not so much about the punishment,
or about the coney and the mice themselves, as about how you should behave
toward others.” Francine looks over at Emma as though she has lost her wits,
while Sophia stares at her governess with an eager, curious gaze.
“Well, the little coney was being mean and hurting the field mice just because
he could—just because he was bigger than they and because he thought it was fun
to hurt others. So, he is not very nice and you should not want to be like him;
by his bad example, we are shown how the Stars would have us behave—by being
kind to others, to do our best not to cause others pain or harm, and like the
Star, we should stand up for those who cannot defend themselves.”
“You plain amaze me sometimes, Miss Emma! Such a fable from a silly song.
Really!”
“It makes a great deal of sense, Francine, once you think it over. Children
learn best by example and easy repetition; at first they simply absorb what is
right and what is wrong, even though they do not understand the whys and the
hows of it. But underneath the silliness lay the principles and abstract
concepts that can be fully explained to them once they are older. Dig deep
enough, and you can find the moral in almost any children’s tale or song.”
Sophia nods with a regal solemnity that nearly sends the adults into fits of
laughter—clearly, the young princess has already learned the political maxim of
taking credit for the wisdom and ideas of one’s inferiors. When Emma finishes
her tea, she clears her throat to gain their attention once more.
“Now, ladies. This topic of conversation has been quite fortuitous as today we
will be visiting the Master Fleshers.”
Francine sucks in a breath, physically recoiling from the idea and appearing
prepared to object to the planned excursion. Emma raises a hand to forestall
her, belatedly realizing the brazen imperiousness of the gesture and softening
it by placing the hand on top of the nanny’s. “His Highness and I discussed
this very matter and visit already, Francine. Despite living on a farm all her
life, she has been sheltered for far too long from some of the harsher
realities of this world. Even if we wanted to, she cannot remain ignorant and
innocent forever. Sophia, can you tell me where our beef and mutton came from
last night?”
The princess darts her gaze back and forth between the two women before timidly
answering. “From the kitchen?”
The older woman grimaces and cringes at the response, either from shame at
having neglected an unpalatable duty or in sympathetic pain at the change that
will come over the child with the imparting of distasteful knowledge.
“The food was prepared in the kitchen, but that is not where the meat came
from. Beef is what we call any meat that comes from a cow and mutton is the
meat of a sheep. Chicken, lamb, fish… All of the meats you have eaten come from
one animal or another.” The silence sits heavily around the table as Sophia
attempts to assimilate this new revelation; she does not remember her parents
having such a conversation with her as such, but Emma takes pity on her little
friend and gently takes one of her hands.
“Do you remember what I told you? That all of life on Arva has anima? People
have it, plants and trees have it, and the animals have it. Even the winds and
the waters and the whole of Arva lives and has anima, and we are to live in
harmony with every living thing. But in order for us to keep living, our bodies
need food; and for humans, the best food for our bodies is to eat both plants
and animals. We live in harmony by being good and careful stewards of the
bounties of nature, taking care to honor the plants when we harvest them and
replant and nourish what we have taken; we show Stelläe respect and honor by
being kind to the animals as we raise them and grateful when they give their
lives for us. So that you can better understand this and know of the sacrifices
that are made in order for you to grow and survive, we will be observing the
Master Flesher and his apprentices as they work. He and they are very well
trained, so that the death stroke happens as swiftly as possible and so that
the beast feels little to no pain, but it can be messy. The animal will cease
to live as we know it, but its anima will return to Stelläe. Now, it is quite
chilly outside, so we shall make certain to bundle up properly.”
Because of the number of people dependent on the estate for food, most
especially at the Hall itself, the abattoir sits very near to the manor,
discretely screened from view by a grove of trees and just far enough away so
that the smells and sounds death do not disturb Thistledown’s residents and
visitors.  They walk in silence through the trees along the worn and well-trod
path—Emma contemplative, Francine somber and anxious, and Sophia grave yet
curious. The quiet feels solemn in a way that the child’s mind has yet to grasp
or understand. She knows the words “death” and “dead,” but such concepts remain
linked with a sterile, gentle absence like her mother’s. However, her nanny’s
hand-wringing tension causes Sophia’s own apprehensions to grow, gaining size
and power in the vacuum of sound typically filled with happy conversation.
The glade opens, revealing a wide clearing with large pens and spacious cages
filled with all types of animals; here is the accustomed noise of life with the
scratching of beaks and claws at the ground, the cooing and clucking and
squawking of fowl, the lowing and mooing of cows and calves, the oinking and
rooting of pigs and piglets, the baaing and bleating of goats and sheep. The
pens and coops are highly populated, but none too full as to cause any of their
occupants distress or discomfort. As they arrive, two young men herd a cow
carefully through a set of gates—one man in front carrying her halter and
urging her to follow him, and the another at her side, petting her constantly
and speaking softly to encourage her progress. On the far side of the clearing
sits a barn with several large doors along its side; one of these doors opens
when they get close. Murmuring soothing words and gentle encouragement all the
while, the men lead her into the barn and out of sight.
Master Flesher notices them not long after and breaks away from the group of
apprentices he had been speaking with, each one carrying buckets of feed for
their charges. As befits the rigors of his profession, he is a brawny and
muscular fellow; on first glance only, he appears the type to be frequently
caught in tavern brawls or be found in dark alleys, and one would certainly
rather be at his side in those moments rather than be his opponent. But the
exterior deceives in his case, for a kinder and more compassionate soul would
be hard to find. He received a note from the prince just this morning,
informing Master Flesher of the expected visit and conveying his concerns. So,
in order to help put her at ease, the gentle giant immediately crouches down to
Sophia’s level and sets a pail between them, asking if she would like to feed
the animals first. Familiar with feeding routines thanks to their visits to
other pens, she trustingly places her diminutive hand in his and allows him to
lead her toward the chickens.
“Now, my little Madame, when you put your hand into the feed, you will notice
some different herbs in among the other grasses and grains. I know that your
governess is teaching you about herbs and such. So, can you tell me what
chamomile is?”
“‘Tis a flower!”
“That is right. But did you know that beneath the flower itself are some
leaves? You can use those leaves in teas and simples, because there is a
special medicine inside each leaf that can help humans and animals to be very
calm or to calm them if they are already upset.” Sophia looks to Emma for
confirmation, who nods and smiles in response.
“There is another herb called Valerian that does something similar; you will
not find it in your mix because we have to be very careful in how we handle
that particular plant. And there are yet more herbs that are specific to the
animals—cowslip, pigswallow, and henscratch—all to soothe them and keep them
docile.”
They all share the bucket, Sophia throwing the feed enthusiastically but with
little power behind each toss; the adults manage to be a little more liberal in
spreading the grains and herbs over a greater area of the pen. After emptying
the pail, Master Flesher ushers them toward the barn while still speaking with
Sophia about what times of year the animals arrive under his care and about how
old they are when they do. The barn is cool, but well lit when they enter; the
cow from earlier now rests atop a large platform that has a ramp built onto one
end, the slow, contented twitching of her tail the only movement from her. The
two apprentices who lead her here stand by her head, still petting and praising
her and providing them all with a calm atmosphere. Her eyes blink slowly open
when she hears the ladies approach, but a scratch behind the ear from one of
her attendants has her rolling them closed in pleasure.
Master Flesher takes his place on the platform just to one side of her massive
shoulder; the herdsmen give the cow a last caress before they motion for Emma,
Sophia, and Francine to back quietly toward the wall of the workshop. As they
obey, the men back away as well, save for Master Flesher. He places a hand on
the cow’s head, an expression of kind thoughtfulness on his face. “Thank you,
Stars, for your blessings. Thank you for anima that lives and has being in all
of us. Thank you, Dancer, for your years of humble service: for the calves you
birthed and the milk you shared. Thank you for this, your final sacrifice, and
may Stelläe receive you with swift grace.”
After this devotion, he reaches out his hand to one of the apprentices, who
places a long knife into it. With a quick, practiced stroke, he cuts deep
across the massive throat and gently yet firmly forces the cow’s head down onto
the slab. Blood rapidly pours from the neck and follows the channels carved
into the table, while the big man continues to stroke her head and whisper
comfortingly into the animal’s ear. Her tail swishes with a bit more energy for
a few seconds until it subsides, and then the whole body stiffens and shudders
for a moment. All is peaceful after the lungs heave sharply inward and then
collapse as they exhale their final breath. The cow lies still and silent.
“NO!!!! Put it back!”
Sophia’s enraged shriek startles them all and shatters the profound grace of
the moment. Her normally cherubic face is twisted into an angry snarl, jaw
clenched tight and chin set at a stubborn, furious angle. Before Emma or
Francine can stop her, she lunges toward the platform and scrambles up,
kneeling in the still gushing river of blood near the cow’s head. They all look
on in horror as the little girl frantically scoops the hot crimson liquid into
her hands and begins pouring it over the animal’s body—all while tears stream
down her reddening face. In seconds, she is covered with the very steaming
blood she is vainly and valiantly attempting to return to the dead carcass. The
apprentices finally think to grab a hold of her and lift her away from the
table. Sophia screams, desperately kicking at them with all of her might.
“How dare you?! I will see you whipped for laying hands on me and for what you
did to poor Daisy! I am the princess and you will obey me! Now put it back!
Bring her back this instant or I shall—”
“Sophia Mathilda Catrine Sonoian!” The strength in Francine’s voice surprises
even her, but Emma gratefully takes her cue and the pause in their charge’s
tantrum.
“These men are doing their job, and you dare to insult them? That is neither
the way a princess behaves nor how a lady speaks! Furthermore, your attitude
and actions are dishonoring to Daisy and to the sacrifice she just made. You
and your people will not have to face sickness or starvation because of the
food her body will provide. That is a noble and honorable deed, and you should
be acting with gratitude.”
“I don’t want her sacrifice! I want her to live!”
“Daisy has lived a good, long life, just as Master Flesher said. She felt no
pain in dying this way, which may not have been the case if she had grown any
older. Now, I want you to apologize to Master Flesher—he could have hurt you on
accident with his blade, so you gave him a terrible fright by throwing yourself
on his worktable. And you will apologize to these apprentices for your rudeness
and your cruel words.”
The girl trembles violently under the hold of the men in question, fury still
etched into every soft line and chubby curve of her face. Her gaze remains
fiercely unrepentant. “I. Will. Not! I am a princess and they have to obey me!”
She struggles again, stomping on toes and twisting in their hold, her arms
still slick and dripping with Daisy’s blood. When Emma moves to take her from
them, it is with no regard to the ruined state of Sophia’s clothes; she scoops
her up, careful to keep the girl’s arms pinned to her side to avoid being
struck, and carries her bodily back to Thistledown Hall. The entire way, Sophia
continues to rant and cry, screeching as she calls down all manner of
punishments down on Emma’s head for handling her so, threatening all who refuse
to come to her aid. Francine meekly follows behind, silently preparing herself
for the battle she know will rage for quite some time.
===============================================================================
 
Emma observes the sun sinking slowly past the tops of the trees and down toward
the horizon with a mixture of longing and despair, beseeching the Stars once
more for patience and for Killian’s swift return. In an unconscious gesture
that has become habit when thinking of him, she smoothes her hands down the
material of her dress at her waist—only to be reminded that today it has been
allowed to dry stiff with blood. Upon entering Sophia’s rooms hours ago with a
still indignantly shrieking princess, Francine had rushed the servants to
prepare two baths and a tub in which to soak the stained dresses. But new
heights of fury were reached when the child divined their intensions; she broke
free of Emma’s hold, tearing her own gown in the process and completely ruining
it. Ever since, the adults had taken turns trying to rationalize with her in
vain.
Indeed, Francine’s comments and cajoling were far less effective; her reminder
that Sophia herself had not only eaten meat before but had done so that very
morning at breakfast was met with a prolonged moment of silence before the
violent storm of raging and crying had recommenced. So upset was she at the
revelation, so great was her horror at her own culpability in the perceived
crime, that Sophia had literally screamed and wept until she made herself sick.
This upheaval was followed by another round of innocently creative threats and
cursing—for having sullied a princess with complicity in their vile
killings—and a further lapse into glowering, sullen sulking. Despite emptying
her stomach and expending massive amount of energy in her rage, she had refused
to even look at the tray provided for her luncheon; but now it was time to
prepare her for the evening meal and her father’s presence, and Emma refuses to
let the Sophia’s tantrum continue any longer.
With a shared look of apprehension, Francine and Emma carefully approach the
still pouting princess, who had curled herself on a rug in front of the
fireplace after the worst of her anger had been vented. “Sophia. It is time to
dress for dinner.”
The girl stiffens her spine at the sound of her name, but otherwise acts as if
no one had spoken. Your father, his Highness, will expect to see you down at
table when he arrives and we must get you out of those rags and bathed before
then.”
“I refuse.” Francine looks at Emma pleadingly, always hesitant to disobey a
direct order from her charge and quick to appease rather than chastise; Emma
motions her away, leaving the nanny free to fetch the servants with warm water.
“Sophia, I know that what you saw this morning upset you, but you must
understand that death is a part of life. When I was your age, I had already
been taught that the animals we raised and fed by hand and tended to when they
were ill—even those lambs and calves and kids that my father and I helped into
the world with our own hands—were there so that we could eat. We, our bodies,
need the nutrients that meats provide; without them, we do not grow as strong
as we could, we do not thrive. I also know that you have a kind and tender
heart and wish to cause no harm, and if you truly feel so strongly about not
eating meat then we can find ways to allow you to do so and still remain
healthy. But you certainly know and you must understand that it was your words
and your behavior today that were unacceptable--”
“Unacceptable?! Butchering poor, defenseless creatures is unacceptable! When my
father hears of this, he will banish you from this house! I demand it!”
“You are not behaving properly as Francine and I have taught you. And if his
Highness decides that I have done wrong then that will be his choice to make.”
“Well he should banish you! You are no lady and you allowed that—that
butcher!—to harm Dancer! You will be very sorry for this, Miss Shepherd!”
“One day perhaps I will, but not today, young lady.” Thankfully, Francine and
several wary servants enter that moment carrying steaming buckets of water and
other accoutrements for the bath. Emma gives the nanny a warning look,
wordlessly begging her to remain resolutely firm with Sophia. The older woman
visibly straightens her spine and puts a look to cut steel on her kindly face.
“Now, my girl… You shall be bathed one way or another before your father gets
home. Will you cooperate with me?” Sophia turns her scathing expression of
disdain from her governess and onto Francine, a look such that Emma inwardly
marvels how one so very young has already learned to show the kind of cold
dignity and contained fury that will serve her well at court in years to come.
What a queen she will make!
Sophia does not respond, but turns her back to them all with an aggrieved huff
and rigidly holds her arms out to the side; Francine sighs in relief, moves
forward—after another quick glance for encouragement from Emma—, and begins to
disrobe the child while the servants ready the bath. With her own slow exhale
of release, Emma goes to leave the room and finally return to her own in order
to rid herself of the stiff, uncomfortable dress and clean the rest of the
dried blood from her skin. She stops short at the sight of a fiercely scowling
Killian, who beckons her to follow him with a sharp flick of his hand. So much
for a peaceful bath and a moment to breathe.
===============================================================================
 
Killian and his guards ride into the stable yard just as the sun truly begins
to set in earnest. The stops for the day were the last he has scheduled—save
for a journey to the border fortress and town of Dionya that will take more
than a single day to conclude—and had all passed swiftly and easily. Thanks to
advance copies of the proclamation, people from scattered settlements had
already heard of the weather predictions and made their plans accordingly,
arriving well in advance of their prince. He had met several families as well
as individuals who had seen the wisdom of his suggestions and provisions and
already moved into the winter quarters of the manufactories or other
accommodations in town. They were all tense, waiting impatiently and nervously
for the cold and the storms, but they were content to be among friends and
neighbors rather than isolated and alone. Today did not provide the first sign
of progress he has seen, but being nearly the last trip and observing first
hand that all was working out according to plan gives him a heart full of
hope—that his worries and concern for his people has genuinely benefited them.
His heart is the lightest he can remember it being since Emma’s keen eyes
observed what others had not; until he receives positive confirmation of the
first winter storms he will not set foot out of his home—a fact that he has
kept secret from the ladies of the house so that he can surprise them with
several days devoted solely to spending his time with them, and to introducing
them to the horses he and Master Noris have selected for their equestrian
exercise. He brushes James aside in his haste, although the older man huffs and
puffs in his rush to speak with his master, and mounts the stairs to the family
wing two at a time, pleasantly anxious to see his ladies. Yet he hears a
strident, sharp tone of voice that nearly halts him in his tracks. Cautiously
and quietly, he makes for the open door of Sophia’s suite; through the portal,
he spies Emma kneeling close to his daughter and speaking in a low, reasoning
voice. He wonders just where on earth he or his factors managed to purchase
cloth in such a ghastly shade of rusty-brown when it hits him like the kick of
a horse to his entire torso—both of them are covered in blood.
Obviously, his eyes can see that they are both hale and whole and hear that
neither speaks with the quavering weakness of the injured; yet a primitive part
of his mind urges him to charge into the room, hastily undress the both of
them, and observe with his own eyes that their flesh remains undamaged and
unharmed. Not since the weary, watchful hours of Milah’s childbed experience
has Killian felt such agonizing fear and helplessness. But he sets himself to
listen to their conversation, and rapidly finds his fears transforming into a
startled chill and a warming, affronted fury.
“…You are not a lady!...You will be sorry for this, Miss Shepherd!” He can
hardly believe that his own child is capable of such callous disregard for the
feelings of others. Not until this moment has there even been a hint of discord
between Sophia and her governess, and yet in her pique, his daughter
demonstrates just how clearly she understands and has absorbed the rigid social
hierarchy, to an extent that she uses that knowledge as a weapon. And that the
entitled, imperious tone sounds so much like Milah is almost more than he can
bear at this moment. Whatever the basis for the present disagreement, Killian
intends to have a very long conversation with Sophia about the time and place
for pulling rank—and about manners. He observes the plea for strength and
fortitude in Emma’s glance to Francine, watches as Sophia ungraciously submits
to the attentions of the servants. When Emma finally looks up and meets his
gaze, she startles and hesitates; he gestures her to follow him, unaware that
she could possibly misconstrued the obvious anger in his expression.
===============================================================================
 
Emma trails a short distance behind Killian, her strides neither as long nor as
swift as his and her progress somewhat hampered by her skirts. His
preoccupation made plain in the inflexible line of his shoulders and spine, she
carefully scans the area for footmen and other servants, relieved when she sees
no one else can feasibly observe them. For the first time since the beginning
of their relationship, she finds herself uncertain as to what has provoked his
ire and what his mood means for her continued presence by his side. He had
attempted to dissuade her from the trip to the fleshers today, but had
ultimately bowed to her rationale; the evidence clearly points to things not
having occurred as they ought to have, so a certain amount of smug superiority
was to be expected. Not this volubly silent rage. His steps lead them directly
to the door of her rooms, surprising her greatly; simply removing themselves
far enough down the hall so as not to be overheard by the princess makes sense,
but the fact that he wants to speak with her behind closed doors causes her to
tremble internally.
Mind clouding up with fear and anxiety over the potentially enormous
consequences of her error in judgment, Sophia’s words come back to her like the
shock of a lash, striking her forcefully with their hated truth—she is not a
lady, she is not worthy to be a governess to anybody, and even less  worthy of
Killian’s respect and affection. She is their inferior, and in making this
blunder she has provided him with undeniable proof of how unsuitable a
companion she is, both for his daughter and for himself. Filled with sudden
panic, she imagines him removing her from his house and his life, returning her
to the lonely, hollow existence of tending her few acres of land. In that
moment she finally acknowledges just how empty and cold her life was before she
met Killian, and her whole being shudders and recoils at the idea of going back
to merely surviving without him.
Mentally gathering her courage and preparing for the cruel fracture, she
follows him into her room and closes the door softly behind her. Killian stands
near the tub, trailing the fingers of one hand in the water that must have gone
cold hours ago; the tense line of his jaw forcibly recalls to mind Sophia’s
stance in the fleshing barn and fills her with even greater dread. “You did not
leave my daughter’s side at all today? Not even to change out of that
undoubtedly uncomfortable dress?”
His tone is soft, shocking her with its unexpected difference. She lowers her
gaze to the floor, confused and terrified. But she stills the tremor of her
hands and keeps her voice even, dispassionate. “As you see, your Highness.”
She bites her lip to halt the flow of pleading words that yearn to spill forth,
desperate to retain her dignity and pride. Her abject stance, the carefully
neutral words, and the look of despair on her face astounds him as surely as a
clout to the head and reveals to him the conclusion she has mistakenly made. “I
am an ass and a thrice-damned fool!”
Her shocked expression is priceless, but he only just catches it as he crosses
to her and gathers her into a fierce embrace. Initially she remains stiff and
aloof but, under the calming, tender caresses and kisses he places upon her,
slowly relaxes and wraps her arms tightly about him in return. “I’m so sorry,
Emma love! I was frightened out of my wits at the sight of you covered in
blood. I thought the worst, despite the evidence to the contrary, and my
helplessness transformed into anger. I thought you had been injured whilst I
had not been here to protect you. And then I heard Sophia… Sweet Stars, love,
what happened?”
Killian pulls away only just enough to help Emma from her layers of clothes,
tenderly performing the office of a lady’s maid while the story pours out.
Every time she fumbles for a word, he presses a kiss to her skin. Disgusted by
the fact that his daughter’s tantrum had kept Emma from caring for her own
bodily needs, he sets about caring for her: drawing her close to the fire,
which he builds up; setting the bathing towels on the hearth to warm; dipping a
cloth into the water, tenderly wiping her skin clean, and then drying her
quickly to keep her from feeling the chill; all while biting his tongue and
patiently listening. “I had never seen her behave so, well so like a spoiled
child. She’s normally so adult in her poise. She has been upset before, of
course, but—”
“But never been so cruel or quite so willful? I heard what she said, about you
not being a lady. Rest assured that my daughter and I will be having words over
that.”
“But she is not wrong, Killian. I am not a lady. I have no qualifications or
vocation to teach others.” He looks up at her, still kneeling at her feet, and
takes both of her hands in his. Reverently, he kisses each knuckle while
keeping his eyes locked on hers.
“Darling, your blood could be as green as your eyes and it would not make you a
whit more or less of a lady than you are. Something is very wrong with the way
we live when marriage lines and pedigrees matter more than what is in the
heart, when noble of name is greater than noble of mind. You are not a lady,
you are my lady; and while I may be brute beast enough to yearn to show you
this instant just how thoroughly mine you are, I do believe that a good dinner
and a proper chastisement for my child are necessary. Perhaps I can entice you
to my rooms tonight for a warm… thorough bath?”
He presses a kiss to her mound before playfully biting her skin. She blushes at
his lascivious glance and his teasing smile, flushes at the wanton need he
stokes to life. She swats his shoulder and dances out of reach. “You are
incorrigible.”
Chapter End Notes
     As promised, a note on the religions in HDB. (:
     Religion: The peoples of Domitia and Blanc both practice a quasi-
     polytheistic religion, known officially as “Stellanism”. Stelläe is
     the name given to the primordial impulse, the collective life-force
     and consciousness of all living beings in the universe. All humans,
     plants, and animals are described as anima, or that which has spirit,
     but rather than be prohibitive of certain lifestyle choices,
     Stellanism promotes a respect and gratitude for all things possessing
     anima. Thus, human beings are carnivores, herbivores, or omnivores
     with an emphasis on awareness that another anima is going toward
     sustaining one’s life; cattle are slaughtered only after being
     rendered unconscious so as not to distress the animal or the human.
     Fruits, vegetables, and herbs are farmed specifically in a
     sustainable and responsible way, with great care taken to ensure the
     soil nutrients are replenished.
     Upon death, the individual anima returns to Stelläe and joins the
     collective consciousness for an indefinite amount of time until the
     impulse arises to break from Stelläe. All beings return upon death
     and from it they will have being upon entering a new life cycle and
     consciousness. There is an exception to this rule. For Stallanists,
     the stars represent those souls who have attained a degree of purity
     and perfection through their life experiences and time spent in
     Stelläe, or the performance of great and good deeds in a particular
     lifetime, which qualifies them for exalted or godlike status; these
     entities, known as Stars, maintain a slightly more separate
     consciousness from Stelläe and can act in an independent manner to a
     degree. Because one cannot know who will become a “Star” or when,
     people do not call upon specific stars or saints, as those in
     Pastrusa do. If one wishes for divine intervention one prays to the
     Stars, or alternatively thanks them for their aid. In Blanc, there is
     veneration of one Star in particular, named Danu, who is considered
     the chief and oldest among the Stars. Blanceans also refer to her as
     a goddess, as well as a Star.
     Stellanism promotes a positive life experience—performing acts of
     charity, helping others, being kind, etc.—but does not have a fully
     realized set of doctrines or scriptures. Each person is responsible
     to Stelläe, but ultimately each person lives their life according to
     their own conscience and consciousness. People who break the peace,
     especially violent crimes such as rape and murder are naturally
     punished according to the degree of severity, but there is only a
     secular punishment inflicted and referenced. There are no crimes with
     a religious connection—i.e., you cannot be punished for the legally
     identified sins in Pastrusan society such as gluttony, sloth, usury,
     drunkenness, or carnal knowledge of another—within Domitia and Blanc.
     A person’s moral code is between them and Stelläe, unless another
     anima is willfully and maliciously harmed; again, any punishment by
     the authorities of the land will be in kind and degree to the
     offense.
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Notes
     No extended note for this chapter! But towards the end it become
     definitively NSFW. ;)
Per Killian’s request, dinner is served immediately to those who make it to the
table promptly, giving himself time to clean up and Emma a convincing head-
start on him so that their combined tardy arrivals do not appear suspicious to
anyone. After giving himself plenty of space to calm his thoughts and to
rationally think of a solution—his anger with Sophia needing to cool and allow
his logical mind to bend itself to the problem at hand—he arrives several
courses in and waves for all to remain seated. He greets everyone normally,
including his daughter, who he sees continues to pout; however, he is not quite
sure whether she is piqued because of righteous indignation still, or if it is
because her plate has been consciously stripped of meats and piled with
vegetable, cheese, and nut dishes. Clearly, if she desires to harm absolutely
no animals in the production and preparation of her meals, she will have to
accept that there are relatively few alternative meat options available to her.
While no one purposely excludes her from the conversation, she does not exert
herself at all to supply a focus or a topic for discourse; there will be no
dinner table discussion of her day and certainly no rhapsodizing over the
things she observed earlier. During the dessert course, he finally brings up
the matter of his strained schedule and gives them a brighter subject for
discussion. “I know that these last few weeks have been quite stressful for us
all, and I want to personally thank each and every one of you and the several
members of your staff for their understanding and patience with the strange
routine of late. Please pass along my compliments and thanks to all for making
this hectic time pass as smoothly as possible. However, you will all be pleased
to know that as of today, I have finished my rounds of the lands and will
resume a more normal round of activity here at the Hall. The one possible
exception to this will be when I receive official word that winter has
arrived—I will need to make a two-day visit to the castle and town of Dionya.”
The upper servants and even the footmen smile and break into small, excited
conversations with the notable exceptions of Sophia and Emma. But while both of
these ladies appear confused at the mention of a longer trip, his daughter
breaks into the chatter with pointed query. “Why aren’t you going right away?
Where is Dionya and am I coming with you in the carriage? Will Aunt Aurora,
Uncle Phillip, and Aunt Mulan be there?”
“As to your first question, Sophia, it is quite simply that I am tired of
jolting around the countryside on Triton’s back, and I think he and I both have
earned a week’s rest or so. Yes, your aunts and uncle will be there, so if you
have any gifts or letters for them you need to get them finished and ready. But
because winter could hit us at any moment, I want to go as fast as possible; so
that means that I will not be taking you with me this time. Dionya is on our
border with the White Kingdom and at the base of the White Mountains, which
means that the cold weather could strike there before I heard anything about
it. I want you safe and secure here at home. Now…”
Killian stands, cutting off the next spate of questions, and goes directly to
stand by his daughter’s chair. He holds out his hand to her gently and helps
her rise from her seat, a resigned sigh from her echoing loudly in the quiet
room. “Sophia and I will be in the library for a time before I see her off to
bed. Mrs. Potts, please convey my gratitude to Chef for another excellent meal
and do let him know that I would like to speak with him at his convenience this
evening.”
He nods politely to each person at the table before walking out of the dining
room with a very subdued Sophia in tow. Much of his being recoils from the very
thought of the necessity of chastising her for her actions and words, but the
wiser, more paternally astute part of himself know that correction and rebuke
cannot be avoided. Life—especially one as steeped in politics as
theirs—requires boldly confronting the unsavory and the unpleasant, as well as
dealing with people and ideas with which one may not agree; and that a
successful person manages to accept these differences with more than a modicum
of dignity and grace. He falters in his purpose but for a moment, recalling
lessons on moral relativity imparted so forcefully by his own father; he does
his best to shake away the haunting echoes of the past, reminding himself that
while the harsh tactics were both effective and lasting, he is not bound by the
example of his own childhood. He can discipline his daughter while still being
compassionate and loving in the delivery.
“You were quite quiet at dinner this evening, my little love. Is everything all
right?”
“No, Papa. I had a bad day.” Her serious, thoughtful expression gives him
further hope that their conversation can be completed without passionately
charged words being exchanged between them. Killian sits in his chair before
the fire and lifts Sophia up onto his lap, circling her in a warm but not
constricting embrace. Carefully, and with equal trepidation on each side, they
look at each other for a long moment as he gathers his words and she braces for
a row.
“I want you to know something, my dear. I want you to lock this into your heart
and always remember it. Can you do that for me? Nothing you could ever do will
make me stop loving you. That does not mean that I will always be happy with
every choice you make, nor that I will never be cross with you, but I will
always love you and support you. You are my Sophia, and that will never
change.” She nods solemnly, eyes glistening with pending tears, before
snuggling closer and pressing her head against his chest. Much like with Emma
earlier, the story unfolds in fits and starts; as he could have anticipated her
tale is awash in colorful emotive impressions—focused one moment on the vibrant
life of the animals she fed outside, and the next on the dark sense of horror
in watching death occur in real time.
“And then he—then he cut Dancer! There was ever so much blood, and I couldn’t
stop it or put it back inside her! And it was just so—so wrong, Papa!” She
automatically looks up at Killian for affirmation of her assertion and looks
fiercely taken aback when she sees him shaking his head.
“Sophia, I know that you feel very strongly about this, but there is nothing
wrong with killing an animal for food. You know from your lessons that the
Sages tell us that all life has anima, and that we are not to harm others. What
you probably do not know is that not every single Sage, nor every single
person, perfectly agrees with what that statement means for our everyday
living. Before I go on, let me ask you something. If you were alone in the
forest and hungry, and there were no plants that were safe to eat, but there
was a rabbit that you know is edible, would you eat him?” Her expression turns
inward, clearly troubled, but he waits until he senses that she’s about to
inject with a qualifying question.
“Little love, there are many who share your feelings, that animals should not
be killed for food; there are others who say that we humans should not even
drink a cow’s milk or goat’s milk, because that is only meant to feed their
babies. There have even been Sages in ages past who claimed that we should stop
having children altogether, because just by existing we have to consume other
anima in order to survive, and that this offends Stelläe… But because the Stars
have not come down and said, once and for all, what is right and what is wrong
in terms of what we may eat, we each have to make that choice for ourselves. In
this household, as in many across the kingdom, we hold to the belief that
animals should be eaten, so long as proper thanks are given and so long as the
beasts are well cared for beforehand. Now, you might not like to remember this,
but did Dancer seem upset before she died?”
She squirms uncomfortably, but, after heaving a resigned sigh, finally answers
him truthfully. “No, Papa.”
“Was Master Flesher or either of his apprentices cruel to her in any way? Did
they taunt her or hurt her unnecessarily?”
“No.”
“That is because they have been raised and trained to be kind and compassionate
when they perform their tasks, to make it so that the animals are not
frightened to die; they do not let the animals under their care suffer, and in
this way they honor both the anima of the beasts and they honor Stelläe. Does
that make sense? Does that help to ease your mind about eating meat and people
who choose to eat it?”
“Yes, Papa. But—but I do not want to… I cannot eat animals! I do not care about
growing big and strong!”
“And that is an admirable and considerate choice you have made, little love,
and I am proud that you have made a decision like this. But you do need to
understand that this is a personal choice you are making; you have decided, for
yourself alone, that it does not feel morally right to eat the meat of animals.
However, you must respect that other people—myself included—do not share your
opinion and will continue to eat meat while sharing the same table as you. In
many places and at times when families do not have as much as we have been
blessed with, people must either eat the meat of animals or they would starve
and grow sick. I will speak to Chef shortly about your decision, and we will
find a way to accommodate it in the menus. Because while you may not care at
the moment, I care very much about the things you eat which will make you
strong and healthy. Now, you do realize that you must apologize for your
behavior, correct?”
“But I’m—” Killian holds up his hand to forestall that particular line of
argumentation.
“Even princesses can be wrong, but your royal status makes it doubly important
that you can and will admit to having made a bad judgment or having behaved
poorly. Being a princess, and one day a queen, means that you are bound by duty
to honor and protect all your subjects. You acted unbecomingly and you
threatened our people with very harsh punishments. What if, in your anger, you
had sentenced Master Flesher to death? In bygone days, kings have done just
that—spoken unwisely and in anger, threatening punishments that they did not
truly intend to be administered—and their subjects died, all because of a
moment of indiscretion and hasty action. How would you feel, believing as you
do that animals should not be harmed, if Francine or Miss Emma were dead in
this instant because of your commands and behavior today?”
Sophia turns positively green at the thought and clings even tighter to the
stolid strength of her father’s embrace. Killian presses his cheek to the top
of her head, thanking the Stars for her loving disposition and kind heart. They
spend the next hour awaiting Chef’s arrival, reading stories together and
discussing what kinds of food she is willing to eat in place of meats. To his
curious delight, fish are not deemed adorable enough to be protected under the
overarching label of “animal” and thus marked as acceptable for her plate;
likewise eggs are considered allowable as they have not and presumably will not
actually develop into a full-grown animal. After sharing one last tale and
tucking Sophia into bed, Killian takes a brief detour to the environs of the
Orangerie before returning to the library to complete his daily chores and
correspondence.
===============================================================================
 
