The Conqueror

He pulled out one of her mother’s small, chestnut-red harps, the one she’d sold to buy wheat. The other, black-dark, sat, tipped on its side, half hidden amid the linen folds.

Fierce, the memories pressed in close.

“These were your mother’s?” she heard him asking dimly, as if from a distance.

She ran her hand across the smooth, carved wood. “They were.”

“Good.”

She brushed her fingers over the strings. Familiar, melodic whispers filled the room. She did it again, her eyes swimming.

“Good?” he said again, tentatively.

Her breath shot out in a weak, watery laugh. “More than good,” and the tears spilled over.

“Bien.” He ran the back of his fingers down her wet cheeks. “I know you miss her.”

“Every day.” Her voice caught. She smiled and touched the polished, red wood. “This will help.”

Their eyes were inches apart, she standing, he sitting. He cupped the sides of her head and, pulling her down, kissed one cheek, then the other. Then he smiled, that lopsided, ferociously sensual grin, and she began heating up again. All he had to do was look at her and she was ready for him.

“Griffyn,” she protested as he straightened, shaking her head but smiling nonetheless. “You should tell me about your trip—”

“I should lay you out on the bed.”

She laughed. “Griffyn.”

“Gwyn.”

“Truly—”

He grabbed her hand. “Truly. I don’t want to wait. My trip went fine. I—” His words stumbled for a moment. “I got your mother’s harps, and am home again, hungry for you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “’Twas news of my mother’s harps that sent you running to Ipsile? Nothing else?” she teased, but he stiffened. His fingers squeezed uncomfortably around hers.

“What do you mean?”

Her smile faltered. “I meant nothing, Griffyn. I was in jest.”

His hand relaxed. “I am sorry. I am tired, ’tis hot, and ’twas a long ride. But this is a truth: I thought of barely nothing but you.”

She laughed. “That suits well enough.”

Reaching behind her, he tugged at the yellow laces that held her shorter, outer tunic. With each gentle tug, the material tightened around her breasts. The tunic slipped to the ground. He pushed aside the collar of the undertunic and pressed his lips to her bare shoulder.

“And you, Raven?” he murmured. “Did you think of me?”

“Every moment,” she said in a voice barely whispered.

And just as he’d promised, he laid her out on the bed and took her to orgasm with such swift, stunning confidence she almost died from the pleasure.

And the pain. What had started as fierce loyalty to her king was turning into pure desperation. Griffyn must not be hurt by this. Yet she was depending on a most foul saviour in that regard, in Marcus fitzMiles.

Marcus sat whittling wood on a low bench in his herb garden. The mint was coming up fine, but the onions looked like vermin had got them. So be it. The cycle of life.

He shaved off another thin slice of wood. What Gwyn had given him was far too good to pass up. Far too juicy to do as she’d asked. Ride into the Nest, then out again, with only one ailing, dethroned prince to show for it? What then? Was he to prop Eustace on a saddle and shove him out before Henri fitzEmpress’s armies? While Griffyn Sauvage got to nuzzle his Guinevere?

Gwynnie was fine and funny and sharp, but none too bright about these kinds of things.