Without consciously making the decision to do so, Emma has spent her evenings
these last few weeks in the library, pouring over historical tomes and
political treatises in particular; her own desire for greater knowledge about
the kingdom and her need to eventually pass on such vital information to her
royal pupil would be the most obvious and logical reasons to excuse her
presence in the somewhat masculine domain…should  any of the servants and
various official personages actually have bothered to note her nightly
attendance or comment upon it, that is. Thankfully, not only have they been
busy and preoccupied with their own affairs, but the room itself seems to have
a strange effect upon her person—no matter who she may or may not pass while
entering, she somehow manages to remain so unobtrusive and quiet that every
other occupant tends to forget that they never actually observed her leaving.
Even the occasional turning of the pages of her chosen book does nothing to
disturb her invisibility!
Save for one person’s awareness of her, of course… Although he has never shared
it with her, Emma would doubtless be gratified to know that Killian is always
cognizant of the precise moment she enters the library, where she sits, can
often guess what type of work she is reading, and what time she leaves for the
evening. As she inevitably makes for her room before he does, Killian has
designated the moment of her departure as a signal of sorts that he should
reach a suitable stopping point and cease his labors for the day. Like Parvus
follows Luna Clarus, he ever chases but one step behind Emma, hopelessly snared
by her and a slave to her every changing whim. He smiles to himself as he
watches her silently get up, return the volume to its proper shelf, and
gracefully glide away out of the far doors; he knows with every fiber of his
soul that, just as surely as he knows his own name, he will happily pursue her
forever.
He turns back once more to the report in front of him, a mixture of hope and
frustration churning in his mind—Farifax had been quite thorough in scouring
the libraries of Thistledown Hall  and, more recently,  at the archives at the
Bluffe:
            Dated 28. Octavus (received 29. Octavus)                     
At present, no precedent to be found regarding an heir whose spouse was deemed
unsuitable; word sent to Will Scarlet after giving up search at TH for Bluffe,
asking him for missing or damaged volumes, but as yet no response has been
received. There is, however, past precedent for the heir contracting a foreign
alliance, where the king and council (I must admit, one that was a much less
powerful entity than our present body) had not been notified in advance of the
nuptials taking place; the couple were fined by the crowns of their respective
kingdoms, but the heir of Domitia was not forced to abdicate. Further, the
mother’s lands in her country of birth were later resolved by treaty upon their
second child; the mother’s fiefs were not permitted to be added to Domitia’s
domains, but our kingdom exerting familial influence over the heir to these
alienated lands ultimately caused few diplomatic issues, although there was
insistence of maternal relations being added to the household to promote a
shared sense of culture…
While not the incontrovertible proof he has been searching for, Killian yet
feels a warm glow of vindication. His political gambit just might work out; he
may be mad for falling in love with her, but at least he will enjoy every
second of his insanity, of his reckless adoration of Emma. On that thought he
refuses to wait a moment longer—he closes all his ledgers, puts all reports and
correspondence in their appropriate drawers, tidies away his writing materials,
and locks his desk. He pockets the key and stretches lazily before nearly
sprinting to his rooms, every step of the way imagining the luscious vision he
hopes awaits him.
===============================================================================
 
Emma climbs the final steps to her floor barely suppressing a yawn; it has been
one of the most emotionally trying and physically exhausting days she can ever
remember, and she delightedly recalls that tomorrow will be a Starsday—no need
to rise early and no excuse not to sleep in. She opens the door to her room
with a relieved sigh…but immediately spies a single candle lit on the small
candelabrum set on the side table next to her bed. She walks over quickly,
noting that the sheets have been turned down invitingly; but in the flickering
light she also sees a token from her lover—a small posy of lavender blossoms
and lavender colored roses, inexpertly cut and bound by a green hair ribbon
that she has been missing for the last few weeks. A small square of parchment
rests underneath the fragrant bundle, the bold ink curling in Killian’s
distinctive hand.
For my bewitching temptress—If you require sleep more than anything else in
this moment, then get yourself into bed this instant! However, if you find that
you are in need of some other creature comforts, please join me upstairs in my
rooms. I promise to delight your senses and fulfill your every desire. My heart
yearns for you, love, and my arms feel bereft when they are not filled with
you.
She smiles, all thoughts of sleep fleeing her at once, and hastily removes all
her clothes, putting everything away in its proper place. As she reaches for
the drawer that holds her nightrails, her hand pauses on the knob and she
hesitates. Before her courage can desert her, she dons her softest robe and
belts it quickly, grabbing her bouquet and putting the note in her pocket
before quietly entering the secret passage. Her heart hammers in her chest, for
despite the myriad times and ways he has seen her body she cannot contain her
blushing nor a tremor of anxious fear of his reaction to her coming to him
practically bare already. She knows that he delights in the process of
undressing her, the sensual tease; but a suddenly clamoring and strident
voice—one that sounds suspiciously similar to the judgmental old village
gossips—insists that her actions will appear brazenly wanton as opposed to
innocently eager, more calculating than sprung from honest impulse to please.
Emma shakes her head at her folly; the only way to silence such voices and
inner doubts is to go to him as she always does—with heart in her hands and
with trust in his love to see the truth of her own. When she finally shuts the
hidden door behind her and looks about the bedchamber, she does not see Killian
anywhere. However, light and the odd soft sound spilling from the partially
opened door of his dressing room tells her that he has not yet dismissed
Wautier for the evening; so she settles into one of the chairs before the
fireplace, sinking deeply into the plush cushioning and drawing her legs up to
her chest to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
He finds her in that same pose a few minutes later: eyes closed, a soft smile
suffusing her features, the hastily assembled bouquet resting in her hand and
held up against her cheek. Killian wishes in vain that he had been blessed with
or tutored in the skills of the arts so that he could capture this moment
forever; he yearns to immortalize his lover and the rush of emotions she always
calls forth from him. He longs to share it all with her in some comprehensible
way, to show her how his heart ever aches for her serene beauty. Careful not to
disturb her moment of quiet peace, he kneels before her chair and tenderly
smoothes his hands over her feet, caresses back to her ankles, and then firmly
strokes up her claves. A soft, sighing hum reverberates from her throat as he
deliberately massages over tense muscle and supple skin. Her smile deepens from
calm contentedness into smug, sensual satisfaction before she finally opens her
eyes; her gaze glimmers with emerald fire, a hot blaze of lust piercing through
soul and flesh, summoning forth his most primal self.
“Who would have thought that a prince would know how to serve as a masseur to a
lowly farmer?” Emma languidly shifts one of her legs, sinuously caressing down
Killian’s side before pointedly tracing the long lines of his thigh, up and
down and back up again. He moves his own hands in response, massaging up past
her knees and spreading her legs further apart as his fingers inch closer and
closer to her core.
“Ah, but you forget that the life of a prince is one devoted to service—to
ensuring the welfare of his every subject, to making certain that their every
need is met…to their utmost satisfaction.” He groans and loses his train of
thought when she carefully traces the outline of his rigid cock with her toes,
rhythmically stroking him in an uncanny simulation of her fingers. He hisses as
the familiar friction ripples across his aching flesh and sets fire to his
skin.
“Temptress.” His eyes fall half-shut as he savors her every move, yet he still
remains lost in her eyes.
“Scoundrel.”
“Siren.”
She bends forward and taps him on the nose with her little bouquet. “Only to
you. Thank you for the flowers. When did you steal my ribbon?”
He leans into her and traps her hand in one of his, brushing gentle kisses
across her knuckles and down her wrist. “That day you spent working in the
library with me and Fairfax; I wanted to keep something of yours with me
always, especially while gallivanting across my lands.”
Her eyes widen in mock innocence, playful shock. “And now you no longer need
possess a constant reminder of me? I do believe I am offended, sir!”
He presses closer still, nose delicately brushing along her exposed collarbone
and the hollow of her throat, breathing her in and teasing her flesh. “Now that
I need not rush to the stables each morning, I can see the real thing whenever
my heart desires. What is a mere token of you when I can leave my study or my
labors at any moment and seek you out? Of course, I may need to steal something
before travelling to Dionya…the ribbon, unfortunately, has spent so much time
in my pocket that it no longer smells of your hair.”
“Such a sentimental thief!”
“Only for you, my love. Now, would you like to see what other delights are on
offer this evening, or shall I ravish you right here, right now?”
“Was there truly something else you had in mind?” She punctuates her tease with
a firmer stroke against his straining cock.
“Oh, yes, you vixen. I have every intention of showing you just how devoted a
public servant I can be. But unless you cease your torments, I might give in to
my selfish impulses.” He pulls away with a mischievous grin of his own and
stands, holding his hands out for hers. She smiles up at him coyly through her
lashes, daintily accepting his assistance and letting him lead her where he
will. Though he cannot possibly see it, she looks at him incredulously as he
walks them into his dressing room. Emma looks around curiously, eager to glean
more information about her lover in any way she can. But Killian appears to be
oblivious to her hungry scrutiny, leading her straight through the room and
toward a door at the opposite end.
“I hope you are prepared to be dazzled, Emma love.” She tears her gaze away
from the long line of jackets, trousers, and waistcoats hung in neat, evenly
spaced rows and the copious number of drawers that must hold socks, shoes,
shirts, and undergarments. Killian laughs at her slightly overwhelmed
expression.
“And all this…is nothing. Compared to my brother and the peacocks at court, I
am but a raven. You should see Liam’s dressing room someday—although, I will
become ragingly jealous should you ever be intimately acquainted with another
man’s boudoir and toilette.” She catches a fleeting glimmer in his eyes of an
emotion she cannot name, but she instinctively knows that it belies his teasing
tone and playful words. Could it be genuine jealousy? Actual fear of her
becoming enamored of another? Emma dismisses the ridiculous notion and shakes
her head laughing.
“Give me the fine feathered, sober raven any day, Killian! A peacock is but a
vain and empty-headed bird that must smugly strut about and constantly preen in
order to announce his supposed superiority to one and all. The raven is above
such shallow aggrandizement and is a better being for it. But as I cannot enjoy
your clothes—except as to observing how delicious you look in them and in the
delectable removing of them from your body—I take it you have somewhat else to
show me?”
He cups her cheeks between his palms and kisses her breathless, releasing her
so suddenly that she sways forward precariously before righting herself; she
blushes in embarrassment, keenly unaware of how greatly her lover appreciates
her enthusiasm and that he does all in his power to encourage her to express
her desires as candidly and as frequently as she wishes.”You are indeed
correct, my love.”
With a flourish he opens the door and bows dramatically to usher her in. She
cannot contain her gasp of pleased awe. The spacious chamber positively glows
with warm light and more than a touch of humid steam curls in the air. In the
center lies a sunken pool filling with hot water that streams from a bright
copper tap set into one of the corners; the bottom is tiled in blues and
greens, and white, creating several oceanic waves that seem to actually move.
The taps, one each on two of the corners, are connected via pipes to large
copper cauldrons set into carved recesses in the walls. The floor surrounding
the tub is a cream colored marble, veined with glints of green and copper, and
elegantly scattered blue carpets. A set of dark wooden shelves sits near the
tub itself, helpfully stocked with linens, soaps, and oils.
Emma gawks at the sheer luxuriousness, the positive decadence of an entire room
devoted solely to bathing. He quickly moves to the flowing tap and turns a
knob, which halts the swift fall of water before gesturing about the room
expressively with his hands. “I designed all this myself, so I hope you don’t
object to my choices in décor. This is another of my rooms where you are always
welcome, Emma love. We’ll have to be cautious in order to keep Wautier in the
dark, but I never want you to have to endure a cold bath again—unless that’s
your desire. Master Smith improved on my initial designs and we are working on
making the hot cauldron more efficient in terms of retaining heat, but…”
“Killian…It’s magnificent! I could not possibly—” He spins her in his arms so
that she faces him, gently tilting up her chin so he can look into her eyes and
playfully tapping her nose. Emma slides her hands up his chest and settles them
behind his neck, thumbs caressing the skin below his ears and fingers ruffling
the ends of his hair.
“None of that now, darling. We know how to accomplish it and what changes will
be necessary to the structure of the house, so I plan on building several of
these chambers throughout Thistledown, making them available to everyone.
Hauling water up and then down the stairs again? Such a burdensome chore for
the maids. The tub drains through the existing waste system, so that will get
flushed out more regularly once there are more of these in place. Granted, this
one is a bit bigger than the ones I have designed for the other parts of the
house—”
“Do you know that you tend to babble when you are nervous? It is quite adorable
really.”
His bashful expression shifts into a dour and forbidding snarl. “I am not
adorable.”
“I beg to differ, dear heart, but you are. And as my personal public servant
for this evening, I absolutely insist that you continue to be so.” His scowl
instantly transforms into a piercing, intent focus upon her, such that the air
between them seems to have suddenly caught fire. His eyes brim with a heavy
emotion, with an aching earnest desire to please her in every way.
“Does that make you my Queen, Emma? Are you the greatest among the Stars, the
divine recipient of all my prayers and hopes? The bright and tender light that
burns through the night, giving all lost souls hope in the darkness? Tell me
how to worship you my Queen, my Star, my light…” She gasps when he kneels
before her, pressing his face into her stomach and nuzzling her through the
fabric of her robe; his hands sink into her back, holding himself tightly
against her. Her breath deserts her as she gently places her hands on his head,
fingers carding through his hair. He lifts his face to her once more and she
staggers under the weight of the pure faith, the radiant yearning she sees in
his eyes—as if she were truly the lodestone, the guiding Star he has searched
for all his life. She does not answer him in words—for she can find none—but
rather unfurls the bow tied at her waist and shrugs the concealing fabric from
her shoulders, standing unashamedly naked before him.  He falls back onto his
haunches, the awe-inspired hunger in his eyes growing as he unhurriedly takes
in her natural glories, her artless beauty.
“You are perfection itself my Queen, my Star.” He bows forward and grasps her
once again, but this time she wraps her arms around his head, forcibly holding
him to her.
“Only to you, sweet prince; only for you, my Killian.” Her words seem to enact
a spell and set him free to explore and worship her. He buries his face in her
quim, nose nuzzling her mound as his tongue flicks out to tempt and entice her
clit. She cries out as he tosses one of her legs over his shoulder while
banding her waist with a steely arm, opening her fully to his questing
devotions. Vaguely, over the pounding of blood in her veins and her panting
whimpers of pleasure, she can hear and feel him speaking words of praise and
faithful adoration as he devours her cunt.
Now they cling to each other equally—he her anchor in this raging storm of
passion, she the winds and the rains that drown him in this tempest of bliss.
She can feel his tongue everywhere—swirling and licking furiously around her
clit, parting and laving the petals of her sex, relentlessly diving deep into
her and seeking her honeyed arousal, massaging and exploring nerves and places
that she never knew existed for the sake of titillation. Not once does he let
her rest, never once ceases searching for new ways to uncover and unlock her
ecstasy. He sucks her clit into his mouth, plunges his tongue deep, and grazes
his teeth over the hypersensitive pearl of flesh; she shatters into him, her
liquid pleasure flowing out onto his eager, thirsty tongue.
Emma feels like she is floating when he catches her, and then suddenly she
is—carefully and gently surrender to the water’s warm embrace for a few moments
before Killian joins her. He starts with her hair, lathering the wet curls and
tenderly scratching her scalp. He carefully cups his palms to rinse the suds
from her, closing her eyes and wicking the soapy trails from her face with
infinite care before slowly winding his way down her body. He follows each
moist caress with a delicate kiss, with a whispered prayer of gratitude for the
gift of her being. She finally comes fully back into her body as he pulls her
close against his chest, holding her and simply allowing her to soak and relax.
She fleetingly wonders what other delights they can manage together in this
room before she settles into a light, blissful doze.
She wakes when he dries her hair and wraps her body in several linens before
carrying her to a nest of pillows and furs in front of the fireplace in his
bedroom. Killian focuses on every inch of her skin, making certain that not a
jot becomes chilled from being wet and exposed to the cool air. Painstakingly,
he stokes up the fire and adds more logs before massaging oil into her flesh.
When he is nearly finished with her legs, he catches the dark, hungry glitter
of her eyes. Before he can say or do aught else, Emma locks her ankles together
behind his back and draws him down to her body. With a seductive grin, she
practically purrs as she reaches down and squeezes his cock; he has been
wanting and patient for far too long, and so has she. Using the very same oil
he has been meticulously massaging into her, she slicks her palms up and down
his shaft, one thumb tracing over the tip.
Killian throws his head back, hissing in pleasure at her exquisite touch and
then releasing a guttural moan when she guides him to her arousal-soaked quim.
He thrusts forward blindly, burying nearly every inch of his burning, rigid
cock into her tight, wet sheath. The sound she makes as he hits the very end of
her does not even sound human, rather something feral like a feline shriek in a
night-black, humid jungle. He growls, desperate to hear that sound again, but
unaware as to how to ask for it; he pulls back until his engorged length is no
longer buried in her, the head resting on her pink lips and her deep red pearl.
He can feel her cunt quivering, clutching at the air in its desperation for him
to return. He thrusts back in, a primitive howl ringing through his mind as she
makes that erotic animal sound once more, followed by his name breathed out on
a desperate moan.
He grasps her ankles and places them firmly on his shoulders, guiding one of
her hands to the place where they are joined; he sets her thumb on her clit and
lightning shoots down his spine as her walls clench furiously around him. He
wraps her other hand firmly around the base of his cock, covering the portion
of him that cannot enter her completely. He bows down and sucks one of her
hardened nipples into his mouth before biting harshly and worrying the
responsive flesh. Emma hisses at him, but throws her head back wantonly
nonetheless. “Hold onto me, love.”
He draws back and slams home again, beginning a ruthless, pummeling assault
that leaves them panting in seconds and fills the room with the wet slap of
their bodies against each other. Emma grunts and moans continuously, as his
thrusts force the very breath from her lungs. Stars, she feels like a molten,
silken heaven as he pounds into her! An orgasm hits her suddenly, but with his
constant strikes to the very end of her and her thumb on her clit, the waves
crash over her inexorably and persistently. Her walls constrict and ripple in
agonizingly perfect undulations and her juices flow forth in a stream that
makes his relentless passage even easier. He bites down on her calf and in his
fervor his hold on her hip slips. A high keening, barely audible sound passes
the wide ‘o’ of her lips.
Killian pulls out completely and flips her onto her stomach, pressing her head
down into the pillows and lifting her hips up. Her quim visibly quivers and
more of her arousal gushes forth. He collects the juices from her pussy and his
cock, thrusting back into her from behind and snapping his hips into hers. Both
hands slick with her moisture, he palms one of her breasts, kneading the flesh
and plucking her nipple mercilessly. Emma moans beautifully, his name slipping
out every other breath. He rides her slowly, putting more power than speed
behind each drag of his cock along her walls. When he senses that she’s with
him again, he smears his other hand all over her arse, letting her feel just
how aroused, just how thoroughly pleasured her body has been.
Gently and thoroughly, he massages the ring of muscle with his thumb before
carefully pressing in. Emma’s hips snap back into his, forcing him deeper in
both holes. “Yeeessss! Killian, yes!”
He picks up his pace, alternating the thrust of his cock and the penetration of
his thumb. Then he slips two of his fingers in its stead, stretching and
testing her; he feels one of her hands brush against the base of his cock, her
own fingers seeking out her clit but teasing him simultaneously. “Almost there,
love. Do you have another in you?”
Emma answers with another forceful squeeze of her inner walls and a lifting of
her hips and ass higher. Killian takes her meaning and picks up his pace to the
same reckless speed that had sent her flying so swiftly earlier. His fingers
slip deeper, his strokes in both of her passages becoming sloppy and erratic.
He feels her ass clench hard around his fingers and suddenly it is as if an
explosion occurs in his brain. He finally surrenders to the pull of her cunt,
to the drag of her muscles as she violently shatters around him one more time.
He can hear her hoarse scream of ecstasy and his own shout of her name, but he
can only vaguely see tendrils, random flames of light dancing across his eyes.
He finally closes them and collapses on top of Emma, his sweat-slicked skin
deliciously sliding across her back.
They pant in the same, harsh staccato as they float back to Arva, fall back
into their bodies from the heaven of where they were joined. He feels Emma
trembling beneath him and hurriedly moves off of her, pulling her on top of him
intending to soothe and comfort her. But instead of shock or fear, her face
shines with rapture and her lips are set in a maniacal grin; she laughs
hysterically. “If this is what happens when we only have time for a few brief
interludes, I should send you away to spend your days alone more often!”
For the very first time, Killian laughs with his bedmate.
===============================================================================
 
The next day, the last day of Octavus, Killian and Master Noris introduce
Sophia and Emma to the mounts selected for them—Papillion and Sicara,
respectively—and begin basic instructions in caring for a horse and its
equipment. Three days later, Will Scarlet’s letter arrives, announcing the
imminent onset of winter and Killian determines to set out for Dionya on the
5th of Nona. His and Emma’s bout of lovemaking the night before his departure
is more sedate and anxious than any ever before experienced, more frantic and
bittersweet as it will mark the first time over the course of their
relationship that they will be truly separated from each other.
***** Chapter 23 *****
At the breakfast table right before Killian revealed his plans for their joint
lessons in horseback riding, a very subdued and contrite Sophia apologized to
Emma. In the days that follow, her pupil keeps herself slightly aloof as if
uncertain of her own continued affections for her governess, or perhaps—a
rather more disturbing and distressing thought—fearing that her tantrum has in
some way damaged Emma’s care for and devotion to her. Only later does it occur
to Emma to wonder what she could have done to bridge the sudden fissure between
them were it not for Killian’s hasty departure to Dionya; but thankfully on the
morning of the fifth, mere hours after they had wished him farewell and
Starspeed, Sophia breaks the careful, unfailingly polite truce and brings about
a rapprochement.
The air inside the Orangerie feels slightly humid, but blessedly warm; earlier
they had been out in the medicinal garden preparing and digging up some of the
herbs for transplant under Master Gardener’s watchful eye, exposed to the crisp
autumnal air and the watery sunshine. Now, the two women are painstakingly
replanting in the prepared indoor beds while Sophia draws and labels the
various parts of several potted blossoms arranged on the table before her.
Francine reclines on a nearby chaise dozing intermittently, interrupting the
relative quiet and her own sleep with the odd soft snore. Master Gardener asks
Emma a question regarding the wild berry patch they had visited late last
month.
“If you haven’t had a chance to bank it with leaves, I can always ask one of my
workers to see to it. Can’t have you getting lost in a storm, now can we?”
“You want to cover the berry patch with leaves?! That sounds silly.”
Emma smiles as she looks over at her pupil, who remains absorbed in her drawing
so that she does not look up from her sketch, tongue just poking out between
her lips at one corner of her mouth. “It is actually quite smart, Sophia, and
it is very important to those bushes that we do help them. Because winter will
soon arrive, the leaves might not all fall before the first freeze as they
normally would. In order to survive through the ice and snow, those bushes
absolutely need that cover of leaves. First, because it will keep a layer
between them and the cold, rather like your heavy coat will for you; it will
keep the snow from all but the outer edges of the plant, so the roots will not
freeze and die. And second, the leaves will get wet and start to rot, providing
the plants with their first bit of food come springtime.”
Sophia opens and closes her mouth to reply several times before finally setting
her mouth in a curious frown. “But why do you care about some berry bushes?”
Emma frowns herself, quietly asking Master Gardener to give them a moment. She
fiddles with her gardening gloves for a bit before removing them and setting
them aside—she frankly feels ridiculous wearing them, far more used to the soil
shifting against her skin, but Master Gardener had insisted. She kneels down by
Sophia’s chair and takes the girl’s hands in hers.“Are you asking because you
are genuinely curious, or because you are still upset with me?”
Sophia shrugs, looking away with a mixture of confusion and guilt on her face.
“You want to protect berries, but you did not protect Dancer.”
“Sweetling… It was not that I did not want to save Dancer’s life; she had
already lived a good life and it was her time to go. And just as important, her
sacrifice means that other lives are now longer and better as a result of her
death. I care about the berry patch because it is in my power to help that
patch grow and survive, but something still has to die in order to make that
happen. Those leaves used to be alive and filled with anima, but because of the
change in the season, because the tree is getting ready to hibernate, those
leaves will die. I cannot stop them from dying, but I can give their death
meaning by giving them to feed the berry patch.
“The same is true with Dancer’s death; she would have died any way, sooner or
later. But me, your Papa, all the servants… So many people have been able to
eat and continue to live through this last week because of her sacrifice.
Nothing—no part of Dancer’s body was wasted or just left to rot in a field
somewhere, so the greatest number of people who could in any way benefit from
her death have done so. And in her sacrifice, several other cows who might have
been killed just as easily were spared to live for a little while longer…”
Emma swallows down her emotions, doing her best to help this precious girl make
sense of the harsh realities of life. “One day, I will die. And Francine will
die. And Fairfax and Mrs. Potts and your Papa… Just as we have no say in when
we are born, we cannot say when the Stars will call us back to them. We are
constantly leaving and returning to Stelläe. But while we are here, we need to
be good stewards and careful guardians of Arva and everything in it. And that
sometimes means helping a berry patch survive through the winter, or tearing up
a choking weed so that a medicinal plant can grow. And sometimes that means
deciding when an animal’s death needs to happen.
“‘Balance and harmony with all anima,’ does not mean that we need to constantly
be in a state of joy and happiness; because if we never experienced sorrow and
pain, then we would never truly understand or appreciate what it means to be
happy or to feel well. If I had not lost my parents and lived alone for so
long, I would not feel so blessed and thankful every day to have met you and to
have come to love you. I know that you miss your mother very much, but because
of that loss you have a very special relationship with your Papa. Take today
for instance: were you sad to see Papa go, and do you miss him right now?”
“Abso-lute-ly! He will not be able to sit with me and tell me stories tonight!
And that is the best part of the day!”
“That is true, although I am sure that Francine and I can still tell you
bedtime stories, there’s just something extra wonderful about your Papa reading
to you before bed isn’t there? But I’ll tell you a secret: you will miss him
tonight and tomorrow night, but then, once he returns, it will make your story
times feel extra special to you!”
“It will?!”
“Of course, darling. Because you will have spent two nights without him tucking
you in, when he comes back and reads you your favorites and snuggles you down
just right, it will feel so much better than any other bedtime you’ve ever had.
Just like we have been lately over our disagreement about eating animals. I
know that your heart is in the right place, even though we had our fight; I
need you to know that you are so, so very special to me. And that did not
change when we were upset, and that will not change ever. Now, do you think
that we can start over? Go back to hugs every morning? Because I certainly miss
those Sophia-hugs.”
Sophia smiles widely before flinging herself into Emma’s arms. Emma embraces
her wholeheartedly, enjoying the return to open affection and feeling a deep
tug through her being. Holding the sturdily fragile body of the child in her
arms causes an intimate wrench in her soul—the achingly poignant need, the
heretofore impossible dream of motherhood sinks completely into Emma’s heart
and refuses to be ousted. While a tantalizing glimpse of tiny heads, dark and
light, and eyes of differing shades of blue and green winks into existence like
a will-o-the-wisp, she clings to the truth that all such phantoms could never
come to being and yet she would still know those hopes realized in the little
girl before her.
Desperate to reestablish her emotional equilibrium, Emma pulls away with a kiss
to her head and lifts Sophia back into her chair, smiling at her pupil’s
aggrieved groan. “Now, which part of this plant is the stamen?”
===============================================================================
 
The journey to Dionya passes uneventfully, broken only by the halts at the few
villages along the road in the timber lands. Killian’s proclamation had been
sent to Sir Mulan well before the end of Octavus, ensuring that the scattered,
isolated communities were warned early and urged to increase their quotas for
logging; likewise, their concerns and queries had been forwarded to him as soon
as they cropped up, so discussing those questions and anxieties specific to
their area takes very little time at the present. Rather, their stops focus
more on Killian showing his personal investment in their well-being than on
easing fears—the men and women who make their living beneath forest canopy and
within the shadows of the glowering White Mountains are a hardy folk who do not
scare easily. He makes a point of thank each and every worker he meets in the
lumber mills and in the towering tree fields, cognizant that it has been their
dedication and intensive labor over the last few weeks that has resulted in an
actual, significant number of lives preserved from the harsh cold of the winter
storms more than any other group of artisans; without the treated lumber they
provided, many of the repairs necessary at the manufactories would have been
left undone.
Dionya itself rests on a small plateau that commands the view for miles around,
a tiny foothill compared to the dizzying heights and unforgiving crags of the
southernmost arm of the White Mountains. Thanks in part to the lack of halts,
Killian and his guards ride into the outer bailey just two hours after midday.
Having had the leisure to watch his group’s approach well in advance of their
arrival, it does not surprise him that Sir Mulan waits for him in the courtyard
of the castle with what appears to be every spare member of the garrison
standing at parade attention for his inspection. As always, the black linen of
her dress uniform is crisply starched and her light armor polished to a high
sheen—the consummate, perfect warrior and a finely honed weapon.
“Hail, Prince of the House of Sonoian! Hail, our liege lord of the Blood Royal!
Hail, defender of the right cause and behold the arms who fight for justice!”
The unified voice of every soldier, including those of the watch set on the
walls, proclaiming the formal Knight’s declaration of fealty with conviction
and trust ringing in every syllable strikes Killian to his very core with a
dart of pride in his position—and nearly unmans him with the need to lay his
doubts and inadequacies before these most loyal of men, to proclaim his own
unshakeable belief in his unworthiness to lead such noble soldiers or receive
their homage. But undeserving or not, he is still the king’s representative,
still the physical embodiment of law and order, and must play that part to
perfection. However, the awe inspired in him by their devotion to his family
and their duty performed for the kingdom demands that he acknowledge and honor
their sacrifices and vocation; he follows the impulse of the moment after they
had bowed to him en mass and drops to one knee before them all.
“Hail to thee, O Knights and soldiers of Domitia! To the arms who uphold the
king’s peace! Hail to the hands that protect the defenseless and wield justice
for the common man! Hail to you all, with the thanks and gratitude of the king
himself and the prince you serve.” He bows his head, the stunned silence only
broken by the restless shifting of the horses.
“Well, my lord, I did warn them that they couldn’t mistake you, as you tend to
make a memorable entrance.” Killian raises his head to see his seneschal
holding out a gauntleted hand to help him up, an amused smirk on her seemingly
ageless face. He clasps his hand about her right forearm, accepting her help in
standing and returning her greeting with a firm squeeze.
“On behalf of the garrison of Dionya, I humbly accept your praise; we seek but
to do our duty, but the recognition afforded us by our lord’s gratitude will
warm our hearts and inspire great deeds of arms for months to come. Which is
fortuitous, for we‘ll have need of such warmth in our bellies and fires in our
souls for the bitter cold months to come!” The soldiers laugh heartily at her
pronouncement, the rigid formality and gravity of the moment broken. Killian
smiles wolfishly before giving Sir Mulan’s arm another rough shake.
“Indeed, but perhaps we can give them better light and fire with a
demonstration? What say you, my old tutor? I have had no opponent my equal in
months, save only a solid post in my stable yard against which I tread the
circles. Care to put me through my paces and provide your command with a show
of your best?” A hearty roar of approval meets his words, heated discussions of
the odds springing up throughout the courtyard and shouts of encouragement
ringing loudly. Sir Mulan smiles ruefully at him before raising her hand,
instantaneously commanding absolute silence.
“Does your pride require a lowering, your Highness? ‘A true warrior always
fights as if his life were in mortal peril, for to do otherwise is to pull back
from the necessary killing blow when his enemy engages him in combat.’ Do you
not remember this maxim from the days of your youth as my student?” Catcalls
and taunting follow her question, as more of the assembled soldiers join the
chorus clamoring for the match to take place.
“Indeed. But ‘to fight with no honor or respect for the two lives imperiled in
a duel is to forget that each life belongs to the Stars regardless and that we
may all be counted among Their number someday’.” Sir Mulan bows in
acknowledgment and to the inevitable, unclasping her cloak from the solid band
of steel encasing her throat, a personal modification to the standard armor to
protect her from a killing strike. She hands the flowing garment to her second
in command and silently draws her sword, while Killian dispenses with his coat
and pulls his scabbard from its position on Triton’s saddle. A little groom
runs quickly to take the horse’s reins and lead him away to his well-earned
stall and rest.
Killian draws his own sword and sweeps into the warm-up forms; despite working
the circles every day, he was hardly joking about being out of practice—one of
the many changes to his courtly routine that had happened when Milah’s death
left him as Sophia’s only parent. Fatherhood itself had not been enough to make
him give up the occasionally fatal sport, especially since they had still lived
in the capital where the best physicians were to be found at a moment’s notice.
But finding himself solely responsible for his daughter’s well-being and care
had sobered him like nothing else had, and risking injury daily against a
Master Swordsman swiftly paled and lost its place as his favorite activity; but
for just an instant, he mourns that loss. Banishing the thought from his mind,
he finally bows to Sir Mulan to indicate his readiness, his body thrumming and
vibrating with coiled, tightly-leashed energy just waiting to explode into
action. He glories in that instant—that moment of suspended tension just before
his opponent strikes, and all the memorized moves and motions immediately rush
into his being like friends long parted.
And then he is far too busy blocking and retreating, defending his weaker left
side against his mentor’s attacks—of course she would not forget such a vital
advantage over the intervening years since their last bout, nor would she give
him any benefit by holding back her blows. Sir Mulan’s philosophy, ruthlessly
pounded into his brain and bruised into muscle and skin all those years ago,
leaps to the front of his thought once more—‘never forgive or coddle a
weakness, for you can bet your life that your enemies will not do so’. Fending
off her blows takes up what little concentration is not wasted on admiring her
form and poise; despite being admittedly twenty years his elder, her body
remains as honed and responsive to her commands as finest Havenian steel. She
is still very much his superior in the wielding of the blade, and part of him
sincerely doubts she will even allow a thing like death to dull her edge.
Knowing that she will soon tire of his refusal or inability to attack, Killian
finally lunges to his left and tries to strike under her guard, quickly
bringing his sword up underneath hers.
Angling so harshly across his body leaves his right side and back unprotected,
the fact of which she quickly moves to take advantage. He gets his sword up to
block by the skin of his teeth, the blades sparking against each other in a
furious shriek. He carefully tunes out the delighted howls and whistles of the
soldiers, the calling of odds and the clink of coins that signal their bets
being made on the match. He feels a momentary pang for anyone who lays a bet on
him out of loyalty or patriotic fervor because he knows that the best he can
hope to manage is a draw—and anyone who has seen Sir Mulan fight knows the odds
of that are practically nonexistent. However, as time ticks forward with
neither side giving quarter, his brain finally catches the potential weakness
that his eyes have been tracking for a while now—a minute shifting to the left
foot from the right. She favors one of her knees.
He could make a direct strike at that leg, but he chooses to be patient and
take the time to prove his theory first, making a low feint on her guard. He
catches sight of it, through the ripple of skin and muscle beneath the thin
layer of the fabric of her trousers stretched taut—a tremor; so her thigh
muscles or upper tendons must be the culprit. He keeps feinting to the right,
allowing her to rely more heavily on her left leg and the ebb and flow of their
deadly dance continues. When he finally makes his move, forcing her to use the
muscles she is favoring and pivot on them, he glimpses the flash of recognition
in her eyes just before he is behind her, sword tracing a cut in the air that
would have sliced the back of her thigh straight from knee to buttock had it
connected. She goes down to one knee, defeated at last, and he taps her right
shoulder to announce the end of the match.
Her second, Aurora, quickly goes to her side and leans down to help Mulan up
while many in the crowd groan about their losses and the few crow in triumph.
Killian moves to her other side, firmly gripping her elbow as she weakly
stands. She waves off the handful of concerned expressions as the three of them
rapidly make their way into the castle and away from prying eyes and ears. “Why
did you not tell me that you had been injured? We could have deferred
tomorrow.”
Unexpectedly, it is Phillip, the castle steward and third partner who responds,
having appeared out of thin air at his side. “Because ‘an enemy would not
broadcast his weakness’, your Highness.”
He nudges his prince out of the way and assumes his accustomed place at Mulan’s
side. Clearly, he had not approved of their exhibition, planned or not, and
blames Killian for his part and his partner for her stubborn pride.
“You know she is right, Phillip. She just forgot that other maxim she drills
into the thick heads of her students—‘know your limits, and know when a battle
is lost’. You are not immortal, dear heart. None of us are.” The four of them
continue in silence, passing by the great hall entirely and ascending to the
Marshal’s solar. That Mulan holds her tongue and corrects neither of her
partners indicates that she has finally learned the wisdom of when to pick her
battles, or more likely that rather she is carefully considering her rebuttal
of what she will no doubt deem their “fussing”.
Having watched the trio from a slight distance for years as a supportive,
concerned friend—as close as a prince of the blood can come to friendship at
any rate—Killian had vicariously experienced the struggles that accompanied
being one of the rare, true triumvirates. When their relationship had become
publicly known, many people at court had shunned them or pulled their children
and sponsorships from Mulan’s military academy; others had been unconscionably
rude and hyper-inquisitive regarding the details of their private life. He had
never once envied them the hardships they faced for loving each other so
selflessly, but he most certainly had moments where he was jealous of that very
love—he envied that pure, open-hearted devotion and care. Their hearts—all
three of them—possessed such a large capacity for love, an all-consuming, all-
encompassing love; now that he has Emma in his world, he understands them and
sympathizes with them in a way that he never could before. The cannot not love
each other.
“By the Stars, you would think I were on my death bed the way these two carry
on so! I am not yet so old and infirm that I cannot answer a friendly
challenge; although, it took you far too long to recognize and capitalize on my
weakness, student mine. A true warrior would have seen it before I even bowed!”
“Well, you can assign me some of the more complex circles as punishment when we
are finished talking. However, I know that Aurora would prefer her own crack at
me in recompense and Phillip a piece of my aging hide.”The furious blushing of
her partners’ faces confirms the bent of their thoughts—neither of them quite
as at ease as his mentor with his irreverence for his station—and causes Mulan
to collapse in her chair in a rare fit of laughter.
“Break out our best wine, my dears! My witty, charming friend has returned from
his mourning, which can only mean that he has finally been lighted by love’s
rays—and that calls for celebration!”
Killian’s jaw drops, confirming her statement emphatically rather than serving
to deny it and causing Phillip to join in Mulan’s mirth. Aurora places a
gentle, sympathetic hand on his shoulder and when he looks up at her he sees a
kindly, knowing smile. “We could all tell immediately, your Highness, we three
who know you well. There is something in the air around you which has changed—a
kind of peace and an aura of lightness about you that we have not seen in a
long time. Not since before…”
She visibly bites her tongue to keep from continuing her thought and squeezes
his shoulder before stepping away to the door to order a servant be sent up
with their meat and drink. Their combined perceptiveness has always been
uncanny, but all Killian truly feels after the initial shock is relief; Mulan
has known him the longest, but together these three have been his closest
friends and know every last one of his secrets. By them intuiting the truth,
his burdens  and worries seem somewhat lighter, and his tension quickly drains
away as Mulan and Phillip slowly regain their accustomed composure. “I suppose
being the source of someone’s amusement may simply be my lot in life, for
Sophia laughs at me at least once a day. Truly, it has been too long my
friends. However, you do know that if you had accepted my original post for you
at the Bluffe, you would all be much closer and would already know all.”
Aurora waves her hand dismissively as her partners shake their heads. “His
Majesty would never allow it, as relations with our self-righteous southern
neighbor are strained enough as it is. They would go into fits or ecstasies of
moral outrage if we camped our “godless” selves on their border; our
relationship is hardly accepted here at home, let alone in a country who
officially denounces our kingdom’s faith as “heretical, heterodox, and
dangerous.” Now, before we get into the un-pleasantries of your visit, why not
share with us about your lady love? We have heard nothing about your budding
romance in the court dispatches.”
Given how little he truly knows about the latest from court, the letter from
Will being vague at best and nary a word from his brother’s progress in quite
some time, Killian launches instead into the tale of how he met Emma, of his
certainty that she is the true heir of the Duchy of Malfi, of the evolution of
their connection from lust and obsession to one of surprising yet genuine love,
and finally of the proposal he has sent to the Dowager Duchess following her
own reply. The news of his decision causes a round of glances to shuttle
swiftly amongst the trio, concern coming off all three in nearly palpable
waves. Usually the quiet one, Phillip acts as their spokesperson in voicing
their apprehensions.
“Not to put too fine a point on it, Killian, but why have you not shared your
suspicions with her? Or, perhaps more importantly, of the fact that you have
asked for her hand in marriage from someone she has never even met and likely
does not know exists? Or how do you know that she will even have you? For she
sounds as if she values her independence a great deal. Aside from all these
concerns, it seems to me that she has a right to know who she is and to make
her own decisions accordingly. More than one man will be after her lands once
her location and status become known—granted, none who are likely to become
king at all, let alone soon, so you trump all comers there. But surely that
very fact will cause trouble with the White Kingdom over sovereignty of the
duchy… Whether she knows it or not, you have trapped her quite neatly, my
friend; oh, you had the best of intentions and as you love her you will treat
her well, but when it comes down to it, you are giving her no more choice in
the matter than the old lords who would countenance kidnapping and raping an
heiress in order to force her to wed.”
Killian swallows nervously, unsure what his friends will say about his
reasoning—especially since this will be the first time he has ever attempted to
articulate his motivations and present them logically to an audience. Even
though they are his friends and loyal advisors, he knows he can count on them
to at least attempt objectivity; yet he fears that under their scrutiny, his
sound reason will crumble into irrational excuses and base impulses. “I wish
you all could meet her, and then perhaps some of this might make more sense.
Maybe observe her with me and Sophia… She speaks little of herself and her
past, but I gather that after her father passed her mother was never quite the
same; so, since she was 12 years old, Emma has had to care for her farm and for
herself, right down to the most back-breaking chores and defending her lands.
She kept her mother together for a few years, but ultimately she died from
grief and Emma became truly alone.
“She has responsibility for Sophia, yes, but this is the first time in her life
where she has not had to worry. When we first met, she was unbowed and proud,
but in spite of my fierce desire for her, a part of me could see that something
was missing—she had no joy, no light. I will not say that I noticed it for what
it was at the time, but now… Now that she has experienced a life beyond her
farm, a life where her needs are met and her wants are not denied constantly,
she glows so radiantly. But the moment she discovers her mother’s legacy, the
instant I ask her to be my queen, she will have burdens and weighty
responsibilities once more. She deserves to be free of care, and I want to make
that freedom last as long as possible before it is stripped from her entirely.
And I will ask her to marry me, but relations with the White Kingdom will be
eased by the observing of the proprieties and the existence of a formal
proposal to her last living relation and the matriarch of her family.”
Aurora nods for him to continue as she refills his goblet of wine. “But there
is more, is there not?”
“Much more, as there always is in a situation as complicated as this… She knows
little about Milah, almost nothing save the obvious that she is dead.” Mulan
swears with her typical creativity, implying the Stars of his nativity had
previous existences as sluttish village idiots, amongst other things; Phillip
draws his back straight up against his chair and shifts his seat away, while
Aurora draws a huge breath as if to launch into a thorough scolding. Killian
holds up his hand for silence and patience.
“The lecture on honesty and open communication will save until later, if you
please. She knows that I loved Milah deeply, but that as a gently-reared lady,
she did not enjoy our marital bed—which is the truth!... What Emma and I
share…it is elemental; it is passion and affection, it is lust and love. And
yet while this is the ideal we are raised to strive for by our tales and
poetry, noblewomen are on the whole still taught the absurd notion that a
nuptial bed is for the begetting of heirs and that marriages are to be devoid
of the stronger emotions. For a short time after I discovered the possibility
that my suspicions were correct, I tried to distance myself from her but it
only lead to me wanting her more, sharing the darker, wilder side of passion
with her.
“And I fear that on discovering her birth and the usual expectations for a
woman of her station, the fire and the zeal with which she comes to my arms
will fade; I fear, irrationally and insultingly, her fidelity. I feel jealous
and enraged at the thought of sharing her company with anyone, though she has
more than proved her faith and love for me. Even locked tight behind
Thistledown’s walls, her thoughts might fly elsewhere should I reveal all now.
I am a selfish bastard, and no better than a brute to unjustly doubt her, but I
want her all to myself…just a little while longer.”
In the silence following this diatribe that ends on a soft, broken note, Mulan
looks at each of her partners for a while before slowly sharing her opinion.
“Waiting to confirm her identity by showing her to the Dowager Duchess is the
most cautious course, and while you are sure, my friend, it would be cruel to
get the child’s hopes up only to have them dashed. What shall you do when the
Duchess sees her and pronounces her a fraud?”
“I will have Emma as my wife and no other. The council may have forced my hand
by insisting I marry, but she is the other half of my soul and I will not let
them take her from me.”
All three inhale sharply in surprise, but Aurora gains her composure first.
“You mean to make a commoner queen? Is that even legal? You are the heir after
all, and your marriage will make or break your throne and the kingdom.”
“I have Fairfax looking into just that. If I am married and present the council
with a fait accompli, can they have the union dissolved? Especially if I
possess proof of consummation?”
“You had damned well better discuss that particular tactic with her beforehand;
no woman deserves to have that most sacred and precious of memories spoiled for
her, unless you are fine with her resenting you for the rest of your days.”
“With any luck, it should never come to that… But as much as I would love to
talk about Emma, and all of my trespasses against her, for the next few hours,
there is yet more news. When I mentioned you all relocating to the Bluffe
again, I was not entirely jesting.” As Killian shares with them the
details—Will’s intimation that the council will demand a royal wedding other
than his own take place in the near future and Liam’s belief in the fatal
nature of his illness—the three fall into profound shock, linking hands openly
as if the touch of skin will keep them all anchored safely. He carefully hides
the hopeful smile that he feels building within him.
“I know that this post was something that you all could live with, but we all
know that it was effectively an exile—made easier perhaps by the fact that none
of you would ever have to report directly to the king. Well, I will not begin
or end my reign by bowing to the hypocrites and self-righteous factions at
court, nor by denying loyal friends. This is all unofficial for the moment, but
I shall need all of you. I would like to keep you in the capital with me, of
course, but the Grand Marshal of Domitia is expected to be itinerant for most
of the year surveying the defenses and reviewing the knights in service. Before
you turn me down flat, please at least do me the honor of considering the
posting?”
===============================================================================
 
Killian wakes with the throbbing bass beat of drums reverberating in his skull
and the tacky, furred feel of his mouth that announces he indulged in a few too
many libations the night before. In his limited defense, he has not been cup-
shotten since the day when news came of the dreadful storm that sunk Milah’s
ship; and just as he has not had a partner to match him in sword-work, neither
has he possessed a companion in drinking of late. The friends had remained
awake far into the small hours of the morning, catching up on the mundane
milestones of their lives as well as the gossip…
“And how is Sophia handling the advent of the divine Miss Shepherd? Does she
know that her governess plays quite another role when in your bed?”
Killian had imbibed to tipsiness, but was still coordinated enough to slam his
goblet down on the table, rise with the speed and force necessary to overturn
his chair, and reach for his sword before Milan and Phillip started chortling
at how quickly he rose to the bait. Aurora just looked smugly superior as she
flawlessly assumed courtly airs she had been schooled in long ago; her parents
had been the old fashioned sort and wanted her to climb the social ladder
through her skirts  and not the sword, refusing her vocation as a knight for
years. Killian glowered and growled, but she matched him with a steady gaze
over the rim of her glass.
“You are far too out of practice, my friend; for you know just as well as I
that the vipers at court will be slithering about and whispering all sorts of
poison about her place in your household before her identity was revealed. And
far too many people already know her as your servant for you to propagate a
contradictory tale. Most will openly presume that she became your mistress for
the money and power that you could bring her, a common whore for the prince
with low, un-kingly tastes. But that is what they will say regardless of
whether or not she turns out to be the heiress of Malfi. It will be worse if
she is: bluest blood, in their minds, would have asserted itself too forcefully
for her to ever lower herself and perform actual work; so, it must be that her
father was a low-born upstart. Blood always tells, you know.”
“Enough! I already know myself for a thrice-damned fool, Aurora! The moment I
brought her into my household is the moment I condemned both her and myself to
receiving the basest of slanders and scorn. I promised her I could keep her
reputation safe, and it is a vow I am doomed to break without wanting to. Do
you want me to abject myself and confess all to the Stars? Because I have! She
captivated my soul without a thought; she drove me mad with desire just by
being herself. She was beauty and light, and I in my dark and hideous dungeon
needed her shining in my hell. So I was selfish and I took her. Is that what
you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I would gladly give up my throne
for her, or that I would become a bloody tyrant just to silence forever with
fear those forked and venomous tongues?”
The violence of his outburst stunned the other two in the room, his potent and
direct rage prompting them to rise and attempt to interfere, but Aurora had
raised a staying hand. Her eyes never left Killian’s, the words and emotion
sparking in the air between them like steel upon steel.
“You were selfish, Killian, but you are hardly the only man ever to be so. You
can only protect her so far, because not everyone at court will be cowed by
your new power and rank. Warn her; prepare her for the wagging tongues that
will lash out at her in the open and in secret. And prepare yourself, my
friend. I knew what I was provoking when I tweaked your tail just now, but an
unreasoning storm of fury directed at the wrong noble will leave you both with
an implacable enemy. She makes you feel again, has made you come back to life,
but that rebirth has brought with it all sorts of emotions; be quick to defend
her, as you should, but do not give your detractors the weapons they need in
order to bring you down. Take care that you do not crush someone else’s dignity
and pride in your zeal to protect your own. Remember the lessons of your youth,
or you may not make it to your dotage.”
Killian subsided and then shrank under her scolding—having someone to live for,
someone to love, made him vulnerable to hurt through that very well-spring of
life. Emma and his love for her was his strength, but it was also a weakness
that others might—nay, would!—seek to exploit for their own ends. ‘Know your
enemy and never reveal the wounds inflicted’—true across the battlefields of
war and the game-board of politics. Phillip had eased the remaining tension by
proposing a toast to Emma. And another one to the Stars of Love. And another to
lady loves. To lady loves who made men lose their wits with their beauty and
stole men’s balls with their cunning. What little remained of conversation from
then on limited itself to composing love sonnets drunkenly…
Killian does not even remember the trip from the solar to these rooms.
Blessedly, Wautier was prepared for or warned about his master’s unaccustomed
night of revelry, providing him with a bath to wash away the stale stench of
his sweat, a tisane for his pounding head, and a small loaf of dry bread for
his queasy stomach. As he scrubs his skin mercilessly—the scented soap
reminding him, as always, of Emma and what he has to look forward to at the end
of this trip—he batters his foggy brain into submission and goes over his
schedule for the day. A review of the troops and a thorough inspection of the
castle and city walls will take him nearly all day, the sun setting sooner and
sooner every day makes any thought of leaving this evening a pointless
prospect. Travelling at night on horseback remains the purview of the criminal,
the insane, the desperate, or the recklessly desperate; less than half of the
kingdom’s special couriers are trained to ride in the night specifically
because it is so fraught with risks and dangers, and, as he has specific cause
to know, the king can be ruthlessly angry when those agents are employed
needlessly. Killian sighs dejectedly—even though he had known this well in
advance and planned for a second night’s stay, his heart is back in Sommere,
safely protected by his servants and guards at Thistledown, likely employed in
the Orangerie at their lessons this very instant.
***** Chapter 24 *****
Chapter Notes
     Qua?! Another new chapter?! ... You bet your buttons it is! ;)
     And to answer a guest reviewer question: Mulan, Phillip, and Aurora
     are all in a relationship together.
Killian pulls on his gloves, briskly rubbing his hands together both to quickly
warm the leather and to ease the fabric’s stiffness from the cold. When he
opens the outer door onto the courtyard, his breath clouds instantly—storms or
no, winter has already arrived in the foothills of the mountains, and its
advent makes him more determined than ever to get home as fast as possible and
remain there. He imagines more nights spent cozily with Emma, curled up
together on a pile of pillows and furs before the roaring warmth of the fire
whilst engaged in all sorts of pleasurable activities, both erotic and
innocent; his mind presents him with a clear, sensory image of his head cradled
in her lap reading poetry aloud to her as she cards her fingers through his
hair, their skin flushed with just the right amount of warmth from the
crackling logs and growing arousal.
The stamping and snorting of the horses shatters his delightful day dream and
announces to one and all their indignant impatience at being exposed to the
cold; woken and saddled at much the same time as their masters were being
roused by servants, the animals lack the multiple, thick layers of clothing
that make tolerable being out and about this early. Curiously, his three
friends await him by Triton, all fussing over the horse’s comfort the way they
would over Killian’s if he would allow it. Mulan comes to him first with a firm
handshake and a hand to his shoulder.
“Be vigilant and on your guard, pupil mine. More than ever now, you must be
wary of the dagger in the dark, the assassin in the shadows. Stars protect you,
my friend.” Mulan surprises him by pulling him into an embrace, and it takes
him a moment to return the gesture. She whispers something in his ear before
pushing back and holding him at arms’ length. She nods, claps him on the
shoulder one more time, and strides authoritatively toward his already mounted
guards—no doubt to give them a final lecture or two before releasing Killian
into their charge. Aurora comes forward next, taking both of his hands in hers
and purposefully keeping his gaze.
“Be safe. I wish I could meet your lady love, for she sounds like a truly
remarkable woman. Stars willing… I know from experience that what you have
found in each other is a rare and precious gift; do not give her up for
anything.” She smiles enigmatically on that last statement before pressing a
kiss to his cheek and following Mulan, leaving Phillip to say the last
farewell.
While arguably the one part of the triumvirate he knows least well, Killian has
always admired the quiet strength of the other man; not as forceful a
personality as Mulan, nor quite as adept at peacemaking as Aurora, something in
the man’s stoic nature, his immoveable resolve and convictions completes the
three-way partnership and give it a solid foundation which it might otherwise
lack. But, as now, his hidden depths surprise even Killian at times. “They
never heard the same stories about your family while growing up, mostly because
Mulan was no longer a child and Aurora too far from court… But I did. Your
father was good about keeping secrets, but mine was better at uncovering them.
So, while they see the gilding, I know what truly happened behind the mask. You
are a good man, Killian; I have always thought so. Do not let the mantle of
power and kingship change that about you, and you can become a great man… And
there is hope for that because she has already made you better than you were.
Do not forget that.”
Killian merely stands there, stunned. Phillip ducks his head and moves to go,
but stops at the rigid yet shaking grip on his arm. “Do they know?”
“Know that you doubt yourself and your worth because of your upbringing? Yes. A
good spymaster keeps the details to himself though. Scarlet is good, but he
lacks total discretion; my father taught him well, but he still has some things
to learn. As do you, your Highness.” Phillip looks down pointedly at his arm
and Killian slowly unclenches his fingers, releasing him from his grip. His
friend disappears into the shadows of the hall quickly, as if he were never
there; only the turmoil in Killian’s mind, agitated by the endless echo
Phillip’s words, attests to his presence.
With sudden impatience to be gone and to be doing something, Killian mounts
Triton, whirling around quickly to salute Mulan and Aurora. He signals to his
guard and digs his heels into his horse’s flanks, passing under the portcullis
through the gates and out into the city just as the sky above the towering
mountains flushes pink and gold. He tries to focus on the feel on his mount
beneath him, on the sounds of the quickly waking populace, but his brain
resounds over and over with his friends’ parting words of wisdom and Mulan’s
whispered assurance. You are a better man than you believe.
===============================================================================
 
Before leaving for Dionya, Killian had extracted promises from both Emma and
Sophia that they would not attempt to ride their assigned horses while he was
gone; not that Master Noris would have countenanced such recklessness from
inexperienced riders around his horses, but he had obviously felt the
injunction was necessary. However, the ladies were encouraged to visit the
stables at least once per day in order to accustom themselves to the care and
feeding of horses and also so that the animals could become acquainted with
their new riders; developing bonds of mutual affection and trust between horse
and rider are paramount, as both individuals must be perfectly in tune to the
other’s every mood and emotion.
A skittish rider with an unfamiliar mount will transmit their fear and
uncertain, bleeding their emotional insecurity into the animal and ultimately
breeding panic; whereas an accomplished rider can usually settle a frantic
horse, knowing the ways and means to transmit calm and reassurance to the
frightened animal. Though their lessons have been relatively few, Killian and
Master Noris had relentlessly drummed these tenets into Emma’s mind at least—as
Sophia had continued to wheedle and cajole both her governess and the Stable
Master into allowing her “just one quick ride around the paddock,” their
success with their younger pupil has obviously been limited.
The first trip of the day immediately follows breakfast, as the kitchen maids
can usually be prevailed upon to provide apples, carrots, and the odd sugar
cube or two as special morning treats for their equine friends; and today is no
different. Emma follows just a step or two behind Sophia’s excited skipping,
secretly smiling at the memories of just one week ago. When Killian had
revealed his surprise, she had had a difficult time restraining herself from
kissing him right then and there; horseback riding had been the rarest but
favorite activity of her childhood, and while she remembers sharing that fact
in an offhand comment to her lover, she cannot at first believe he remembered
such a mundane detail from a trivial conversation.
Her gratitude did find expression, however, later that evening in his bedroom,
where she gave him a thorough demonstration of her bareback equestrian skills.
Just remembering their combined enthusiasm for the sport has her skin flushing
pleasantly, making Emma grateful for the extra warmth and that the red in her
cheeks can be attributed to the frosty nip in the morning air. The sun has been
up for a few hours now, but its rays have diminished in their power to warm the
fields and soften the bite of the breeze. She sends yet another prayer to the
Stars for Killian’s safe journey and that he will return before the first
snowfall.
Emma shakes her head at her own ridiculousness—the man has been gone for all of
two nights and will be returning later this day, yet by gauging her anxiety for
him and her anticipation for their reunion one would think he had been absent
for a month! She follows Sophia into Papillion’s stable berth, nodding to the
young lad who is assigned to help her learn how to properly care for the horse
and her tack. After ensuring that her charge is in good hands and focused on
her tasks, Emma moves on to Sicara’s pen where her own tutor and Master Noris
await.
“Good morning, Master. Good morning, Claudine.” Emma hangs her cloak on the peg
just outside the stall and eagerly takes one of the brushes in hand to begin
smoothing out Sicara’s pelt.
“Bright good morrow to you as well, Miss Shepherd! As we discussed, Claudine is
going to be taking her Journeyman’s test soon and will need to demonstrate
adequate teaching skills. I’ll be dropping in from time to time to observe her,
so do your best to ignore me—unless I’m shoutin’ about fire in the barn, aye?”
The three of them laugh before settling down to work, first in making sure that
the horse is comfortable before being fed—including mucking out the stall and
laying down fresh hay under her hooves—and then practicing working her saddle
and bridle off and on, so that eventually Emma will be able to prepare her own
mount in the dark if necessary. Hope for the best, but be ready for the worst,
aye, had been Master Noris’ dictate on their first day of working with the
actual equipment.
Emma hums low, harmonizing on the melody Claudine whistles as she watches and
cares for a spare bit of tack. Given Sophia’s size, she’s much further behind
her governess despite the lad set to help her; both women smile at each other
as they overhear the princess’ dramatic complaints about the muck and the mess
to be removed from the pens. She had roundly applauded Killian’s assertion to
his daughter that a having a horse came with responsibilities as well as
benefits, refusing to allow her to wriggle out of the care and maintenance
portion of ownership. Because it was a truism of life as well as horses: while
something, such as land, gives rights and privileges to its owner, it also
brings with it duties and responsibilities. And while Sophia might understand
the concept, she has rarely experienced the day to day practicalities of
performing one’s duty.
Thankfully, with Francois’ help, the stall is mucked and Sophia can turn to the
more exciting prospect of feeding Papillion. Her childish giggle and shrieks of
laughter peal out whenever the young horse lips her hand in taking the
proffered treat, and her babbling commentary can be heard above the shushing of
the feed into the trough, the munching of the horses on their fodder, and the
general murmur of the sounds of living beings throughout the stables. However,
learning the proper way to cinch girths and shorten the stirrups appropriately
appears to not be a favored activity, because even though they remain in the
pen, they cannot practice on the actual horse given Sophia’s stature and size.
The lad’s soft voice of encouragement and correction follows every loud
complaint or exasperated sigh of failure and frustration; the boy’s patience
amazes Emma, for it seems to be limitless where the younger, querulous pupil is
concerned.
“You’re a natural with the horses, Miss, and unless I miss my guess, you have
little need of practice in saddling.”
Emma looks over at the apprentice, who has a smug grin on her face and a
knowing look in her eyes. The expression sends panic racing down Emma’s spine,
her brain struggling to come up with a response that will deflect attention
away from her and her relationship with Killian. Have they been seen? Does
everyone know? “My father kept a saddle for our old plough horse, but almost
never used it. I suppose the memories are coming back to me. And besides,
Sophia definitely needs to learn; the extra time with Sicara won’t hurt either
of us.”
“I know what you’re about, Miss. What’s more, I think I can speak for everybody
when I say how glad we are to see it… ‘Tis clear as rain water you’re letting
the princess while away the time in here instead of studying until his Highness
arrives. So she’s sure to be the first to greet him when he gets here; not many
fine ladies would think to encourage her excitement at seeing her father, nor
indulge her so. You care for her happiness and his—that makes you one of us.”
Claudine walks out of the stall with a nod, whistling away as she goes to check
on Francois’ progress with Sophia.
Emma stands there for a moment, blind panic receding slowly and gradually being
replaced by a glow of satisfaction and relief. She leans her head against the
saddle and groans, delayed embarrassment hitting her—Stars alone know what she
might have said given how close she thought they had come to discovery!
Doubtless, most of the people of Thistledown would recoil in shock and horror
from her if they knew precisely how much Emma cares for the happiness of their
prince in particular, and in what ways. Yet when the distinctive cacophony of
half-a-dozen horses riding into the courtyard echoes throughout the stable, she
cannot stop herself from smiling like a fool and running to collect Sophia from
Papillion’s stall, who has already stuck her head out around the wooden fence
at the noise. Her curious expression morphs into sheer delight just as Emma
draws even with her and reaches out for her hand.
“It is Papa! Quick, Miss Emma!” She laughs at Sophia’s awed joy and allows
herself to be pulled along into a childlike run to meet Killian.
===============================================================================
 
Killian’s muscles begin to ache just as he and his guards cross over the
boundary line onto the manor property, though one in particular has been aching
since the moment two days before when he left Emma and Sophia behind. The
journey would have taken all day if he had used the carriage, but he swears
that next time he will stick to the bloody coach and its slower speed if it
means not having to endure another separation from the loves of his life.
Triton and the other horses, as if scenting their mates and their home, put on
an extra burst of speed that has him whooping like a young boy with glee and he
feels as if he fully understands the animals’ emotions in this moment.
Killian’s home, Killian’s mate, are both within reach, and it feels completely
right to be leaping at the chance to meet them faster.
Before long, the stableyard comes into view and Killian pulls back on the reins
so that Triton does not trample any of the eager lads and lasses who spill out
of the stable itself, waving and hollering a fond greeting. Just as his horse
halts, he spies Emma and Sophia running toward him, skirts held carefully out
of their way, and smiling brightest of all amid the throng of well-wishers.
Suddenly mindful of the crowd of witnesses about them, Emma halts abruptly and
pushes Sophia ahead of her, standing behind the group and a little apart; her
smile falters a bit until he catches her eye, suddenly uncertain as to the
change in her happy demeanor. She spreads her hands, palms up, to indicate the
number of people present, and his own grin dims slightly with the
realization—now is the time for formality and distance; their personal reunion
must come later, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.
Killian pastes his smile back on in time for Sophia, carefully reaching down
for her hands and hauling her up onto Triton’s back with him, pulling her close
in a fierce embrace. But he looks over her shoulder and around her mass of
curls directly at Emma, and when he speaks, it is to both of them. “I love you,
my dear. I have missed you so.”
===============================================================================
 
While separating from Sophia after the midday meal is painful for him, being so
close to Emma and unable to truly speak to her or even to touch her is its own
brand of torture. He excuses himself and heads for the library, keen to finish
whatever business he must for the day so that his night can be completely
devoted to his family. When that particular thought crosses his mind, it occurs
to him that he should be startled or taken aback at the idea, as he was when he
realized that he felt more than mere lust for Emma; yet thinking of her,
accepting her as an integral part of his family feels as natural and easy as
breathing. She belongs here, by his side; now, more than even, he knows that
his decision to ask for Emma’s hand, his choice to make her his wife, is the
right one.
With perhaps a touch more bounce in his step, Killian makes his way to his
desk. Despite Fairfax’s absence at the Bluffe, his junior clerk has kept all of
the estate affairs in perfect order, so that Killian need only consult the
short memorandum waiting at the precise center of his blotter to know what
needs to be accomplished for the day. He works away with a will, focusing all
his faculties and attention on the matters at hand with such gusto that he
rapidly dispenses with the short list provided for him. He calls for a clerk,
asking for the ledgers and tallies of the harvest to be brought to him so that
he can go over the known yields and the projected figures.
The bound volumes are quickly fetched and placed before him, providing him with
another task to which to devote his efforts and concentration. After a while,
he stands to remove his outer coat and roll up his sleeves, suddenly feeling
too warm in the room. He still sits at his desk, hunched over the figures when
he hears a bustle from down the hall, the familiar tones of his steward’s voice
rising plainly above other sounds. Fairfax himself and one of his young
protégés round the corner and enter the library, eyes and faces alight with
excitement and the cold air from outdoors. Both men bow respectfully before
Killian, who waves the younger man away to his duties and motions for Fairfax
to come forward. “You look like a new Granddam who has just heard her child had
twins, man.”
The steward grins and preens—positively preens!—before his master. “That, my
dear boy, is because I believe I have found what you are looking for. Proof
positive that the Crown and Council have no legal right to forcibly dissolve an
union of the heir.” With a flourish, he drops a formally composed and properly
illustrated document—a fully realized legal defense of the law case for
Killian’s remarriage. He scans over much of the flowery and archaic verbiage
necessary for all law court pleadings, but his eye finally jumps to the heart
of their argument and the legal precedent for it:
Furthermore, an union freely and willingly entered into by an heir to the Crown
of Domitia cannot be annulled nor a divorcement procured unless the heir
himself or herself effects the annulment or divorcement by their own will and
volition, nor can the heir be passed over in the succession unless by formal,
personal declaration of abdication of the heir. The matter has been firmly
enshrined in the laws of Domitia since the  rein of Henricius II of House
Malleus in the fourteenth year of his reign. His heir, Prince Henricius (later
Henricius III), selected as his consort a woman of neither lands nor means,
duly married her without the consent or knowledge of the King or the Council,
and consummated the marriage. The King requested that the Council rule in his
favor and dissolve the union of his son and heir, or, barring the dissolution,
to replace Henricius in the line of succession with his younger brother
Alexandrus. Having debated and heard all proffered witnesses, as well as
searching the statutes for past precedence, the verdict was delivered by the
Master Sage Honorius is as follows: “For Stelläe has not set Her stamp of
divine authority on one family alone above all others, neither can we Her
people claim that one person is inferior in spirit and nobility to another,
save by proofs of that person’s crimes and misdemeanors. We recognize this
ability to cultivate nobility in our laws regarding Knighthood—namely, that any
man or woman, be they born in hovel or palace, may present themselves for
training in the martial arts and by the labor and sacrifice of their bodies,
they may attain to the ranks of the aristocracy after a proscribed period of
service. Thus, to claim inferiority of blood or character or property avails
nothing in this matter placed before us. Should the prince choose of his own
desire and volition to seek the dissolution or annulment of his marriage, then
he may do so without prejudice to his Crown or his estates. Should the lady in
question seek of her own desire and volition the dissolution or annulment of
her marriage, she may do so, though she will cease to be styled as princess and
will not be able to claim Crown lands, chattels, and revenues endowed to her
during the course of the marriage, those goods and estates being forfeited upon
the granting of their divorcement. In short, neither shall take from the other
that which they were not possessed of before being bound in matrimony. To
separate the prince from his wife by force or without his willing consent, and
to dispossess him from his rightful inheritance of the Crown, would be
tantamount to denying the very beliefs upon which this country was founded. We,
the Council, must rule to uphold the law, and therefore find in favor of His
Royal Highness, Prince Henricius and his bride, who will henceforth be known as
the Princess Marie-Catrine, with all the rights and privileges thereunto
proscribed”…
Killian smiles warmly at Fairfax, trying to contain the excitement and the
bright hope that the older man’s discoveries have provided to him, but he has
no time at all to express his gratitude before they are interrupted by the
anxious cry of one of the clerks who immediately begins shouting their names
and running toward them from his area of the library. The distraught looking
young man who had entered with the steward earlier—Henri, if his memory
serves—rushes through his bow before handing a document to Killian with shaking
hands.
“I didn’t mean to open it, your Highness, but it was slipped in among the other
messages I normally receive regarding the account ledgers. Honest! I have no
idea how it got in among the letters on my desk!”
“It’s alright, young Henri. You’ll be an old man before your time if you worry
so…” Killian’s voice trails off as his mind makes sense of the words on the
page.
 
Written at Nova Gentian Palace, 2. Nona.KWSII7
My dear Brother,
In this instance you have full and free absolution from me to be an
insufferable braggart for the day. First, despite the unlikelihood of my living
long enough to sire a direct heir, the council has politely insisted that I wed
as soon as possible for the “great good and comfort of the realm.” To that end
and to ensure the unquestioned purity of my potential heir, I have chosen to
wed our cousin, the Lady Elsa; as the eldest daughter of our mother’s sister,
her claim to the throne is greatest after that of yourself and Sophia, thus I
am able to quash our Uncle’s pretention to the crown through his wife’s right
and to secure his support in the future. In point of fact, I write from Denis’
estate as preparations are being carried out here with all due haste.
Initially, I had received the council’s approval to delay the nuptials until
our mass arrival at Thistledown Hall, so that we could be married with you and
Sophia there to complete the bridal party.
However, our ambassador from the White Kingdom , who attends our progress, has
just received an urgent dispatch from his master informing him that their
northernmost ports have been hit by a winter hurricane and their other harbors
are being bottled up by great mountains of ice. Your fairy woman’s weather
witching has proved accurate and I have ordered emergency actions be taken to
get the harvest in as quickly as may be accomplished.
Thus, rather than pressing forward at this time, we will remove to the comfort
of our castle of Leancort after collecting Lady Elsa’s household and
belongings. We will be married in the town’s central temple within the week.
Laugh if you dare, brother, and feel as smug as you like, but you and I both
know that you too will soon be meeting a bride and a priest before an altar.
Consequently, Lady Elsa’s younger sisters, Lady Anna and Lady Ingrid, will be
joining the party; keep in mind that Elsa herself is twenty years my junior,
and you could do much worse than marry a younger woman whose mind can be easily
molded and shaped to suit your rigorous intellectual and moral standards. We
must also talk of the future—of Sophia’s future in particular. Until later, my
brother.
 
 
Killian dislikes so very many things about this letter and for a few moments it
stirs a maelstrom of emotions within him. But time is of the essence and he
knows that he cannot waste precious seconds on his own troubles and worries,
forcibly repressing them beneath the accustomed weight of responsibility and
jumping into action. He strides to the library doors and sees James waiting
patiently out in the corridor. “The king has finally heeded my warning, but it
seems that winter will be here even sooner than we expected and has already
iced over the northern ports of the White Kingdom. Please pass the word for all
messengers to assemble in the stable yard within the hour, packed and ready to
ride to their assigned posts.”
The older man’s eyes widen a fraction in fear and surprise, but he recovers
himself quickly, making his bow of acknowledgement and walking away briskly to
carry out his prince’s orders. He mutters a few words to Fairfax and Henry that
send them off on vital errands, rapidly fixing his shirt and donning his coat
before rushing out of the library. Killian blindly finds his way to the kitchen
and informs Chef and Mrs. Potts not to keep dinner waiting for him, asking the
housekeeper to inform the others as to his and Fairfax’s whereabouts and the
reasons behind their absence. He yearns to go to Emma, to hold her safe and
secure in his arms and tell her himself that the dreaded day has arrived and
that sooner than expected. But he knows that if he indulges himself in this
manner, that once he wraps himself in her, there will be no coming back—he
would remain with her, his duties as a liege-lord be damned.
He does not even let his gaze stray toward the stillroom as he leaves the
kitchens and swiftly, yet calmly makes his way outside to the stables. The
twilight air strikes him hard, its chill biting deep into his flesh despite the
layers of clothes, refusing to let him even for a moment forget the dearth and
danger they all face from the elements and spurring his sense of fear and
doubt. He had not even realized how close to nightfall the hour had come before
stepping outside. The yard echoes with shouted instructions and the snorting
and huffing of disturbed horses, young lads and old hands alike rushing to and
fro as they gather tack and saddles, blankets and saddlebags, preparing their
charges for a long night of riding.
Despite the torches and lamps burning bright enough to hold the dark at bay
Killian keeps himself to the edge of the stables, out of the light and away
from the purposeful bustle of his workers. Soon, the messengers—his official
clerks and representatives for each and every town and village within his
domains—arrive with their packs, swiftly and unerringly find their appointed
mounts, and begin conferring with the horse’s grooms; each man carefully
rechecks all the buckles, tightening girths and lengthening stirrups where
necessary, feeling around the bit and bridle to ensure the animals are fit for
however long they will need to be in the saddle. He notes their caution and
care with a small glimmer of pride.
Last of all, Fairfax strides out into the firelit night with a thick sheaf of
papers in hand—final admonitions and instructions for the messengers themselves
and for the officials and proxies who await them at the other end of the
journey. He finds his master with very little trouble and stations himself by
his side. The presence of steward and prince causes a ripple of hushed
uncertainty before each man and boy noticeably holds themselves straighter and
taller, lengthens his steps of quickens his fingers in their tasks. They cannot
fail their lord and cannot appear to be shirking their duties; their friendly
banter and raucous play ceases altogether as the messengers slowly make their
way back out to the courtyard to receive their prince’s blessing.
Killian swallows, uncomfortable with trepidation—his doubts and fears running
rampant and taunting him with all the ways his plans could fail—but finally
holds his hand up for their silence. “I cannot express my gratitude or the
gratitude of His Majesty King William at your willingness to serve our people.
I know that many of you have sweethearts and wives, lovers and husbands who you
will not be able to see again for many months because of your readiness to act
as messengers and couriers during this coming winter. I am sending you all out
now because it has already hit our neighbor to the east, the White Kingdom, in
their northern ports and provinces; this proves to me that our warning and our
preparations have not been foolish or in vain. Take care of yourselves, take
care of your mounts, and pray to the Stars that all goes well and that you will
have no need to ride back here until spring. May the Stars shine upon your
comings and your goings. Thank you.”
A cheer goes up among the assembled mass of men and boys, one that suddenly
transforms itself into an enthusiastic chanting of his name. “Prince Killian!
Prince Killian!”
Even the Stable Master and Fairfax have joined in the ringing cry, the genuine
devotion of each person readily apparent in their faces—they believe in him,
they trust him, they have absolute faith that he will see them safely through
this struggle. He acknowledges their acclaim with a hand over his heart and a
formal bow to them all; in return, each man pumps their fist over their hearts
and bows at the waist before scrambling to get the messengers mounted. A young
piping voice starts up a particularly ribald ditty that is quickly taken up by
deep bass and middling baritones. As they swing up on their horses and kick
heels to flanks, the song continues to swell out into the evening sky and rings
through the courtyard until after the last of the horses has trotted out of
sight.
***** Chapter 25 *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter contains a fogging (erotic) and reference to a past
     flogging (punishment(; both instances of its use are highly important
     for Killian's character development.
While slightly shocked by Killian’s absence when they go in to dinner, Mrs.
Potts quickly informs them all in brief that he and Fairfax are seeing that the
messengers start their journeys throughout his lands, Sophia accepts the loss
of his company with equanimity; Francine frets and speculates more and more
outrageously with the housekeeper over what new troubles this could portend.
But Emma endures in tortured silence. She knows that this was part of Killian’s
plan all along, to send a courier to every town and village, so that if there
were any disaster, someone could be easily and swiftly sent to him with the
news and requests for aid. Yet she must sit and converse and feign ignorance
while she would much rather be at her prince’s side—he must have received word
about winter’s arriving, much sooner than even she had imagined. He has laid
the best of plans, and now all he can do from here until spring is worry and
second-guess his every decision. She resolves that no matter their signal, she
will refuse to be kept from his bed tonight… Except that even after Fairfax
arrives to join them at table with an apology on his lips, Killian never does.
She waits patiently through every course and though she mechanically eats
everything on her plate, she does not taste a bite—as if Killian’s absence or
her worry for him prevents her body from working properly, as if she is no
longer her own. The thought, or rather the precise wording of it as it passes
through her mind, strikes her to the core. Was it truly only two months ago
that they began their affair? And did she not make it a part of her bargain
with him that she would remain free and unattached to him, able to cease their
liaison at a moment’s notice should she choose? Despite the profound intensity
of her attraction to him, she had been confident at the time that her heart and
his would remain untouched over the course of their dalliance. She could not
have imagined that his desire for her, nor hers for him, would change and grow
into something more, something infinitely wilder and purer that lust. The
nature of their contract has altered, without permission from either of
them—for, unless Emma misses her mark, Killian did not expect his regard to
deepen either. And just like her, his immediate reaction to the unforeseen is
to withdraw and to protect his heart.
The meal ends with no sign of Killian, but his absence steels her resolve to
seek him out tonight regardless of the consequences; he needs her, and stubborn
man that he is, he will fight that clawing, piercing desperation with
everything in his soul so that, in his own eyes at least, he will not seem
weak. She goes to the library, searching for something to read which will take
her mind off of Killian; but the lack of clerks and the conspicuously messy and
abandoned desk only reminds her of what has passed and makes his absence that
much more present in his mind. She knows he is likely with Sophia right now,
tucking her in and letting her innocent faith in him soothe whatever doubts
gnaw at his mind. Emma picks a book, but quickly finds that she can neither sit
still nor focus on the words in front of her. She reads the words, but her
thoughts fly thick and fast, so that she cannot remember what the book is
about, nor even provide the topic under discussion.
Disgusted with herself and her distraction, she knows that going into the
Orangerie and working would not be the best idea—she might inadvertently “weed
out” some vitally necessary plants or cut off buds instead of blown flowers.
She finally admits defeat and goes to her room, dressing for bed and then
pacing before the fire. She worries as to what state she will find Killian in
when she finally does go up to his rooms: Will he rage and bluster and send her
away? No, for he spends his anger and his other emotions in actions, not in
words. He will be consumed with terror and panic, with a sense of helplessness
that does not sit well with his desire to be in control and to be confident.
Will he do his best to tire them both so that he will not need to speak, will
not need to give vent to those tormenting emotions? Yes, but she is a patient
woman and they have plenty of time. Distantly, she hears the chimes denoting
the hours, counting until she is certain that Sophia is already in bed and that
Killian will likely be in his chambers.
When she reaches the top of the stairs, she startles somewhat to see the door
already open and feel a great deal of heat flowing into the cool air of the
passage. Every candle on every candelabra in the room is lit and the fire has
been built almost dangerously high. Killian sits in his favored chair with a
glass of liquor in his hands, eyes fixed on the doorway where she stands. “It
took you long enough. What kept you?”
His terse speech startles her, but it also informs her a great deal about his
state of mind. He prefers to handle his fears by channeling them into anger,
and providing his fury with a target. Acting on instinct, she comes to his side
and kneels by his chair like a chastened slave and addressing him with the
honorific he normally despises to receive from her. “Apologies, my lord. I was
uncertain of your schedule this evening, my lord, but had hoped to anticipate
your needs. I am sorry for making you wait, my lord.”
She keeps her head bowed, not looking him in the eyes, and when she finishes
her little speech, presses her cheek to his thigh. The hand not holding the
tumbler of liquor hesitantly reaches down to stroke her hair, not rejecting her
pose of contrition and submission. “Indeed you did not, so you are forgiven
this once for your tardiness.”
She rubs her face against him, catlike, in her need to transmit her happiness
at being near him in a physical way. “Am I allowed to speak freely, my lord?”
The hand in her hair still and then reaches to lift her head up. She complies
and looks at him, seeing his eyes for the first time since this morning: the
blue iris is the darkest she has ever seen it, turbulent with more than lust;
there is a pain, bottomless and unfathomable, that she does not understand, but
longs to. “You may always speak freely with me, Emma. You have absolute freedom
here with me, for I always want for you to be here of your own volition and
desire. Forgive my harshness?”
She smiles brightly at his words; how can he not know that she is no longer
free, that she is bound to him in ways that she could never have imagined? And
not only this, but that she chose her bondage and revels in it? “There is
nothing to forgive, my lord. I only worry at the heaviness of heart I sense. Is
there anything I can do to ease your burdens, my lord?”
He hesitates and almost imperceptibly flinches, but she notices both. He
reaches over to the table beside him and grabs a wooden box from it, placing it
on his lap between them. He gestures for her to open it. She lifts the lid,
uncovering a black velvet lined case that holds a flogger. She gently ghosts
her fingertips over the instrument, observing the careful craftsmanship.
Killian has spanked her before and used his riding crop, but using this will
open up something new—for both of them, she believes. “Would you like to use
this on me, my lord?”
He nods, swallowing a thought before tossing back the last of his brandy. “I
would enjoy that very much, Emma. But I want you to be sure. Handle it so you
may be certain.”
His request does not startle her. Given all she knows of his nature and of the
whispered reports around the table tonight, the black mood that had doubtless
descended over him as he watched his men gallop off into the gloaming carries
over now into their bedroom activities. He quietly hands her the flogger so she
can familiarize herself with it: the lovingly cut and cured strands of suede
are soft as rabbit’s fur or lambskin to the touch; but the knots at the end of
each possess a strange quality to them—unyieldingly supple, both marble hard
and whisper soft. A contrast as achingly familiar to her as her lover’s mind,
complex and confusing yet recognizable and ultimately knowable. She knows, even
if he does not, that the blows to her skin will ward off his demons, drive away
the darkness that troubles his soul. She places it back in his hands and
silently removes her robe, so that she is completely naked at his feet.
“Go to the bed. Lean forward and place your hands on it. You can kneel if that
will be more comfortable for you, but then do so on the bed so you will be at
the right height.” She nods and immediately goes to do as he commands, tucking
her feet so that they touch the back of her thighs and stretching her back so
that its full, bare length is open for his chastisement. His first strike lands
gently and tentatively—not hesitating, but testing, stoking her fire and
whetting her appetite for more; his hand follows each lash, palms smoothing
flat over her flanks before the pad of his finger traces the barely-there
blush, Another careful blow follows, and another—each time, his broad hands
tease over her increasingly flushing skin.
“How does it feel, Emma? Describe how the lash makes you feel.”
“It is warm, like…like rubbing your arms to bring back the warmth when the day
suddenly turns cold.”
“Very good, Emma. Now I want you to keep count aloud, and when I say, ‘Tell
me,’ you are to immediately describe how you feel, what the lash makes you
feel. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord. I understand. I will obey your commands as perfectly as I can,
my lord.”
He cracks the flogger against the counterpane just a few inches short of her
left hand, but she refuses to flinch. She can show no fear in this moment, for
he possesses enough for the both of them. “I know you will, darling. Spread
those legs open so I can see and touch your quim. And what is your halt word,
pet?”
“Blue star, my lord.”
He traces the knobs of her spine before trailing his finger down, carefully
circling the soft ring of muscles and the sensitive skin just below it. Emma’s
body quivers appreciatively in response, but she does not allow the sensations
to make her squirm away from his touch or do anything save tremble in
anticipation. If he wants to explore and experiment all night long, they have
more than enough time for such an interlude. Finally, he wanders further down
and pets her sex, plumping the lips one at a time between his fingers and
spreading her slick moisture around.
“Lovely. You are free to writhe, but if you try to avoid the lash, I will be
forced to restrain you. And do not bite your lips or press them together—I want
to hear every sound your body wants you to make.” He gives her pearl of flesh
another lingering caress before he strikes the flesh of her back.
“One.” It feels like the prick of a thistle nettle, slightly sharp, but more
startling than painful, and spread out across a line of skin. She tingles, not
unpleasantly, as she patiently waits for the next blow and his command; the
sting fades quickly and leaves behind it a drugged haze of heat.
“Two.”
“Tell me.” She gives him the details, how this second sting lingers a touch
longer than the first and how else they compare. He strikes while she is mid-
sentence, forcing her to pause in her recitation to give the count and then
return to her analysis. The next few are clustered closer together and he
clearly brings more force to bear; the comforting, glowing warmth of her skin
now igniting and growing into a greater, harsher burn. The flesh of her thighs
and the bottoms of her feet feel the blows with an agonizing sensitivity, her
breath hissing out in genuine discomfort; he adjusts accordingly and avoids
them, but files this newly discovered information away for later use.
While her back throbs with each heartbeat and prickles with shards of pain, the
very same heartbeat floods her pussy with heat. Her cunt clenches after each
blow, quivering with hunger and aching to be filled. And Killian seems to know
this, to have anticipated it, because he will pause every so often after a
series of lashes and will pinch her lips and her clit, or carefully rim her
entrance to feel the way the muscles spasm for him, try to suck him in.
“Tell me.”
“Twenty. It—it is as if I have my back too close to a fire; the heat pricks
sharply in places, as if starting to make my blood boil beneath the flesh.
But—oh, stars! Twenty-one. But then each throb of my blood goes straight to
my—twenty-two! It makes me ache for you—to touch me, to fuck me, anything!
It—twenty-three! It is indescribably powerful, my lord! It is intoxicating!”
She cries out and whimpers, panting out her descriptions of each sensation; the
closest comparison she can think of is whenever Killian teases and torments her
and keeps her on the brink of orgasm for hours—an ever-changing kaleidoscope of
pleasure-pain. By the time the final blow lands, her forty lashes minus one,
Emma’s tears have been falling for a while and she has been begging him to take
her in between each count. With no other warning save her trembling “thirty-
nine,” Killian pushes her chest down onto the bed and buries his length fully
inside her molten sheath, triggering her orgasm instantly and prolonging it as
he thrusts relentlessly into her welcoming, rippling cunt.
The angle and the amount of teasing endured make him feel impossibly swollen
inside her, engorged beyond his normal size and filling her to capacity and
more. He rides her harder still, slapping and groping the globes of her ass
which he had kept mostly untouched by the flogging, but the few welts sting and
burn anew as he roughly manipulates her flesh. The speed and intensity of his
pumping hips increases and becomes less of a fluid, graceful lope and more of a
frenzied gallop until his stride falters entirely and he spills himself inside
of her.
He own breath comes in startled gulps, sobs that calm as the rest of her body
becomes boneless with satiation. She feels the cool linens drag against her
face and her front as Killian eases her forward on the mattress and stretches
her legs out from under her. His every touch is reverent and patient as he
cares for every part of her body, save her back. He takes his time in making
certain she is absolutely comfortable before beginning on the skin he has used
most violently. Her nose catches the faint aroma of lavender and the pungent
sharpness of tea-tree, and she stills, anticipating his first touch with
quivering excitement. At first contact, she sighs blissfully.
His hands gently smooth the cream over her abused flesh; while Emma neither
flinches nor makes any sound of pain, Killian’s breath hisses and hitches with
sympathy over each weal. He drew no blood, but she can feel how near a thing it
was, how close to the surface it now simmers under her skin and how easily he
could have permanently marked her. Yet mostly, the combination of his tender,
warm hands and the cool sting of the ointment against her flesh feed her still
unsated arousal. He may have taken his pleasure already and given her an orgasm
she will not soon forget, but she can almost touch the remaining tension riding
the air and knows that given the proper spur and incentive the night may yet be
far from over.
Emma arches into his touch, pressing herself more firmly against his palms and
releases a low moan of encouragement. Killian halts his ministrations and then,
to her surprise, removes his hands from her altogether. She glances over her
shoulder at him, irritated at first, but then shocked at the sight of his
evident distress; his hands held out before him with palms up, staring down at
them in horror and disgust, as if they belong to some loathsome creature or
someone else entirely. She sits up and moves to the edge of the bed to be
closer to him. “Why did you stop, darling? What is wrong?”
His voice trembles, low and nearly inaudible. “How?”
Emma rises and goes to him, cautiously taking the apparently offending hands in
hers. ““How” what? Please talk to me, Killian. What has happened that you stare
and look so troubled?”
His eyes look wild, the startling blue gone midnight dark and nearly consumed
by the pupil, as he searches her face incredulously. “I have hurt you, Emma! I
just flogged you to the point of blood and then fucked you like an animal, with
no concern for you or your desires! And I liked it! How can you lean into my
touch as if you crave it?! How can you stand the sight of me?!”
He draws his hands away from her as if they suddenly burn in her grip and
strides toward the fire, pacing restlessly before it. Despite the nip in the
air, Emma still refuses to cover herself, needing as few barriers as possible
between them. She goes to him and deliberately steps in his path, halting him
with a hand on his chest and a hand on his cheek. “Look at me, my love. Look me
in the eyes, Killian. Do you see a trembling, wretched victim of your lust? Do
I appear frightened or harmed or even unhappy at the evidence of your passion?
Do I look like a woman whose lover has not seen to her pleasure? No, look at
me!”
Only when her teasing prompts an expression of acute agony to cross his face
and he shifts his gaze from her does she change to a more serious tone.
“Killian, I consented to experimenting with you when we first became lovers,
and then again tonight when you asked to play with the flogger. Did I speak our
agreed on halt word? Did I, at any time, give you reason to suspect that I was
displeased with my lashings or discomfited by your roughness? I tell you, as I
did both earlier by my vocal enjoyment and now: I was not at all worried or
upset. I enjoy when your passion makes you act wild and reckless, and I am not
made of such fragile stuff that a little rude handling will break me.
“But more than my own enjoyment, I understand why you needed this: you cannot
control what will happen to your people this winter and that frightens you, so
you needed to purge your demons by controlling me.”
“Do you not see?! I was not bloody well in control, love! I should not feel the
urge to whip you—I should not need to hurt you in order to feel calm!”
“But you were, my love. If you had been out of control, you would not have
given my skin the warming, careful blows to begin, you would have drawn blood,
or you would have truly given no thought to my pleasure at any point; and yet
you made certain to do everything correctly, which does not speak to you being
selfish, callous, or unreasoning. And—”
“Stars, Emma! I am the one who deserves a whipping! For doing this to you, for
failing my subjects, for—”
“Stop, Killian! My darling, you are a powerful man to be sure, but you are
still only a man. And you presume far too much in thinking that you alone can
forestall any and all harm that befalls the people of this kingdom. I have no
doubt that they meant well when they raised you, but I could take a switch to
your parents for instilling this insane level of responsibility in you! You are
one man and you have done your best to avert disaster; you must stop blaming
yourself, Killian, You must cease berating yourself for being merely human and
finite. Your brother did what he thought was best at the time given the
information that he had; there is no shame in that, and I doubt he is pacing
and fretting and worrying as you are.”
“He never has.” The words come out small and soft, but they completely halt
what she had planned to say next. However, she recognizes the powerful truth
hidden in the statement and gratefully latches onto them; bit by bit, she pulls
these much needed confessions from him, draining the poison from wounds that
fester still when they should be long healed.
“Talk to me, darling. What do you mean?”
He searches her eyes and her face for long moments, a stretch of time that has
her shivering with cold, and with fear of being locked out of his heart and
mind again. Finally, he grabs the back of her neck and carefully draws her to
his chest, brushing a kiss to the crown of her head and resting his chin there.
Emma hears his heart pounding, still throbbing to a dervish’s tempo despite the
lapse between their bed sport and now. “Do you know what a lash bearer is, Emma
love?”
She shakes her head carefully, securing an arm about Killian’s waist and
pressing a palm over his heart in order to keep him close. The hand not in her
hair busies itself by tenderly caressing the lines of welts on her back, and it
takes everything in her not to shiver and purr in arousal, knowing that he
could and would all too easily misinterpret the motion. Even still, she cannot
halt the wet pulse of desire between her thighs and insinuates herself yet
closer. He sighs deeply before lifting his head away from hers and tilting her
face up toward his, seeking answers in her eyes once more. Carefully, he takes
her up in his arms and walks with her the few feet to his favorite chair,
settling them with her comfortably perched in his lap with her legs draped over
one of the damask-covered arms. As she waits for him to speak, his fingers
continue leisurely mapping the transient new topography of her skin; her own
skim the contours of his chest, collarbones, and shoulders while she
impatiently clenches her thighs together. Her physical desires can wait; she
must give him this moment to purge his soul and clear his mind first before he
will be ready and willing to touch her with passion once more.
“When we were growing up, Liam and I had a young friend; an orphan boy who had
nothing and no one in the whole world save that my parents chose to raise him
with us. He was Liam’s age, almost to the day, and he went everywhere with
us—on every foolish childhood adventure, to every session with every tutor able
to expound on every subjects on which a king’s sons needed to become expert. 
At first, I presumed that he was our brother, adopted of course but just as
beloved to my mother and father as Liam or I. There was such a distance between
us at the beginning—I was several years younger than them, so I wasn’t
frightfully interesting to either him or Liam, but eventually, he and our
friend allowed me to tag along.”
Knowing that whatever words he spoke next would likely be unpleasant, Emma’s
hands begin a continuous, soothing glide along his arms, up his throat to
caress his cheek, and then back down his shoulders—an aimless, gentling
wandering. “I may have been four or perhaps five when the three of us got into
some serious trouble, Jacques and Liam had recently discovered the allure of
the opposite sex and fancied one of the serving wenches, and I was far too
ignorant, but they asked me to deliver a message to her. I was to tell her
quietly—they made me practice the speech until I had it perfect, and I never
did figure out how they came to their knowledge of such clandestine missives;
but in my childish haste, I spoke much more loudly than I should have.
“The Chef and a few of the other kitchen maids overheard me reciting the
message; the man had always been good and kind to me, but he was nearly purple
with rage when he asked me who had bid me say such words to one of the young
ladies under his care. Naturally in my innocence, I told him all I knew, at
which his face turned white and then purple again; I never even glanced at the
girl, but no doubt she was mortified and ashamed, though the other girls seemed
to circle around her comfortingly. Finally, Chef spoke to me in his kinder,
more accustomed tone and bid me go back to my rooms and return to my studies.
And that I was not to stop and speak of the errand and its conclusion to my
brother or Jacques.
“It was nearing dark and my nanny had come in to dress me for supper, or so I
thought. She was a cheerful old gossip, rather like Francine, so it should have
alerted me that she was so quiet and subdued. I had forgotten the incident in
the kitchen already, right until the very moment my nanny led me to my father’s
study. And I saw him and my mother sitting in chairs before the fire—his face
inscrutable yet grave and hers pulled down in lines of distress. And, of
course, standing before them—heads at least hanging in apparent shame or
embarrassment—were Jacques and Liam.
“My father asked me to stand next to my brothers and repeat verbatim the
message I had been told to give to the wench—Diana was her name—and then tell
him who had bid me deliver it. My mother had not believed the report of Chef,
though my father had, so she was doubtless hoping that I could exonerate Liam
at least from the charges; she gasped aloud at hearing such foul words issue
from my mouth and began to weep when I confirmed that both of my brothers had
urged me to the commission. My father then asked me if I understood the message
at all, if I knew that the words I had spoken to such a nice young woman were
crude, cruel, and shameful—shameful in the wicked thoughts and deeds that they
represented.
“I was, as I told you, wholly ignorant and naïve at the time, but my father was
quick to remedy my lack of knowledge: apparently, I had informed Diana that
neither of my brothers would object to sharing her favors between them and
that, as no one would believe her denials and protestations if they two were to
speak out against her, she should cease rejecting them and agree to indulge
them without further quarrel or resistance; that they knew she was far from
pure in matters of the body and would provide other men as witnesses against
her if she continued to refuse their kind offers. And that, Emma love, is a
highly edited and shortened version of my father’s explication.
“It was plain from my reaction to this that I had been an innocent accomplice
up to that moment, but that revelation only saved me so far… Because I was the
king’s son—because Liam was the king’s son, it was deemed impossible for either
of us to receive punishment in our bodies. No man or woman, it would seem,
would dare to strike a child who would one day grow up into a great lord or
into the king himself, for fear that he would one day take revenge for the blow
and the insult done to his honor. And thus was the position of lash bearer
created—a surrogate child who would take the stripes meant for the back of a
prince.
“We all went out into the stable yard and Jacques was bound to a tall post
which I had never seen used before, nor ever wondered at it existence. His
shirt was removed and I truly saw his back for the first time… His back…
darling it was crossed by so many scars, many of them silvery-white with age
and the growth of his body. Liam had trespassed before and he took in the sight
of his best friend’s back without flinching. Because I had had no idea of the
enormity and purpose of what I had said, my whole punishment was to watch—my
ignorance spared Jacques from receiving even more lashes than the ones that he
and Liam had merited all on their own. The Stable Master walked out carrying a
flogger, a much cruder and crueler one than this, for in its original form it
is designed to tear the flesh and draw blood.
“I knew the man was one to spare the rod where the horses were concerned, so I
could not imagine him truly whipping a lad of eleven or twelve. But the man
knew his duty all too well—I cringed when the first lash struck and was openly
weeping towards the end, even Liam paled when the Stable Master was finished
and the healers went forward to untie Jacques and begin treatment. My father
reminded me that should I ever again disobey or get into trouble, it would be
Jacques who took the punishment in my place; and because my infractions had
caused the lashes, I would be made to watch them be delivered.”
Killian’s voice falters, but his hand never stops moving as he stares into the
fire, seeing nothing of the here and now, reliving those early horrifying
moments. “I get the feeling that where you were concerned, his beatings and
floggings were few.”
He swallows heavily before looking back into her gaze, eyes filled with deep
shame and regret. “It took him two weeks to heal and I visited him every single
day, bringing a book for him to read or something to eat. And every day, I
begged him to forgive me; even though I understood that it was his own and
Liam’s mischief that had started it all, I needed his forgiveness—perhaps
merely for having been born to different circumstances. Each day he would
casually ruffle my hair and say that of course he forgave me, but then he
seemed to realize just how serious and disturbed I was by the arrangement, and
this shocked him. He gave me the words, but I never forgot that feeling; and
the few times I did get into scrapes, it made me physically ill to watch him be
punished in my place. And every time I would visit him until he felt better,
apologize continually, and always beg his forgiveness.
“I am a far from perfect man, Emma love. I have failed, time and time again, to
save the people I love and care for from suffering. I swore that I would never
take vengeance if only my father would let me take the lashes I deserved, but
he seemed to realize that letting someone down, that failing hurt me more,
especially when it resulted in someone else’s pain. I am not perfect, and I
deserve to be horsewhipped for treating you so.” She cups his cheek with one
palm, pulling his forehead down to touch hers.
“This may come as a shock to you, darling, but I know already. And it is not
perfection that measures a man, but the lengths he goes to in order to be a
good man. You worry, you care, and you try. And if, after all that, you still
believe those evil thoughts and doubts that tell you that you deserve a
whipping? Then, my love, I am more than happy to be your lash bearer.” She
shifts in his lap and straddles him, gently guiding one of his hands to the
pool of hot arousal dripping from her quim. Tenderly, she kisses his forehead,
his brows, his nose, his chin, his cheeks, his eyelids. When he moves as if to
remove his other hand away from her back, she stops him and shushes him.
“Touch them. They burn and sting so sweetly, my prince, like your cock as it
glides through my cunt. Hot and swollen, impossibly wrong and perfectly right
at once. Each one placed precisely so, such a careful, pleasurable punishment.”
His hands drop to her waist, fingers clenching and digging into her skin as she
gyrates on his lap. She feels the exact moment when he loses his recriminations
and anger with himself, when he lets go of the past and rejoins her in the
present. She wraps her fingers around his hardening length and guides him
inside of her, slowly and sinuously rising and falling with every breath. His
hands remain at her hips, while she keeps one of hers on his shoulder for
balance and the other wanders along his skin at will. Not once during their
sweet, tender ride do their eyes break contact; not when one leans forward to
catch the other’s lips in a kiss, not when a particular inch of flesh is
delicately fondled or given homage, not even as they meet their glorious climax
together.
***** Chapter 26 *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: First, thank you all so much for your patience in waiting for
     the next update for this story; your loyalty and your excitement for
     me to share it was one of the things that helped me get through a
     really tough time. I don't know if my medical issues are ever going
     to be completely over, but I do feel physically and emotionally
     better than I have in years. For anyone who read this story and has
     written a review, I can't express how grateful and humbled they have
     made me; you guys encourage me to be the best writer I can be.
     Second, this chapter is dedicated to my dynamic duo of Michelles,
     Kate, and Carmina; you ladies seriously rock. Last, this chapter ends
     on a cliffhanger, but only because it felt like the right spot to end
     a particularly emotional scene. But aside from final edits, the very
     next one is ready to be uploaded; so I will not leave you all hanging
     for long and your patience will be rewarded. Love, hugs, and
     blessings for you all! - JJ
Emma finds herself distracted all day, constantly thinking about the many
revelations of the night before and what precisely to do about them. When
Killian had first broached the subject of introducing pain for the purposes of
pleasure into their bedroom play she had been surprised by the concept, yet
more than willing to attempt an experiment with him in pursuit of her quest for
erotic knowledge. They had fully discussed the hows and whys of every act
before indulging; he patiently but excitedly explaining in excruciatingly
sensual detail how the ache of delayed satisfaction, how the sting of pain
would bloom into perfect, fiery bliss. And likewise revealed what it should not
feel like and impressed upon her the necessity of informing him immediately if
she felt at all uncomfortable or uncertain of her feelings. Honesty and
communication, he had said, were vital to the success and mutual enjoyment of
such disports.
In the haven of his bed and in their moments of blinding passion, telling him
all the exquisite ways her body sings for his comes easily and naturally. But
baring her soul to him? Admitting that, contrary to their arrangement and all
sound reason, she has allowed her heart to become involved and that she now
knows she loves him? That love and attachment are feelings she fears above all
else? What little Emma knows of his marriage is that he loved his Milah
passionately, but that she did not return the same level of devotion; her
parents’ affection was obviously mutual, but all of her other points of
reference for what ensures a good marriage come at distant removes. Yet in
spite of his deep, sincere love for his wife, Killian was able to keep living,
was able to transfer and channel that devotion toward his child—or, rather,
enlarged upon what he already felt for his daughter—giving him the will to live
and move forward. Unlike her own mother…
She shudders at the memories she normally shuns. To Emma’s mind, love will
always be dangerous for the absolute power the emotion gives over the lover to
their beloved, and hers for Killian feels like the darkest and most painful of
secrets. She fears… so many possible outcomes! She fears his kind indifference,
her heart slowly transforming her into his mindless thrall. She fears his
righteous disgust with her—a sentiment she certainly shares with him—for
violating the terms of their agreement. Yet neither can she deny her sense of
responsibility to him, of needing to honor her promise, which ultimately spurs
her to action; she knows she cannot keep this self-knowledge a secret for long,
knows that even if her mouth will not speak the words then her eyes and body
will proclaim the truth to him sooner or later. And the lie of omission will
hurt him far worse than a freely proffered confession. Her love will most
likely bring an end to their bedsport, but she must find a way to be strong in
spite of her weakness for him; for both their sakes, she must bring about the
end of their liaison by declaring her love and surviving his rejection.
===============================================================================
 
Letter: written 6. Nona at Gracefall Manor; received at Thistledown Hall 10.
Nona.
To Prince Killian of House Sonoian, etc.
My dear brother, 
Much of my time the last few days has been spent in emergency meetings,
scrambling to save what we can of the harvests, all while we travel to
Leancorten masse. Perhaps you will think me unconscionably unromantic, but I
had rather presumed that our fair cousin’s acceptance of my marriage proposal
was a foregone conclusion, what with my being her sovereign lord and having
already secured the council’s and her father’s approval of our nuptials.
Imagine my initial surprise upon discovering that the Lady Elsa sought a moment
in private after dinner this evening, specifically to beg me not to officially
propose and to “release her from an obligation” which she believes herself
“ill-suited in temperament” and which she personally finds repugnant. Indeed,
brother, our delightful cousin is as romantically disinclined as I, yet perhaps
more so even.
Naturally, I set myself to enduring a long, but tiresome debate and politely
asked her to enumerate the reasons she has for seeking to abjure the state of
matrimony and why she would deny herself the honor and privilege of being my
queen. Oh, she was perfectly meek and subservient about her reply, swiftly
denying any abhorrence for my person—I must admit that her reluctance piqued
what little vanity I have been able to retain—but my astonishment was further
increased on hearing of her ardent desire to be made faculty at our University
at Arteme. We have always known her to be of a serious and studious bent, but I
had not imagined that she was possessed of an avowed scholarly vocation!
Suffice to say, we engaged in a quite lengthy and candid chat about the
situation, as neither of us can renege with any grace at this point. Normally I
understand, it is part of the spousal privilege that confidences must be kept
between the lady and I; however,  I have secured her permission to share the
meat of our discussion as the nature of our accord will inevitably affect the
future disposition of the kingdom, and so will require your assent and
compliance. In the little time I have left, I have agreed to be Lady Elsa’s
devoted husband in truth as well as name, and she shall be my wife.
In the most likely course of events, should I die without leaving behind an
heir of my body, we ask that you pay the Lady Elsa’s dowry to the University at
Arteme, so that she may join the academic community. We well know that her
parents’ ambitions will seek to prevent any loss of her power and dignity as
queen, so I have spoken with my clerk and had him insert a clause to this
effect in the formal contract of marriage, which the Lady Elsa’s parents will
have no cause to see or sign.
However, should the unlikely occur and the Lady carries my heir after my death,
you are to be designated lord protector of the realm and will head the regency
council for my child. Our cousin will have a place and voice in this council as
the Queen Mother, but should she prefer to remain at the University or her
scholarly duties prevent her from attending, she may designate a proxy to act
in her stead. Legally, a proxy member of the council will be necessary in her
absence to ensure she is satisfied with the arrangements made for our child and
any decisions made on its behalf. Lady Elsa, however, informs me that as she
has been well apprised of your level of care and devotion to your own child,
she doubts not but that you are and will be a most estimable guardian. She
assures me that aside from her vocation, she has had little time to spend
around infants and young children, and considers you far more qualified than
she to see to a child’s daily care. She does not anticipate, but cannot
“categorically deny the possibility of”, remaining with the child beyond the
strict limits of necessity. Such future potentialities must be discussed
between the two of you, as my input will account for naught.
For all her demure sweetness, there lurks beneath the surface an adamantine
core to our cousin which I can only admire; truly, she will make a magnificent
queen, for all her protests to the contrary. Sad to say, but neither of her
sisters nor the Lady Drusilla Tremaine possess the reserved dignity or innate,
quiet strength which would serve a consort well; though, one hopes that such
regal bearing may be learned in time. The ambassador from the White Kingdom has
broached the idea of a marital alliance between yourself and their Princess
Marguerite. I know little of the lady herself, but given the dearth of options,
we must consider all possible candidates for your bride—much depends upon her.
Sincerely,
Liam
===============================================================================
 
Letter: written 7. Nona at Merrychance Hall; received at Thistledown Hall 11.
Nona.
To Prince Killian of House Sonoian, etc.
My dear brother,
How strange to find myself engaged to be married once more after all these
years, first of stalling and delaying the confirmation of my betrothal and then
having finally dissolved that clause of our treaty with Pastrusa. They say that
marriage is supposed to settle one, and yet given who I am now—precisely who I
always expected to be—I can truly say that I have never been anything except
settled. Or at least, so I believed until Lady Elsa and I had our intimate
discussion and come to a mutually agreeable accord. I find her far more
interesting than I expected, and certainly infinitely more than capable of
conducting a vigorous negotiation; for all that she is half my age, she is a
match for me intellectually and temperamentally. T’is a pity we shall not be
married long.
You might accuse me of waxing maudlin and sentimental, but I find that a
sentence of death tends to clear away much of the dross of life and force one
to see and accept what really matters in this world. Had we more time, I
believe I might have come to love her one day; a milder, more moderate emotion,
yet love all the same. Strange, that all our lives we had the example of our
parents’ marriage, and yet I never once managed to love another person with the
same certain clarity, that surety, which they seemed to possess innately; I
dare say that I have never loved before, not truly. How did you know that it
was love you felt for Milah, and that she loved you?
All this talk of love… I am doing my duty as king by marrying Lady Elsa, just
as you will do yours in marrying for the kingdom. Our parents were blessed in
that their affections also met the needs of political expediency; you were
blessed in your first choice of bride, that my betrothal to a foreign princess
allowed you a greater degree of freedom in selecting your wife from among the
lower orders of the aristocracy. I know you still honor Milah and her memory,
but keep my words in mind—few in life find themselves twice blessed in finding
and holding fast to love, and for those of our exalted rank the numbers are
even fewer. Treasure those memories and revel in that blessing, but do not let
emotion cloud your judgment when the time comes to indicate your second choice.
The Stars cannot shine on you always, Killian.
Sincerely,
Liam
===============================================================================
 
Killian runs his hands through his hair in frustration and agitation as he
reads his brothers letters again; he does not know whether or not to be
relieved or frightened by the utter lack of reference to a marriage or
betrothal for Sophia, but all of his instincts as a father have him cursing the
idea and its originator. Granted, Liam himself had been plight-trothed at a
young age to a Pastrusan Infanta and had also broken the pledge once he became
king, but Killian does not want to place such a burden on his own child’s
shoulders after having witnessed what it did to his brother. And all of Liam’s
glaringly obvious bits of fraternal “advice” make him want to tear the
parchment to shreds and burn it, while every single mention of the noble
candidates and their qualifications makes him selfishly wish to run away
altogether.
To make matters worse, he still has no clue how to appropriately broach the
topic of his suspicions regarding Emma’s parentage, nor how to bring about the
subject of marriage between them. Stars! He has not yet admitted that he wants
to forget all about the rules of their agreement, that he loves her more every
single day and despairs at the thought of losing her! He wants her to openly
claim her place by his side, not as his inferior but as his equal, as his
partner in life. Her cool words echo in his memory, taunting him with the
challenge hidden beneath:  I will be yours, Killian, but only so long as I may
remain my own.
How is he to convince her that being his wife will not mean that he expects her
to become someone else? That exchanged vows and rings will not diminish her
person or destroy her liberty? The heart of the issue remains: so long as she
believes herself to be a commoner, she will always stand behind her conviction
that binding herself to him will be to willingly enter a cage, and no amount of
persuasion on his part will convince her of her true identity. Or is he wrong
to doubt the strength and purity of their affection? Neither of them has made
grand speeches and bold declarations, but have not their deeds—both in and out
of the bedroom—proven that an uncommonly unbreakable love exists betwixt them
and will stand the trials of time and experience?
And, baring a miracle, it appears as if he will have very little choice in
ascending to a throne he has never desired. Can their love and a passionate
liaison like theirs survive the scrutiny of a court full of enemies just
waiting for an opportunity to pounce and destroy them? Will their
responsibilities as king and queen overtake them both, pushing their connection
and their family life to the margins? That Emma will rise to the occasion, he
has absolutely no doubts, but can he be husband, lover, father, confidant and
king? And this mooted betrothal for Sophia—can he set aside his fond paternal
love and look at her future as a mere piece of political strategy? He has
rather foolishly been hoping, in the absentminded way of devoted fathers of
little girls, that the subject of his daughter’s marriage would never be
brought to his attention. Now, the thought alone is enough to put him in need
of a strong brandy, no matter than the day has just dawned and he has yet to
break his fast.
Shoving the letters back into his drawer of unanswered correspondence, he looks
down at himself and swears at his already rumpled appearance—cravat undone and
hanging twisted down his chest, shirt coming untucked, and nearly all the
buttons of his waistcoat not in their proper place. Nothing short of a bout of
vigorous exercise, a long and steamy bath, and a fresh change of clothes will
do in order to bring his body and mind into any semblance of order. The thought
of burying himself in Emma’s lush, yielding flesh, of spending hours exhausting
themselves in amorous activities, gives him a proud, aching cockstand in
seconds. Stars! How he hates all the subterfuge and yearns to proclaim his love
for her to all the world, if only so that losing themselves at all hours of the
day could be a regularly anticipated occurrence. Letting out a frustrated
groan, he strides out of the library and toward his rooms, prepared to put on
proper boots and fetch a jacket before heading out to the stables and a ride
with Triton.
===============================================================================
 
The summer months had slowly turned to autumn as Snow and Emma worked the long
days of harvest side by side; only a few of the village men had returned from
the front lines, and most of those had become ill from camp fevers, were
stricken with the soldier’s pox, or had been severely wounded. Despite the fact
that the Shepherd family normally kept to themselves, many of the villagers
eagerly shared letters and news with Emma while she was in the market, passing
along any word of where her father had been or delivering one of his all too
brief, too few missives. The ladies had worked tirelessly, counting down the
days until winter when the fighting season would end; David’s homecoming was an
event so eagerly anticipated that Emma’s birthday had passed without being
celebrated or even spoken of, both women wordlessly agreeing that commemorating
it could wait until their family was reunited once more.
Emma was perched on the plough horse’s back, her small heels digging into his
flanks to encourage him and hands dug into his mane to keep her balance; the
soil, thankfully, simply needed a good turning rather than the smooth, even
furrows it would require in spring before the planting. She was deep in the
fields when in the distance she saw a group of riders coming down the lane and
stopping before the cottage.Papa’s home!
She tugged on Pilot’s mane harshly, shouting the words over and over as if the
horse would understand their import. Still dragging the plough in their wake as
they changed directions and headed for home, she did not even notice the jagged
line she made, tearing across the relatively orderly rows; nor would she notice
it until after the thaw, a tangible sign of their grief etched in the soil. As
she drew closer, she could only watch as all of the men who had ridden up—three
in all—exited the cottage and mounted their horses, quickly wheeling around and
taking the lane back toward the village. Emma pulled Pilot to a stop, confused
and a little ashamed at her mistake. She was just about to turn the horse
around and return to the fields when she heard it: a gut-wrenching, ear-
piercing wail of agony.
Emma gasps as she startles awake, the phantom sound of her mother’s keening
still ringing in her ears. Her heartbeat and harsh panting gradually slow to
their normal, unlabored rhythms in the quiet of the early morning. Somehow, the
absence of that remembered noise reminds her of the dreadful, eerie silence
that had followed nearly 15 years ago. Snow did not shut down completely in
shock, did not grieve by ceasing to work or eat or bathe. Day after day, she
had helped Emma bring in the last of the crops and prepare their lands and home
for winter. In all ways she behaved just as she had before the king’s
messengers arrived with the letter of condolence and thanks, save that she
never spoke a word about her lost love or mentioned his name ever again; Snow
hardly spoke at all, and that only as much as was strictly necessary.
Naturally, the women of the village had learned of David’s fate upon the safe
return of their own soldiers, and quite a few were sympathetic to Snow’s and
Emma’s plight. But their offers of assistance and soft compassionate words were
met with a stony silence, the sole exception being that when the apothecary’s
wife had suggested it was time for Emma to learn a trade and that her husband
was more than willing to take Snow on as a partner and make Emma his
apprentice; that conversation had sent Snow into a blistering tirade, which had
the other woman scrambling for the exit and Emma unable to look into her eyes
at market for the better part of a year. She learned by slow, awkward degrees
how to smooth over ruffled feathers and affronted sensibilities, and also came
to a very important conclusion: to love is to be weak and vulnerable, and love
breeds pain.
All through the tedious, anxious day these remembrances and thoughts of her
mother, her father, and their ill-Starred love tumble through her brain,
attempting to weaken her grim determination. She had made her resolution to
throw herself on Killian’s mercy nigh on a week ago, yet none of her several
plans seem to possess any merit save the one she savors the least. Thus,
reluctantly and with more than a little trepidation, Emma asks Francine if
Sophia’s bath can be managed without her assistance this evening, profoundly
grateful that the oblivious nanny ascribes her distracted state to womanly
troubles and quickly shoos her off to her “rest”.
Yet any notion of relaxation and sleep could not be further from her mind; she
briefly visits her bedroom to collect her robe and a bottle of the scented oil
she knows Killian prefers. As she fetches her things, she recalls her thoughts
from that morning walk in the hours and minutes just before she met him and he
turned her world upside down. How naïve and self-righteous she had been in
believing she could never stoop to enticing and enthralling a lover, as if
throwing defiance at the Stars and daring them to place temptation at her feet!
But then, she would never have imagined meeting a man who compels her the way
Killian does; never imagined anything like their arrangement could exist; never
imagined that her foolish heart would ruin everything by falling in love…
Tonight represents an apology and a peace offering, an act of contrition as
well as an attempt to soften the blow; she hopes and prays that Killian is much
like any other man, in that he will likely be more lenient, more forgiving if
completely, sensually sated.
As adept at lying to herself as the next person, it never enters Emma’s
conscious mind that her intended seduction can be seen in any other light save
her own: that truly it is a plea to be loved in return, a request to be allowed
to stay in the one place where she has felt accepted and safe, an open yearning
to be kept near all the objects of her love and affection. She refuses to see
her plan as a secure snare upon her lover’s heart and body, because she refuses
to believe—to even hope!—that he loves her in return (and if she suspects that
that his feelings are more than a match for her own, Emma’s feet could not
touch the secret stairs this night).
She ascends and enters his room as cautiously as ever, despite knowing that
Killian remains below with Sophia and Gautier has finished with his chores for
the evening. She tiptoes through his closet and into his bathing chamber; this
is not her first return visit, but she has not been alone in here before, the
luxurious opulence overawing her yet again as she draws her bath and begins to
cleanse and perfume her skin. The slightly mysterious scent of Moonblooms
permeates the air and tangles with the rising steam from the hot water, though
Emma is sparing with the oil—the essence of the flower takes a great deal of
time, effort, and quantity of blossoms to extract, making it very rare and the
cost very dear. Even the very wealthy balk at the expense of the perfume; but
for most, it is the lack of knowledge, access to the blossoms, and a
disinclination to labor which keeps them from acquiring the prized oil.
Given the frequency of her nocturnal activities with her lover, Emma’s ability
to harvest the necessary number of flowers which can only be collected at night
has been severely limited; the full yield extracted over the duration of her
residence at Thistledown is but ten drops, every one added to her jot of clean
oil and the dab of lotion for after her bath. That she made these cosmetics by
hand just for Killian’s delectation serves as a part of her penance—though he
would dearly have enjoyed behaving otherwise, he has kept to his promise not to
shower her with expensive gifts; since she has broken the terms of their
agreement by loving him, she finds it appropriate to thus make a sacrifice of
the fruits of her labor.
Carefully, methodically, she rubs the clean oil into her wet skin under and
above the hot water, her focus on the task of preparing herself sending her
into a kind of trance state in which her anxious energy slowly dissolves and is
refashioned according to her purpose. Tonight is for Killian, for meeting his
minutest needs and exceeding his wildest desires. As she drains the now murky
water, wicks away the excess moisture from her skin with a towel, and proceeds
to work the lotion into her flesh, Killian fills her every thought.
He will be pleased when he touches her warm body and will revel in its supple
softness, in the enticing aroma of Moonblooms rising from her. He will be
pleased to see her golden tresses—washed and brushed to a lustrous, silky
sheen—spread out across his pillows and to see the neat blonde curls above her
sex inviting his gaze to travel lower. He will be pleased by her earnest and
eager desire to please and devotedly serve him. Her pose will communicate
abject surrender, but her presence in his bed will subtly signal an invasion, a
need to conquer and control. She meticulously sets her scene and now awaits the
player she intends to direct.
Her hands begin to wander over her skin, her mind still focused on what will
bring Killian the most pleasure and recalling a hundred fantasies whispered of
in this very bed. But like all firsts, what burns brightest is the memory of
their first time together—uninhibited and reckless against the table in her
cottage—and the crystal clear image he had conjured for her from his own
dreams. Though she owns no diaphanous veils of silk, no gaudy tissue to drape
over her body, she also possesses no shame in baring all of her flesh to her
lover. Emma closes her eyes and skims her fingers all across her skin, seeking
those places that Killian adores exploiting to make her writhe and moan beneath
him. She keeps her pace slow and unhurried, content to softly explore in order
to while away the time.
Her timorous questing proves more effective that she could have imagined,
accustomed as she is to Killian’s warmer, larger, and more skilled hands; but
something about her own softer and slightly cooler fingers, her smaller palm,
and the multiplied sensation of both touching and being touched spurs her to
expand her area of discovery. She palms both of her breasts, hissing in delight
at the way her nipples tighten and her hands start to shake at the silken brush
of her hardened peaks. She skims downward, cupping them and pressing the mounds
of flesh together; though no longer slippery with cosmetics, she knows just how
slick her breasts can be when covered in clean oil or lotion, and an image
flickers to life behind her eyes—their bodies glossy with sweat and oil,
glistening and gleaming in the candlelight, the hard, hot flesh of her lover’s
cock effortlessly gliding between the breasts she presents to him as an erotic
offering.
A low groan shatters the illusion that she remains alone—lost in her own
fantasies, she did not hear Killian enter the room and has no idea how long he
has been standing there watching her; long enough for his trousers to look
uncomfortably tight, his cravat to be tossed aside, and his waistcoat and shirt
to be fully unbuttoned and untucked. Rather than startle and allow him to break
her focus, Emma responds to his gaze by sinking deeper into her erotic
performance, by permitting her body to become more aroused. Though she closes
her eyes to focus purely on the sensations she creates for herself, merely
knowing that he watches and yearns for her flushes her whole being with pride
and desire. She burns for him alone, and for his pleasure.
Finally, her hands begin their slow descent toward her sex and she opens her
eyes to watch him, to gauge his response, to anticipate what he hungers for
most in this moment. When her fingers brush past her curls, she discovers just
how inspiring, just how sensually enticing one’s imaginings can be. Her pearl
of flesh feels hot and hard to her touch, and the slightest caress sends
shivers racing up her spine; slowly, she parts her lips and dips one finger
toward her entrance, pulling another groan from Killian who now kneels on the
foot of the bed. His powerful body, blissfully nude, radiates contained energy,
as if he were a dangerous predator coiled and ready to strike at the slightest
provocation. All that leashed desire waits to spring upon her, but can be
either banished or controlled by her will.
She sighs as she effortlessly sinks two fingers into her quim, her walls slick
and already beginning to tremble with need. She spreads the lips of her sex
open wider with one hand, while slowly thrusting into herself with the other.
The warm caress of his hand clasping her ankle is not unexpected, her eyes
narrowing upon him as if displeased. She frowns and shakes her head. “Watch.”
He jerks away from her in surprise, unaccustomed to her commanding him; but he
obeys instinctively, curious and excited to see this new side of his Emma. She
thrusts harder, her hips beginning to roll in time with her fingers, and the
bold touches to her clit. She cries out, his attention instantly riveted by
what she does to herself. “Yes. Watch. Watch what the thought of you does to
me, Killian. See what you make me want. How you make me need.”
His delighted, wicked smirk twitches to life as it dawns on him that Emma is
trying to fulfill one of his fantasies. He crawls closer on the bed, careful
not to actually touch her. He breathes deep and lets out a long sigh before
smiling up at her again, and naughtily leaning over her. He places a hand on
either side of her hips, oh so vigilant to keep to the letter of her command;
he closes his eyes and breathes her in, the scent of her arousal and the
enticing perfume. He skims the air just above her flesh, just above where she
strokes. “Are you certain you do not wish for my help—my guidance—my caress?
Are you quite positive that you do not want something other than your own
fingers buried in that lovely pussy? Filling you in ways that you cannot manage
on your own? Bringing you to the precipice of ecstasy and then catching you
once you fly free?”
Emma bites her lip hard—the warmth of his skin and the heat of his breath flows
along her needy flesh; her own touch no longer feels as good as it did before
he blazed into the room and captured her attention. “If I give in, then you
will make this all about me. You always worship me… Let me worship you. Shall I
tell you something wicked? Just before I realized you were here, a thought—a
fantasy flashed across my mind. Would you like me to share it?”
Killian bites back a moan, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent once more
before nodding for her to continue. The sight of his cock, red and swollen with
a bead of his essence just beginning to form at the tip fills her with
confidence and satisfaction. “I imagined us, both of us sweaty from fucking;
but we were also covered in oil, our skin so slick and slippery. I was playing
with my breasts, pushing them together for you, kneading them at your command.
You crawled up my body, placing kisses over my stomach; then higher, sucking
one nipple and then plucking the other, switching back and forth. You commanded
me to stay still, but I couldn’t stop; and then you were kneeling above my
stomach and your cock…”
“Stars have mercy, you vixen! Tell me!”
She smiles at the desperation, at the need in his voice. “Your cock was snug
and hot, sliding so easily between my breasts. Warmer, harder than your hands…
Is that something you have fantasized about?”
Killian lifts his head and practically glares at her. “No, but I will now, you
bloody temptress!” The timbre of his aroused growl darts directly to her sex,
setting light to the orgasm that had been out of her reach only moments before.
Her back arcs, pulling her shoulders from the bed, as euphoria sparks along her
nerves. She vaguely hears his whimper of longing as he pulls her drenched
fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean; aftershocks ripple across her skin
and she cries out at her heightened sensitivity as he buries his head between
her legs and laps up every last drop of her arousal. Emma’s entire body
shudders, vibrating with her release and the aching emptiness of
dissatisfaction; thoughts of Killian, visions and sensual impressions of him
made her come, but there is a hollowness to such a completion.
She drags her fingers through his hair and yanks roughly, bucking her hips
sharply upward to highlight her silent directive. Confusion and lust haze the
normally brilliant blue of his eyes. Using his momentary hesitation to her
advantage, Emma wraps her legs around his torso and flips their positions so
that he lays on his back, staring up at her with surprise, awe, and hunger
“Tonight is about your pleasure, my prince. Let me worship you. Let me bring
you pleasure.”
She undulates her hips to emphasize her meaning, the moisture of her essence
marking his skin as she slowly glides down his body. He hisses when her wet
heat swirls around his cock, teasing with light, damp brushes. He bucks his
hips up beneath her, but she anticipates him, moving so fast, yet so gracefully
that she has the base of his shaft gripped in her fist and her mouth loosely
wrapped around the head before his hips reconnect with the mattress below their
bodies. She twirls her tongue around the crown, waiting for him to open his
eyes, soaking in the look of ecstatic pain etched in the handsome planes of his
face.
The unexpected satisfaction of having his cock so lovingly cradled in her mouth
prompts him to throw his head back on a groan. Watching Emma pleasure herself
was an agony unto itself that had him perilously close to orgasm; sinking into
her body, even the shortest depth, has him struggling momentarily. When he
finds his control again and opens his eyes, orbs of jade fire meet him from
where they hover above his body. “I want to know everything—what you like, what
you want more of. Don’t be afraid to tell me, my prince; indeed, I look forward
to it.”
Killian does not bother holding back his cry of triumph, of bliss when she
sucks him deeper into her mouth and throat. Neither of them needs words to know
that he enjoys every second of being inside her, his groans and gasps saying
all that language cannot; but he peppers the moment with bits of praise,
sliding his hands through her golden hair to both encourage her and to better
appreciate the view of his flesh disappearing into her body. Whenever his
breath hitches in his throat, she repeats whatever motion prompted the reaction
almost to the point of his climaxing; despite them not having indulged in this
particular act too often, Emma instinctively understands when to draw back from
the point of no return.
Again, and again, she surprises him, increases the erotic torture until he is
early at a fever pitch, mindless with the pleasure she has so devotedly
lavished upon him and desperate with the need to spill himself inside her, to
brand her with his seed as she has branded him with her love. Though the word
has not passed her lips, the power of it resonates in her every action, in her
meticulous attention to his pleasure, to his desires. Finally, words become
frantically necessary. “Stars, Emma! Let me come, please! Mercy, my wickedly
perfect Star! Have mercy!”
At his begging, she takes him further, deeper into her throat and swallows
rhythmically, mimicking the ripples of her sheath that send him spiraling into
bliss. Killian, helpless to prevent it, shouts as she milks his cock, as his
body submits to hers in wave after wave of release. He feels the siren call of
sleep, the draining need to rest and rejuvenate his body, but he refuses to
succumb to any seductive song save Emma’s. He drags her up his body and kisses
her ferociously, drinking in the taste uniquely her own and the traces of his
seed on her tongue. He plunders her mouth while his hands wander, one stopping
at her breasts to fondle and tweak while the other unerringly finds her quim.
He groans, both at the salty sweetness of her mouth and the discovery that
pleasuring him has affected her just as deeply; he plunges two fingers into her
lush, dripping cunt, eager to reciprocate her lavish attentions. He wraps the
one arm around her back, effortlessly rolling them and pinning her body beneath
his while he continues to pillage her mouth. Slowly, yet with obvious intent,
he kisses his way down her throat, her chest, her breasts—all while he
continues thrusting his fingers in her now quivering heat. Finally, finally, he
brings his mouth to her sex, making her tremble in earnest; he throws one of
her legs over his shoulder and pins her hips to the bed with a possessive hand.
Nothing could pull him away from rewarding such beautiful efforts to please
with another orgasm. Nothing could sway him from making her scream over and
over in ecstasy. Nothing could make him stop devoting his attention to
commencing yet another glorious night of love-making—except what happens.
“Killian! Stars help me, but I love you.” Her words break free on a sob,
leaving him absolutely stunned and speechless. He notes the sorrow on her face
and the glistening in her eyes, but that the cry leaving her throat was broken
and anguished, and that her tears do not spring from the same source of joy and
hope as his feelings do, remains momentarily lost to him. She loves him. All is
right and perfect in the world.
“I am so sorry! I never meant… Feelings—Love!—has no place in our arrangement
and I know that this is entirely unacceptable! The very thought must disgust
you or at least offend your dignity, but I felt that dishonesty on my part,
continued dishonesty, would only render a later revelation more painful to you
and be dishonorable on my part. I shall not ever repeat the repellant
sentiment, but neither shall I object should you wish to terminate our liaison,
Your Highness. I am prepared for the consequences, and shall be ready to quit
the Hall—”
“Emma!” Contrition and shame and anxiety mark her face, only to deepen when his
interjection silences her. She casts her gaze downward and bites her lower lip,
her whole being abjectly miserable in a way that astonishes and confounds him.
He cups her cheek in his hand before gently urging her to look up at him. Her
pained gaze finally catches upon his smiling countenance, slowly shifting to
confusion and then to growing panic.
“Your feelings mean—your love means the world to me, Emma, and I honor them
all. But I could never so abuse your affections as to be repulsed by them,
because the plain truth of the matter is that I love you as well. And I want
far, far more than our naïve, misguided arrangement could have ever given us. I
want you to love me forever, and I want to cherish you until the Stars burn
out! Marry me, Miss Emma Shepherd! Marry me.”
She releases the hands that had gripped hers as if burned and staggers to her
feet, a strangled gasp leaving her mouth. He looks up, shocked to witness her
face filling with horror and wild terror. He stands and reaches for her, but
she shuffles backward before blindly searching for her robe and clutching it to
her chest. Her mouth opens and closes, malformed words dying on her lips as she
continues to haltingly walk toward the wall. Finally, she turns and dashes for
the entrance to the secret passage.
“What is wrong, my love? Emma! Come back here.” His strides eat up the distance
between them and he grabs her about the waist well before her outstretched hand
can touch the door. She shrieks and recoils from his grasp, catching his off-
guard with an elbow to the stomach. He doubles over, winded rather than
injured, yet hurt all the same.
“Do not touch me again! And I will never marry you. Never!” With chilling
finality she makes her escape, leaving a completely perplexed and decidedly
heart-sore prince in her wake.
***** Chapter 27 *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: As promised, the next chapter. To the guest reviewer who brought
     up this issue: I understand how Emma's reaction may have come across
     as unexpected, but hopefully this chapter will provide the answer to
     your question; while honesty is an important part of their
     relationship, there is much that has been left unsaid between Emma
     and Killian. Not to mention that most real live couples hardly sit
     down and have completely honest and exhaustive conversations about
     everything important to them before they throw themselves into a
     relationship (let alone accounting for tangents in conversation). And
     yes, there is a bit of a time lapse between the last chapter and this
     one. Again, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing. Provided
     my health continues to improve, I should be posting chapters more
     regularly, and although I don't have a specific chapter/word count I
     am aiming for, we are about half way through the story as I have it
     planned. :)
To say that Emma and Killian have trouble sleeping after this encounter would
be an understatement of the facts; but then, as neither manages to settle their
thoughts and emotions enough to even consider seeking the hollow solace of a
glaringly empty bed, it would be an overstatement as well.
===============================================================================
With a little under an hour remaining until dinner Killian rides into the
stable's courtyard with Fairfax hard at his heels, the older man and horse duo
sweating and panting heavily after their exertions of the day and mad dash
homeward. After a full day of Emma blatantly avoiding him he had sought solace
in the hard labor of repairs yet to be completed on the dormitories, having
Triton saddled long before sun-up and returning as late as possible without
alerting his staff to the tension betwixt him and Sophia's governess this past
week. The grinding, brutally physical work has provided Killian with a much-
needed outlet for his frustrations and a focus for his wayward thoughts, yet it
has also given him time to consider every possible angle to his current
predicament and how, hopefully, to solve the problems which sparked this
quarrel between them.
He knows that Emma will resist his efforts to speak with her, but loath as he
is to utilize the disparity of rank and his status as her employer in order to
gain an audience with her, he knows that it is the only card he has to play;
her freedom means the world to him, yet he must stoop to taking it away from
her if only to have the opportunity to explain and to restore peace of mind to
them both. He sighs wearily as he makes his way to his rooms to wash up and
dress appropriately, for he also knows that he will need to bare all in order
to have even a fool's hope of convincing her of the truth and bridging the
chasm her withdrawal has created. For whatever reason, Emma fears love; he
accepts the fact and respects it, but potentially overcoming that fear will
take great courage on his part—the courage to open his mind and his soul to her
and to risk her continued rejection.
The meal passes in a desultory fashion for him, his anxiety robbing him of his
normal conversational skills and enjoyment of the companionship of his most
trusted servants. Though her behavior appears perfectly correct to one and all,
Emma maintains a polite distance from him and almost imperceptibly alters the
discourse of any comment upon any topic which the other diners broach which
might lead to a direct interaction with Killian. Her consummate skill in
deflecting and rebuffing his contributions to the general conversation fills
him with a grudgingly acknowledged awe and admiration—yet one more proof to him
that her mother was more than a mere farmer's wife and subtly trained her
daughter to someday be prepared to grasp her birthright.
When the footmen clear the final course before dessert, he lays down his gambit
and rises from his seat. "Please, all, remain in your seats. I have many
letters and other affairs to attend to this evening which I cannot ignore a
moment longer. Given the increasing chill in the weather, I do believe that
tomorrow should be the last week's end where your underlings should be allowed
to venture into the village; it would be folly to continue to allow such
outings when winter storms could strike without warning. Please encourage your
charges to take advantage of this final opportunity. Unfortunately, I must
single out one of you to remain behind."
For the first time this evening, Killian captures Emma's undivided attention
and moves to secure it. "Miss Shepherd. We have been unable to discuss Sophia's
progress lately, so I would ask that you come and see me at two hours before
midday. I expect a thorough accounting, and I would like for us to consider
adjustments and additions to her curriculum. My apologies for impinging upon
your rest and recreation, but I feel that it is imperative that we take the
time now to set forth certain matters. Once again all, thank you for your
diligence and hard work. Good evening."
He walks out with his head held high and counts it a victory that she did not
openly protest or demur at his request, nor did she allow her doubtlessly
pricked pride to reveal its pique. He does, however, continually beseech the
Stars to dampen her righteous anger with him and give her a forgiving and
receptive spirit on the morrow.
===============================================================================
Emma had thought that she had been granted a reprieve over the last few days
when Killian had absented himself from the house for most of the day; she
doubted that his pride would have healed, but at least that he did not mean to
dismiss her from his service for her crimes of loving him and rejecting him.
Immediately after her flight from his bedchamber, she had begun packing her
clothes in anticipation of the need to be gone at a moment's notice. A part of
her had also been furious with him for not only confessing his own love (a fact
which she increasingly believes to be true, in spite of her best efforts to
convince herself that it is ludicrous and impossible), but for daring to
command her hand in marriage that way. He knows her views upon the subject;
their agreement had firmly stipulated that he provide her with sensual
knowledge and experience only. No permanence was supposed to apply to their
attachment, and no emotions were to be considered save practicality and
convenience.
But then, somewhere along the way, life happened. Sophia had so bewitched and
enchanted that Emma felt as if her life suddenly possessed meaning and purpose.
She was meant to be the vivacious girl's governess; she was destined to fill
the space left vacant by death because she too knew what it was to lose a
mother's love. She could sympathize with Sophia in ways that no one else close
to the princess could. She had never allowed herself to even dream of wishing
to have a child, of yearning for the comfort and companionship of a husband…
Those roles which other people take for granted as their due in life had long
been consigned to the realm of fairy stories and legends for Emma. And then she
saved Sophia, and her heart had soaked up the unexpectedly discovered hope like
life-giving dew and had begun to awaken, blossom, and open…
For that flowering, Emma cannot help but be grateful to Killian, because in
spite all of her fear and anger a part of her revels in the knowledge that her
affections are returned. Yet she feels even more deeply and truly that love can
only end in pain, in suffering, in misery. So, it is with clear mind and heavy
heart that she arrives promptly in the study portion of the library as per
Killian's request, her belongings packed and ready to be moved back to her
cottage when the call to march should sound. Last night she had quietly bid her
goodbyes to the sleeping Sophia and Francine; this morning had been spent
cleaning and organizing the stillroom, ready to use items neatly labelled and
placed within easy reach in their accustomed places so that the staff may find
necessary tonics easily enough without her guidance.
When she presents herself at the appointed hour Killian does not move for
several minutes, staring out the frost-edged window at the blanket of dead
leaves covering the lawn and gardens outside. Were it not for the weighty
thoughts and worries on each of their minds, the silence could have been termed
peaceful and companionable. Emma laces her fingers, holding her hands near her
waist in a reminder not to fidget. He continues to look at the autumnal scene,
thumb of one hand repeatedly, absently brushing over his lower lip. The train
of her thoughts, of following the same path of his thumb, startles her
physically so that she feels the need to cover the action with movement; she
sets her hands behind her back, right hand locked tight around her left wrist.
More silence hangs between them before he finally, finally heaves a sigh.
"I apologize for my highhandedness, for commanding your presence here, but
there are several things we must discuss, Emma. Indeed, there is something of
great importance which you need to hear, which I have selfishly kept from you.
My love—my affections for you aside, I should have confided the truth to you as
soon as I suspected it." When he looks at her, her face is at first filled with
nervousness—that he will immediately press his suit again, no doubt—and then
with confusion at the unexpected direction his words have taken. He remains
behind his desk, but faces forward and leans upon his arms to help communicate
how serious and intent this conversation will be. He waves her forward and
motions to one of the chairs before returning to his engaged pose, waiting for
Emma to be seated before beginning.
"From the very first moment I saw you, Emma, I believed that you were not quite
what you seemed. I never once doubted your sincerity, but rather I doubted the
story you had been lead to believe all of your life and which you once shared
with me. Tell me, Emma, do you know where your parents came from?"
The question startles her, entirely unanticipated in its drift and nature. "I—I
suppose I never thought about it. We are born into this world and we move very
little, unless our Stars have greater fates in mind for us. What exactly are
you implying? My lord."
He flinches at her question and at the honorific, but refuses to let his
discomfort distract him. She deserves the truth, all of it. "I am implying—nay,
I am stating that I believe that your parents were both more important and more
obscure than they pretended to be."
He opens one of the many drawers on his desk and places a pile of documents
upon the blotter; the pages are loosely bound together by a ribbon—Emma
recognizes it as yet another missing one of her own—as none of them are
perfectly uniform with the others, many pieces yellowed with age or possessing
rough, uneven edges. Killian places a hand gently, reverently atop the sheaf
before passing it over the desk and placing it within her reach. "This is my
evidence, my proof if you will, of who—I believe—you truly are, Emma Shepherd.
These disparate journals, letters, and deeds form a narrative. I encourage you
to read them at your leisure, but let me share the larger story with you."
As if the power of the words cannot be contained any longer, Killian stands and
begins to pace as he speaks. "Nigh on thirty years ago, a little bit of a
scandal passed over the borders from the White Kingdom and made its way into
the ears of our nobles. Quite the romantic and foolish little drama such as
titillates and delights the often bored and restless courtiers—so long as none
of their children are named or suspected—it was bandied about that a young
woman, the daughter of a duke and sole heiress to one of the kingdom's greatest
duchies, had quite openly fallen in love with a commoner. I hesitate to bring
up such a contentious topic right at this moment, but it is vital to the story.
I believe I have told you just how rare it is for someone like this young
heiress, someone very much like me, to be allowed to fall in love and to marry
for love.
"Yet, despite all her father's attempts to separate the young lovers and in
spite of a binding betrothal to another man made before their king many years
before, the little duchess refused to marry anyone except her young lover—a
man, born a farmer, but raised to a knighthood and place of stewardship in her
father's household. Now, this would not have been such a scandal here and now,
as we accept into the nobility any man or woman determined enough to pledge
themselves to knightly service and accord them great honor on behalf of their
sacrifices, but the duke belonged to an older generation and refused to
countenance the new match. In his anger, he banished his daughter to a manor on
one of his out of the way estates, hoping that time and distance would break
the bond. He also dismissed the young knight from service and threatened to
ruin any lord who would accept the man into their mesne*.
"More than a year passed, barely long enough for the gossip to have run its
course here, when new information arrived at the speed of lightning and with
the force of terrible thunder. There are many theories, and no one knows for
certain precisely what happened, but the heiress vanished one night without a
trace. According to reports sent to my father by the duke and by his sovereign,
there was no rescue attempt thwarted, no fight—she simply was in her bedroom
one night and gone the next morning. The duke and the king of the White Kingdom
had spared no expense in trying to locate the pair within their borders—for the
young man was also missing—but they made it perfectly clear that they would
wage war or worse in order to reclaim the lady. It is even rumored that the
knight's aged parents were tortured nigh unto death, but they never changed
their story, that they had not seen their son since the single night after the
duke had dismissed him.
"Thus, the duchess and the knight disappeared, effectively passing into myth
and legend, fueling the romantic dreams of noble and common alike as well as
serving as a dire warning of the consequences of crossing evil men with power.
But what you have in your hands proves that their story did not end there.
According to the chronicles of this kingdom, my father, mother, and brother
granted an audience to a young couple nearly six months after the rumored
disappearance of the heiress and her knight. The chronicler was dismissed, and
thus not present for the meeting, but my brother was; copies of pages from his
journal are included there and detail the entirety. It is a crime to alter or
destroy any documents produced by members of the Royal family, as they are
considered property of the State, so please do not ask how I came to possess
them—your ignorance on the matter will keep you safe.
"But in brief, the young woman was pregnant, and thus the couple was desperate
for shelter and a safe haven. My mother, disgusted by the behavior of the
girl's father and on account of her friendship with the current and former
duchesses, provided the heiress and her knight with the deed to a small farm.
You will no doubt have seen the actual deed, as the property granted to them is
now yours. The chronicle records the birth of a girl-child to the couple,
nearly 29 years ago to the day, as does my father's personal journal from the
time. I know that my mother's probably did as well, but after her death my
father ordered all of her effects—including letters and papers—to be burned; I
do know, however, that she did not dare send a message to her friend the
present duchess, the young heiress' stepmother, for fear that the duke or the
king would intercept it."
Killian finally dares to look at her to see what effect his story has had;
tears fill her eyes, but do not fall, as she stares far off into the distance.
Sorrow. Disbelief. Confusion. Anger. Fear. They all share a place in her
expression. He can bear the physical and emotional gulf between them no longer
and he dares to kneel at her feet, to smoothly remove the pages from her lax
grip, and to take her hands in his own. The chill of her skin shocks him into
gently rubbing her knuckles with his thumb, carefully coaxing her back from
wherever or whenever her mind has wandered. When Emma finally looks at him with
awareness and comprehension, he releases the breath he did not realize he was
holding.
"When you first came to my house, when I so arrogantly called you here in order
to thank you instead of coming to you and kneeling at your feet in gratitude as
I do now—the first conscious thought in my head, aside from thinking you a Star
dropped from the heavens to my doorstep, was that your dress looked almost
exactly like one worn by my mother in one of her portraits. I do not have a
copy here at present to show you, but it is a family sitting that used to hang
in our private apartments—one of many that were banished to gather old and dust
in the attic upon mother's death. Ironically, Liam himself will be bringing it
with him whenever he finally arrives. He knows only that I dearly love that
painting and wish to display it here in my home."
"Killian—."
"Please, Emma. Let me finish; let me say what needs to be said aloud. The dress
you wore, the one which you have saved and cherished for all of these years is
the exact same as the one in my family portrait. Your mother and father would
have fled her place of exile and captivity with little thought to clothes and
finery, and my mother was so giving and compassionate that she would have
thought to provide a wandering, bereft lady with some dresses befitting her
true station. But even if the dress can be dismissed as a coincidence, you my
dear Emma cannot. You own the exact piece of property deeded to the missing
heiress and her husband; you walk and talk like a woman born to all the
refinements and luxuries of life; you even know how to play an instrument, one
which takes years with the leisure to practice to master! An instrument that
you instinctively recognized and remembered how to play, though you had never
seen it in its true form!
"Your knowledge of herbs and simples—much of which can only be acquired as an
apothecary's apprentice or as part of the education concerning the duties of
the lady of the manor. You, Emma. I believe you are the missing heiress, and it
is my duty and will be my privilege to assist you in reclaiming your
birthright. But before I do this, I must once more ask for your forgiveness;
this time for not speaking sooner and thereby behaving dishonestly and
concealing the truth from you. At first, I told myself that I simply wished to
be absolutely certain, but that is a lie. The truth is that I wanted to keep
you all to myself; once you claim your inheritance, you will be a great
landholder in your own right and will need to travel to your duchy to ensure
its continued care and proper maintenance. I know precisely what duty and honor
will demand of you, what you will demand of yourself, and I selfishly wanted to
keep you with me always. I—."
"No." Her emphatic whisper breaks the flow of his argument with all the force
of a boulder plunged into a placid lake.
"Emma… What—?"
She pulls her hands away from his but places them gently on either side of his
face, mirth evident in her dancing eyes and her laughing cadence, neither of
which quite conceals the nervous anxiety and shocked denial. "No, I cannot
forgive you because there is nothing to forgive. Killian, I know that you love
me; as delightfully fanciful and strange as that is, I truly believe that you
love me. And I love you, so very much that at times it hurts to breathe. But it
is because I love you that I cannot let you continue to dupe yourself this way.
I simply cannot be a duchess! Nothing could be more preposterous!"
Her dismissive amusement shocks him to his very core, so much so that he almost
misses her declaration. Almost. "You are a duchess, Emma. I believe it with all
my heart and soul. Are not these papers and my word proof enough?"
She sighs, thumbs tracing his cheek lovingly and expression full of frustrated
affection. "Proof enough of the lengths you will go to in order to keep me with
you, to convince myself and others of the rightness of your mad scheme to marry
me… But I cannot let my own selfishness elect my course of action. I love you,
my Killian, my prince, but I cannot marry you. And because I cannot marry you,
you must needs marry another in order to secure the succession. I do not, nor
cannot hate you or despise you for doing what you must; as a prince, you are
wedded to your people. Whatever love you feel for me should not exceed the love
and care you have for your kingdom. That is the way of things, the way of power
and responsibility. But to continue on as we are? Killian, it would break me to
stand by and watch as you select another to be your helpmate. For my heart's
sake, at least, I cannot remain."
He cups her face gently in return, cradling her reverently with his hands as
his eyes pierce hers, speaking eloquently in the heat of his gaze. "I cannot
lie and claim that you possess my whole heart, Emma, but that does not mean
that I care little or nothing for you. I love my daughter; I love my brother; I
love and care for the people whose lives depend upon me; and I love you. I love
you so much that the thought of a life spent without you by my side as my
partner and equal torments me, and the idea of anyone else taking what is meant
for you alone fills me with horror and loathing. No one else could possibly be
the wife and queen that you could be. If you will not be my wife, then I refuse
to marry. I want your happiness above all others, but I cannot neglect my own
either by setting another in your place."
Her eyes momentarily fill with such inexpressible joy that Killian hopes that
he has finally convinced her of his truth and sincerity; but that happiness
quickly dims and she rises in agitated panic and dismay, pacing and wringing
her hands in order to keep him physically distant. "But you must! You are a
prince, Killian, and the council has commanded even the king, your own brother,
to marry and produce an heir if he can! You must produce more legitimate heirs,
which means you must marry; and the council will not accept our marriage. By
rights, you should marry a princess, and no matter what you have come to
believe, I am no one."
"I believe—" He reaches for her hands once more, but she pulls back too quickly
and slips through his fingers.
"Yes, you may. As a prince or as king you can believe that the sky is green and
the grass is red, and I doubt many would be wise enough or foolish enough to
contradict. But who else will believe such an outlandish tale? You say you have
proof, but what member of the council or which of your nobles will accept its
veracity, if it is to their advantage to disbelieve? And even if it were all
true, what then? Can blood alone make me into a lady, when all of my life I
have labored and tended to just one farm? When I have travelled no further than
ten miles from my simple cottage and worked the soil all on my own? I cannot
possibly learn how to be a princess! No matter how much joy and pride I would
have in being your princess and your wife, I cannot bring strife and enmity
between you and your people. Loving me, marrying me, will only bring you grief
and misery, and I love you too much to allow you to suffer when it is in my
power to do otherwise."
Exasperated and exhausted, he finally catches her by one arm, pulling her close
and securing his grip on her so that she has no choice but to face him.
Impatiently, but tenderly, he tips her chin up and stays silent until she
capitulates and looks him in the eye. She nearly melts at the intense hunger
and longing which lie naked in his expression. "Am I not already suffering
enough without you? Does your own suffering by denial bring you joy and
comfort? Does perpetual chastity hold such an appeal for you?"
He releases her chin when she tugs it away, but he keeps his grasp upon her arm
so that she cannot fully escape. Her response, when it comes, is directed
toward his boots and comes out a low and broken sound. "Love is suffering. Love
is pain and loneliness."
"If that were true, then how did your love and your presence breathe new life
into this house? Stars know I did the best I could, but my family? —Sophia and
I were missing something until you arrived and whisked her to safety; and that
something was missing from the first. You were missing, Emma. You cannot be
replaced. This is your home. You, me, and Sophia belong together in a way that
we never belonged before; together, we three are a family, a home."
"Are we, Killian? I have forgotten what it is to have a home. I lived in that
cottage for 28 years, but it ceased to be a home long ago." The rage and hurt
and resentment in her voice shreds his heart and his hard tried patience. He
folds her into his arms and tenderly strokes her hair, silently willing her to
give up her stubborn refusal to listen. He knew that he would need to unburden
himself of secrets, but now that the moment of truth arrives, he still finds
himself trembling in an agony of dread. He slowly collapses into the chair,
dragging her slightly resisting body with him and seating her in his lap. He
continues to stroke his hand over her hair as he tries to gather his thoughts
and his courage.
"We are family, Emma; far more than anything I had with Milah." She stills in
his arms, a shocked breath falling in the echoing, heavy silence of his
statement. Once more, he tilts her chin up so that he can look into her eyes as
he shares his own heartache. "I avoided speaking of this because I was
afraid—terrified that if you knew the truth, it might change how you saw me.
But in not sharing it with you, I think we created a space for mistrust and
misunderstanding. I never wanted any secrets between us, please believe that,
my darling. But if you care to listen, I am ready to tell you the story of my
marriage, so you can judge matters for yourself with the facts fully before
you."
Killian waits for her nod of assent and kisses her forehead in thanks for her
willingness to hear him out, drawing strength from her warm, comforting
presence as his mind's eye looks back across the years. "Milah's mother was a
lady of small standing in the kingdom and would have remained obscure had she
not formed a friendship with my mother in their youth. After she became queen,
my mother needed noble attendants to serve in her privy chamber—an ancient, but
necessary precaution for a monarch who needs to keep an eye on those who might
threaten his or her crown. My mother allowed a few council appointments, but
Lady Aeinor served as her chief lady in waiting from the day of her wedding
until the day she died. As part of her privileges, she was allowed to keep her
daughter at court with her, meaning Milah was practically raised in the royal
nursery alongside Liam and then myself.
"I cannot recall a time when I did not "love" Milah, but it was ultimately a
childish, naïve attachment. When my mother passed, father banished anything and
everyone who reminded him of her, including Lady Aeinor and by extension Milah.
It would be years before I saw her again, and like a child I assumed that she
would become a better version of her younger self as she aged.
"One day, after years of silence on her part, she smuggled a letter to me, as
she put it: a desperate plea for help. Among Lady Aeinor's few faults was in
choosing Milah's father, Lord Andre Tristis, as a husband. He was a rogue and a
gambler, and long exile from the court had left him a bitter, vindictive man;
he expected to live a life of ease, one where he could ride his wife's skirts
to some position of power and influence, but that all came crashing down upon
his head when my mother died. Apparently, so the letter went, he had promised
something to another lord many years before, and the man's son and heir was
cashing in the favor.
"To this day I don't even know what was promised or when, but Milah's
letter—travel worn and tear stained—indicated that their lands were forfeit and
that she would be married off to this stranger unless I or my father
intervened. What I could not know is that she had sent the same letter to my
brother; my father's spymaster had intercepted it—because messages sent to the
heir needed to be vetted by the king or council—and destroyed it per my
father's orders. They had no cause to believe that she would appeal to me as
she and Liam had been much closer in age and attachment in our younger days,
and security around the "spare" was not as strict at the time.
"I knew that my father would not lift a hand to save her, as he had little love
for their family—I did not understand the cause of the rancor and contempt he
held for them until later, but it was a known fact all the same. Not only did I
love Milah, but her message stroked my vanity—she wrote so beseechingly,
believing that I was a knight capable of relieving a damsel in distress of all
her troubles woes; her plight and my upbringing ensured that I could not find
it in me to willfully let a lady down, and so her gallant savior I would be. I
was so proud to be the hero that she needed and, with the honest eyes of a much
older man, glad of the opportunity to rebel, to shake off my father's yoke.
"I arrived, naturally, just in time to save Milah from an unwanted marriage. I
paid off the lordling and restored her family lands to her parents, spurning
all offers of repayment and redress. And, under the influence of her father's
careful manipulations and more brandy than I could tolerate, I humbly asked for
her hand in marriage. I was not yet betrothed and there were few ladies of
sufficient rank that were unwed at the time; Lord Andre chose his time and his
bait quite carefully indeed and succeeded in convincing me that the whole grand
plan was of my own devising. The only impediment was Milah herself.
"I will do her the honor of acknowledging her honesty—from the first, she had
quite kindly told me that her affection for me was from fond remembrances of
our shared childhood and that her heart belonged to another, someone unsuitable
from whom she had been tragically separated, she told me. I promised her that I
had enough love for the both of us, that I would be patient in winning her
heart, and that some couples began with less goodwill between them than we
possessed, etc. Unbeknownst to me, her father encouraged what he saw as her own
ploy to increase my ardor for her, but threatened to disown her if she refused
me out of hand. His daughter's marriage to the prince would give him adequate
scope for his need to feel important and he would not be thwarted in his return
to "power".
"We rode into the capital in style, drawing crowds as we went. Through Lord
Andre's aegis, we arrived precisely when the court would be in session and the
courtiers numerous enough to make the biggest scene imaginable. My father's
face grew darker and darker as I outlined the suitableness of the match, the
dearth of other foreign and domestic candidates, and—my own personal coup de
grace,which nearly caused the old schemer a heart fit—my willingness to be
struck from the succession in order to secure my happiness in marriage. There
was a fraught, private meeting with my father, his advisors, and my brother,
but ultimately I had my way. Milah and I were married, and I had the hope of
earning her love and devotion.
"But life as Princess Milah held far more appeal for her than I could have
realized it would. For all that my father might remarry, unlikely in the
extreme, and my brother might at any moment consummate his betrothal with his
intended, she became the first lady of the kingdom and everyone sought her
attention accordingly. Her behavior in public was above reproach, and I refuse
to paint the dead in unflattering hues, but she devoted her time and energy to
everything and everyone save me. My hopes for being loved in return died very
slowly, Emma; even the announcement of her pregnancy did not stop her
socializing nor bring us any closer. I felt entirely alone until the day Sophia
was born. And then, within a year, Milah was gone."
Killian pauses in his recitation, eyes yet hazy and distant as he relives the
past; Emma's eyes, long since overflowing with tears, gaze at him in awe,
compassion, and understanding. When he turns back to look at her, that
expression fills his heart once more with hope. He caresses her cheeks, fingers
wiping away the salty trails of her sympathy.
"You are right, Emma. Love is pain. Love takes a piece of our soul, a piece of
our very being and entrusts it to another. And such a trust, no matter how
earnestly received and entered into, creates the potential for sorrow. Because
I love my brother, I will experience pain when he dies; because I love Sophia,
it will grieve me to see her grow into a young woman one day and watch her fall
in love. Despite all the grief my feelings for her cost me, I loved Milah until
the day she died; and a part of me shall always love her, not the least because
of the daughter with whom she blessed me.
"I love you, my darling Emma, whether you choose to have me or not. But you
alone have the power to make me happy in that precious love, or to make me
suffer. Believe me when I say that my love for you is just as selfish as your
love for me; I know what is expected of me as a prince and my brother's heir,
but I have known a marriage lacking in love and I refuse to enter into another
one."
He kisses her forehead gently. "I won't press you on this now, but know this,
Emma Shepherd: I want you in my bed, in my arms, wherever you will let me have
you, until this lifetime shall pass away and beyond. I want to know you, to
share all of your burdens and your triumphs, and I will do my best to change
your mind. Eventually, but not now, darling. Now I want to know something, if
you are willing… You said that you do not know what a home is—will you tell me
why? Will you share why the very name of love, of marriage has you trembling in
terror? I vow that I will not renew my suit now, but will you please explain
why you said no?"
Not once does Emma doubt the aching honesty of a single word—his soul, clearly
perceptible behind his eyes, stands absolutely naked and vulnerable in the
light of truth. Did she not love his as deeply as she does, yet would she shed
enough tears to drown the world for the terrible solitude she recognizes in
him—an isolation like the one she lived in and experienced for fifteen years.
An epiphany strikes her so hard she gasps for breath: ever since coming to live
at Thistledown, she has not felt unwanted or unneeded, or like a burden;
without plan or intent, she has not once been or believed herself to be
disconnected, solitary. This belonging, this purpose and fulfillment are what
she will forfeit should she turn away from love forever.
The sheer magnitude of her near folly astounds her, and she can do nothing
except return his faith and trust in her in equal measure. Her voice trembles
softly at first, and though her words never come much louder than a whisper,
they gain strength and certainty as she goes. "When I was young, I never
doubted that my parents loved me; I was as secure in their affections as any
child could be. But as time passed, I came to believe that there was something
wrong with us—something wrong with me. I was never allowed to enter the village
alone, never encouraged to form friendships or bonds with anyone other than my
parents; curiosity about life in general was accepted and sated while we three
were together, but condemned when we were surrounded by strangers.
"And then the king's summons arrived, calling my father and other men of the
village to arms to serve in the border disputes. I remember that the farewells
between my parents were particularly bitter on my mother's part. She loved him
with so much of her being that she could not bear to be separated from him—I
cannot even recall a single night where he spent it away from her side until
the day he left for training. He bore the trial with patience and courage,
entreating me to care for her whilst he could not; I was a child of thirteen,
not yet fully a woman, but I was to be the one to care for her… I did not know,
but I might have suspected even then, that my mother simply could not and did
not feel for me with the same intensity at which she adored him.
"However, I learned that lesson all too well over the next five years after
word of his death came. She kept me even closer by her side, more constrained
than ever before. I felt in my heart that she clung to me, not as her daughter,
but as a remnant and keepsake of my father. It took her a long time to shrink
and fade, but she died the day that the official notice of his death was
delivered to our doorstep. I made certain she bathed and ate and clothed
herself; we worked the land together, but I could only trust her with the
simpler tasks. She hardly talked and she never smiled again, not until the day
she finally passed and her last breath left her body."
Emma sniffles and rubs at her tears with the back of her hand before looking up
at Killian with watery eyes. "Until my father's death, I had dreamed of one day
having a love like theirs, despite whatever flaws of mine might have prevented
it. After, I daily experienced at firsthand how destructive and horrifying love
could be if not checked properly. I did not mind my loneliness so much until I
sat in this very room and watched you and Sophia together; I wondered what
defects and blemishes in myself had caused me to be so unlovable, had stirred
up such antipathy in my mother's heart that she could not hold me to her as you
held your daughter. Why could she not have lived for me? How could she have
left me?"
Killian pulls her closer and cradles her head to his chest as she keens and
sobs, for the first time releasing the thoughts and emotions which she could
never bring herself to articulate until this very moment. He hushes her and
runs his fingers through her hair, much as he has done for a hurting and
weeping Sophia, casting his eyes up to the Stars in frustration and anger—how
could they have allowed Emma's suffering? How could a mother abandon her
innocent, friendless daughter to the vicious care and tender caprice of the
world? He has asked the same question many times before, but never did he think
to ask here and now and behalf of this woman in his arms—this bent yet
unbroken, fierce, strong woman who fills a hole in his soul. Surely, the Stars
could not be so cruel!
Yet on the heels of this thought, an awful, inescapable truth slams into his
mind and shakes him to the center of his being: Stars above, heknew! His
father—in all his mad and terrifying grief he had been lucid to the very end of
his life and that man forgot nothing. He had known—he had had to have known all
along exactly where the missing duchess lived, would have paid for more than
one spy to both ensure her safety and to report back upon every facet of her
life. It would be bad politics to do otherwise when harboring a refuge from
another kingdom. Which means that he had known that the only thing standing in
the way of any scheme to marry her off and secure the title and lands was the
life of one simple, disposable, forgettable farmer. His father had known
precisely what would happen from the moment he sent out his summons, and
accidents on the training grounds or the field of battle were easy enough to
arrange.
Another painful thought chills him to his very marrow—did Liam know what their
father had known? Does he know now? Has he known, from the very first letter?
Has he maneuvered Emma into his household for this very purpose? Killian
discards that thought immediately, ashamed of himself for having entertained it
for even a second. Whatever Liam's motives and machinations, Emma herself does
not believe that her parentage is any more exalted than it seems; she is
innocent—nay! —a victim in his father's schemes. May the Stars have mercy on
him, and on his brother should Liam have any foreknowledge of her parents'
tragic deaths! More than ever, his life and honor seemed destined, fated to
belong to her.
He cups her face in between his palms and brushes soft kisses against her wet
cheeks, her dewy eyelids, silently affirming his love and adoration in every
touch. She pants harshly, breaths coming in halted gasps as she tries valiantly
to calm herself. The horrible solitude of her past, the magnitude of her
disloyal thoughts about her parents' love, become mere echoes which no longer
possess the power of wounding; being held in Killian's arms, being surrounded
by his warmth and being cherished by his lips, washes away the present hurts
and soothes a healing balm upon her heart, finally purged of the poison which
had festered unchecked for so many years. Her fears are not suddenly and
irrevocably vanquished, but the thought of leaving him can no longer be
countenanced. For good or ill, come bliss or blight, Emma refuses to live
without his love as the constant of her every waking and dreaming moment. And
no words could adequately communicate her resolve where her actions will speak
just as eloquently.
There will need to be more conversation in order to fully mend the bridge
betwixt them, but the need to physically reinforce and reignite their bond
overrides the rational mind. Instead of landing chastely upon her brow, she
moves so that his next kiss meets her lips. And the next, and the next. Her
hands, which had pliantly and passively clung about his neck, now wander an
aggressive path meant to arouse: one diving into his hair and scratching his
scalp, and the other making speedy progress unwinding the knot of his cravat,
opening his waistcoat, and unbuttoning his shirt to seek hot skin. His patient
tenderness and gentle handling of her quickly rouses her impatience and ardor.
She tugs fiercely upon his silken strands and then presses her advantage in the
kiss when he moans in pleasure, invading his mouth with the warm, thrusting
assault of her tongue.
Her desire for him, reaffirmed in such spectacular fashion, quickly expunges
any gentlemanly thoughts from his mind, and he swiftly moves to help her
dispense with unnecessary garments. Sense would tell him that the library is
far too public, far too open for a dalliance, but their combined need has
already reached a fever pitch and cannot be denied. Her skirts are pulled up so
that she can move to straddle him and then held aside to prevent their impeding
the joining. Killian whimpers the instant her hand wraps around his erection,
the same moment that his fingers bury themselves in her ripe, ready quim. Emma
hisses, riding those long, elegant fingers as she strokes his cock, torturing
them both decadently and brazenly.
But the urgent necessity to consummate, to celebrate their connection anew,
whips their wanting higher. They share the same gasped breath when Emma guides
him to her entrance and slowly impales her dripping sex upon his. The exquisite
agony of the moment suspends itself—time and hearts shuddering to a blissful,
ecstatic halt at the sheer perfection of it all. Yet, like all such fleeting
interludes, the seconds recommence their march, and the overriding urge to seek
fulfillment crashes back upon the lovers with all the force of the incoming
tide striking the sands. Killian plants his feet firmly, and then thrusts up to
bury himself further in her scalding depths, slowly receding and dragging
against the walls of her rippling cunt before plunging back in.
He pistons relentlessly, wrenching a cry from Emma at each powerful, purposeful
drive, and while his kisses to her chin and throat share the same aim and
intent, they are soft and reverent, as if strategically applied to breaching
and shattering her resistance with means both foul and fair. He whispers wicked
endearments that have her practically vibrating in anticipation of her release.
Lost to the wild, erotic rhythm they both pant and shout each other's name at
their simultaneous, soaring climax. But rather than cool the lust riding
furiously through their blood, desire pricks harder and anchors itself deeper
under their skin, leaving them violently unsated and unsatisfied.
Killian lifts her effortlessly from his lap, pinning her to the nearby chaise
and kneeling at her feet in smooth succession. He dives in and begins to devour
her, kissing and licking and sucking at the lush pink flesh on display, eagerly
lapping up their combined releases. Emma moans and thrashes, but his arms and
hands fix her in place, so that she may writhe and squirm but may not escape
his sensual onslaught. He burrows his tongue deep, the sinuous, flexible muscle
curling and contorting itself into every crevice, seeking each deliciously
remembered spot which will yield it a carnal feast. The pressure of his thumb
upon her still sensitive bud causes her whole body to shudder and shiver with
aftershocks of her previous and foreshocks of her impending orgasm. Twice she
explodes, twice he moans in abject victory and arrogant surrender when he
succeeds in causing her pleasure and milking it from her quim.
Wordlessly, she reaches for him after he brings her down from the heights of
bliss, beseeching him not to send her out to the Stars without him again. He
stands, grabs her hands and helps her to her feet; yet she is not on them for
more than the barest of moments. He stalks forward with her loosely clinging to
him, quickly pressing her back against the closest shelf. He curses her skirts
once more as he reaches under them, wrapping his hands around the backs of her
thighs and lifting her—arms wrapped under her derriere while she slips her legs
more securely about his waist. He holds her tightly, body pressing her against
the hard wood as he lines up his cock for her, allowing the force of her
falling weight to plunge him in fully.
Emma gasps, reaching behind her for something to hold onto, dislodging several
thick and aging volumes before bracing her hand against a corner of the shelf.
She has no idea how he maintains his momentum, the furious force of every
advance and retreat, let alone how he can keep up the flow of his words, his
continuous crooning of promises, nonsense, and vows which pull her further
under his spell. The brutal power of their coupling, far from frightening her
with its intensity, fuels her burning need for him and, for a moment, makes her
forget every single hurdle which stands between them and ultimate happiness.
There is little finesse in his motions, but the intensity of their connection
and his ceaseless attention to her every expression and the promptings of her
body allows him to have her clenching furiously around him in what feels like
seconds.
Emma feels that she must be losing her mind to the pleasure, for it takes her
longer than normal to recover her sense. When she does, she finds herself
draped across several cushions on the floor before the fireplace, cool air and
Killian's hands caressing the exposed flesh of her arse, her thighs, and, with
the lightest and most tender of brushes, her still tremoring sex. As if
completely in tune with her—heart, mind, body, and soul—he begins touching with
the intent to arouse as soon as she comes back to herself, and before too long
he sheathes himself inside her once more. He slips an arm around her waist to
adjust the angle, striking her as deeply as possible; she can tell that he is
holding back, fearful of hurting her, so she rocks back and grinds her hips
against his on his next stroke.
A low growl of warning reaches her ears, but she refuses to be cowed or to do
anything except surrender to him entirely. She repeats the motion, forcing his
cock to reach the very end of her, her body speaking to his unequivocally. His
slow, but powerful drives gain speed quickly. Emma knocks one of the cushions
away from her head, pressing it and her shoulders to the ground and spreading
her arms out ahead of her—her pose a display of utter abjection that inspires
her lover to even greater exertion designed to bring her pleasure and
satisfaction.
His creative ingenuity and stamina appear limitless in his efforts to sate
their primal desires, their frenzied urge to reconnect. After forcing a further
three orgasms from her body and after having her once more astride him, pressed
against the chilled windows, and perched atop his desk, Killian finally relents
and spills himself a second time into her willing, welcoming quim. Together,
they manage to sprawl across the chaise, bodies remaining as entwined as
humanly possible whilst mostly clothed, savoring the post-coital blush and
gently caressing each other's still heated skin. It takes the soft, yet
unmistakable sounds of the household returning from the day's visit to the
village to rouse the lovers from their contented, impromptu bed. Emma laughs
lightly at his surprisingly good attempt to make her hair presentable—his own
being a complete loss—before they separate with a languorous, yearning kiss and
a promise to see each other at dinner. And then again for dessert.
===============================================================================
The spy does not breathe easy until he makes it to his own attic room; he had
heard all and then whisked himself away as speedily and as quietly as possible,
once his two targets were fully and obliviously engaged with one another.
Finally, he will prove his worth to his masters! But the encroaching storms,
the punishing cold of winter may prove too great an obstacle to overcome.
Should he fly and risk discovery? Should he remain and continue to observe the
Prince and his family as ordered? Each option presents its own hazards and
challenges, its own peril of displeasing his employers. He must decide quickly,
for either path will require that he leave the manor—to deliver his information
personally, or to post a letter. In the absence of more detailed instructions,
he chooses the safest course: quickly committing ink to page and sanding it to
seal in the words upon which so many fates hinge. He pours hot wax to close the
parchment, making a light impression with the signet provided, hastens into his
warmer clothes, and sets off for the village on horseback.
My Lady,
I dare not risk consigning much to paper, but I must inform you of what my own
eyes have just confirmed. Your worries upon a certain subject have not only
proved themselves to be well-founded, but the threat to your most noble
intentions may be—indeed, is ! —far greater than you could possibly have
imagined; in truth, your suspicions are not too large and your anxiety cannot
be soothed or diminished by words of comfort and cheer, for they would be but
false harbingers. The case is most dire and desperate; care and caution will be
needed in order to bring a successful conclusion to your fond wish, but you
must prepare the iron and strike whilst it is hot and ready.
In haste, your devoted servant.
*A Mesne is a medieval term for a landowner's band of household knights,
squires, and men at arms. Usually comprised of young relatives and children
from other landed and titled families, the mesne was a classroom and an
apprenticeship experience that thought young men to become fighters and
leaders; once a young man was knighted, he was officially considered a man with
all the rights and responsibilities of adulthood. Members of the mesne
sometimes established themselves as tactical and political counsellors for
their sworn lord, but mainly acted as bodyguards and a military unit if the
landowners' king called them to perform feudal service in war.*
***** Chapter 28 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
By the time an exuberant Sophia rounds the corner and dashes into the library,
Killian and Emma sit on separate chairs with as small a distance between them
as might be appropriately expected for two adults engaged in a debate on the
relative merits of different courses of curriculum. Despite the distractions of
rearranging the normal harvest schedule and scrambling to ensure that all on
his lands are as prepared as possible, Killian has paid quite a bit of
attention to his daughter’s progress thus far and had in fact been working on a
program of study to give her a more structured and advanced, yet not too
strenuous beginning to her formal education; thus, his request to speak with
Emma regarding her student had been delivered in earnest. Though young as she
is, like any child born into the royal family, Sophia carries the burden of the
peoples’ needs and expectations upon her shoulders; the father in him would
much rather give her a protected, innocent childhood, but the heir to the
throne cannot afford to delay the training of his immediate heir any longer. If
Liam had had his way and they lived in the Capital, Sophia would have been
making public appearances in an official capacity as the royal representative
before she could walk or speak.
But such weighty considerations vanish with their object’s glowing presence.
Her childish enthusiasm, cold-pinked cheeks, giggling, and running leap into
her father’s arms banish the serious, forthright conversation about balancing
duty and responsibility with personal feelings. Emma smiles at the sight, her
heart filling with a love and affection entirely accepted and embraced in full
measure for the first time. The passion, which had so recently permeated the
air, not abating a whit, but rather shifting itself to the back of the mind to
accommodate another facet, another aspect of the joyous connection that lives
and breathes between her and the ones she adores. Sophia bounces down from
Killian’s lap and then pounces upon Emma, sharing her attention equally between
the adults.
“Papa! Miss Emma! You missed it! It’s snowing!!” She grabs a hand apiece and
attempts to drag them—awkwardly forcing them into a face to face proximity
which would surely scandalize anyone who would have witnessed it, and which
caused a rosy blush of remembrance at how much closer they had been less than
an hour before—to the window to confirm her announcement. They untangle
themselves quickly, however, as the implications hit them immediately. Winter
has indeed arrived.
“We were in the market, and Francine was looking at the fabrics. I think she is
going to make me a dress for the Mid-Winter Festival because she kept lowering
her voice when talking with Madame Herr, which she always does when she wants
to keep a secret. And then a group of boys ran through the square shrieking and
yelling because the Elders promised a coin to the first to bring word of a
storm or snow and they all were fighting it out as they ran to see who would
get there first. But they were too late because it was Papa’s clerk Henri who
first saw it falling and he had gone straight to find Mr. Fairfax who was with
the Mayor and wanted to gather up all the servants and me and Francine and get
us all back home. I wish I could have stayed to play in the snow, but everyone
said that it could turn into a real storm before we knew it and I knew that you
would have wanted me to listen. So I did.”
Her recitation of events, while charming and easily projecting a vivid picture
in the minds of the adults, fills them with a belated sense of anxiety as well
as a present concern over the welfare of the household and the villagers.
However, their fears prove mostly unfounded when they look out the window—the
grounds are just barely brushed with a tint of frost as the snow falls soft,
lazy, and thin. They turn to her with relieved laughter, allowing their anxiety
a much needed outlet in their combined mirth.
Killian scoops up his daughter into his arms and holds her tight. “Why you
little puckish sprite! We thought it a proper blizzard with the way you carried
on! Do you not know ‘tis bad form to frighten your old Papa and your governess
so? You will be giving us gray hairs next! Poor manners at the least—what say
you to such unrefined behavior, Miss Shepherd? How shall we best recompense my
little scamp for this?”
Emma helplessly grins back, unable to not respond to the light and joy in his
eyes and the brightness of Sophia’s own impish smile. She coughs lightly before
settling her features into a mock sternness that, should a person not know the
depth of kindness and gentleness of her true self, would cause more than a few
of Liam’s foppish courtiers and the hardened veterans of the Council to quail
in terror at her look of displeasure. “I believe the most severe of punishments
is in order, your Highness… the Rack it must be!”
At the imperiousness of her pronouncement—he cannot help but marvel at the
innate note of command in her voice, even in play and jest—he grins and tucks
his chin close to his daughter’s neck. “Right you are! Commence with the
torture!”
Sophia squeals when his whiskers run against her baby-fine skin and his fingers
gently dig into her ticklish sides. Her giggles peal and echo brightly and she
shrieks helplessly, gasping for breath as she vainly attempts to push him away.
“Nooo! Save me, Miss Emma! Save me!”
“But I am simply one lone knight, and you are in the clutches of a terrible
dragon, My Lady!” Emma dramatically cringes and withdraws in fear, lightly
laughing at the terrific roar Killian lets loose in the spirit of the game. His
eyes twinkle merrily at her before he ducks his chin once more to torment his
victim, growling low and long.
“Puh-puh-pleeease!” Her breathlessness increasing with every renewed attack,
she holds out her arms beseechingly. “I believe in you, Miss Emma! Save me!”
Responding to Sophia’s plight takes a moment of ingenuity on her part, no
implement ready to hand that would take the place of a sword save the very
heavy and potentially hazardous fire poker. Smiling to herself, she picks up
her skirts and races toward the desk, casting about briefly and then
brandishing one of the quill pens like a rapier. “Aha! Take that, foul beast!”
Killian growls menacingly, clutching Sophia tighter to his chest with one arm
while slashing out at the air with a clawed hand. One hand still holding her
skirts aside, Emma strikes at his “talons” with her “sword”. He snarls and
hisses whenever she lands a “hit”. “I will never surrender my precious
treasure, you tin-covered maniac! Have at thee!”
From their spot at the doorway, Francine and James watch bemusedly as together
Sophia and Emma find a way to combine their attacks and conquer the relatively
easily-defeated dragon.
===============================================================================
                                        
Just before it prepares to set the sun briefly escapes the cloud cover and
gilds the treetops in a riot of sparkling drops of topaz, amber, and ruby for a
truly spectacular twilight moment, and then is gone beyond the horizon. The
powdery snowfall rapidly blanketing the forest and hills, while the gloaming
settles gently over the Thistledown valley. Night falls on the last day of
Autumn, the last day of light and warmth that will be felt for many months; and
while there will be many days of accord and harmony between the lovers, as well
as many nights of a deeper and more intimate passion, this day will remain
locked in their memories for all time as one of the last days unspoiled by
weighty destiny or sorrow.
Chapter End Notes
     There's a very wise saying: God laughs while we make plans. I had to
     do a lot of soul searching, as well as writing, to realize that my
     initial plans for this story were more than a little ambitious. As
     such, I have decided to break my ideas up into a separate story; I am
     far from done with this universe and these characters. Thank you all
     for your support and your patience with the long breaks, and
     especially to those who nominated me for the Captain Swan Fan Fiction
     Awards for this year; I am truly humbled and awed by your kindness.
     Hopefully, the sequel will take shape much more quickly, but I do
     have a lot of writing and ideas to work through; please keep an eye
     out for the next installment, Her Cruel Mercy.
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