Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

“Aye, that it will,” Nottingham replied.

John frowned behind his goblet. He’d expected the other man to seize an excuse to decline the invitation. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Nottingham had seemed less than enamored of the pleasure taking as of late. Oh, he participated . . . or, more accurately, most often watched and occasionally partook from a willing maidservant . . . but more likely than not, he merely provided the audience for John’s activities.

Then John’s eyes narrowed in speculation. Mayhap this would work out best after all. If Nottingham arrived before Marian and was otherwise occupied-or incapacitated-when the lady arrived . . . it would be incumbent upon the host to make her feel welcome.

He gestured for the page behind them to refill their goblets.

John was, if naught else, a most accommodating host.

“Come in, come in, my lady.”

Marian hesitated on the threshold. She did not wish to take that step over, into the chamber, into the den of iniquity. John’s voice sounded jovial, but there was an underlying command beneath it.

Her palms damp but her head held high, she stepped into the room and the door closed behind her.

Already this was very different from last night’s experience.

Will had escorted her back to her chamber after the evening meal and bidden her good evening. She’d gone eagerly inside, fully aware that he’d said nary a word to her but “Let us go” when he approached her in the great hall, and “Good evening” when he left as soon as she was inside the chamber.

Nor had he looked at her, other than a quick impersonal glance, during the few moments they were together. He simply walked with long strides next to her, his solid arm angled out for her fingertips to curl around, his thigh brushing occasionally against her gown. This all made her exceedingly aware of his presence, his size, his strength . . . and what had occurred in her chamber earlier this day.

When they reached her accommodations, Ethelberga had been there, and she’d helped her mistress disrobe and prepare for bed-a circumstance Marian had readily welcomed. Despite the fact that she had left the hall before the evening’s entertainment ended, and the sun still sat above the horizon, she was glad to be in the solitude-and relative safety-of her chamber.

But no more than two candle marks later, when the sun had barely set and the bailey below had not yet begun to quiet for the night, a solid pounding came at her door. Marian’s heart leapt into her throat and she considered ignoring the knocking. Ethelberga had been dismissed and had gone belowstairs to visit with some of the other maidservants-and mayhap a handsome groom or two-and there was no one but Marian to answer the determined knock.

It could be Will. Likely it was. Her stomach gave another flutter and she resisted the urge to look toward the horse-eye peephole.

The knocking did not cease, and she had no choice but to respond. But when she opened the door, she found it was not Will, as she’d expected. And, in truth, half anticipated.

Nor was it Robin.

Thus, even before he spoke, when Marian saw the page standing outside the door, she knew he would say, “The prince requires your presence, milady.” Knowing she could not deny a royal summons, despite the sharp pinching of her insides and the parched sensation in her mouth, she quickly dressed and pulled on a enveloping cloak, drawing the deep hood up and over to shadow her face and hair. At the least she could attempt to avoid being recognized by anyone who might wonder why she was about alone . . . and going to the prince’s chambers.

The page walked quickly, and was followed by a stoic man-at-arms who joined the party as they made their way to the third level of the keep. Apparently, John was taking no chances that Marian might get lost or otherwise delayed.

And here she was now, the door bumping closed in her wake, most definitely not lost or delayed.

As before, the room, which stretched well to her right and not quite so far to her left, was lit by candles and sconces throughout. The number of candles, along with two fires that blazed at either end of the chamber, gave off a sensual golden glow that cast yellow and bronze and brown across the room’s furnishings and occupants.

She smelled the heavy rich scent of good wine and something else . . . a lingering, musky, close smell that hung in the air. It mingled with the ever-present wisps of smoke and settled a sort of lethargy over her.

“My lady.” John’s mellow voice came again, and she looked to the right, seeing him for the first time.

He sat on the side of the room where the bed was, where the two women had rolled and kissed and touched the night before. Marian caught a glimpse through the half-open bed-curtains of a woman’s bare leg, the rise of a hip, and other human-shaped shadows within. Mayhap the girls had already completed this night’s performance and now took their ease.

Her suspicion of this was reinforced when she noticed that, instead of having a woman kneeling in front of him with her face buried between his legs, the prince sat in a low chair. On a table within easy reach was a flagon of wine and several goblets. In front of him was the human chessboard-a nude woman on her hands and knees with an arrangement of low, squat chess pieces on her back.

Marian didn’t know if it was the same woman who’d been there last night. She wouldn’t have recognized her even if it was, for the woman’s rear end faced her, knees apart, the hair of her quim readily visible between her spread legs.

“My lord,” Marian replied, her voice low. Her mouth was dry and her palms were slick. She was torn between looking around the room to see what other surprises might lurk in the shadowy corners-and whether mayhap Will was there-and keeping her attention on the prince, to shield herself in ignorance.

“Would you care to play chess?” John asked, gesturing to the table. Then, as if noticing her cloak for the first time, he said, “Divest yourself of that. I prefer to admire the womanly form in my Court of Pleasure.”

Marian allowed the cloak to slip from her shoulders and reluctantly draped it over a cushioned chair that had only a back but no arms or sides. She dared not consider what sort of activity it might be used for. As she did so, she glanced around the room, hoping to see Will lounging in a chair in the corner. He was not.

Her heart began to pound harder.

When she turned back, John was looking up at her, the weight of his dark eyes heavy. He was a handsome man-not a surprise, being the son of two comely parents. His coloring was nearly as dark as Will’s tanned skin, likely a gift from his French mother. He had walnut-colored hair, thick and straight, and he wore it long over his ears as was the style, but short across his forehead. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache encircled a small but sensual mouth that glistened red and plump as if he’d been chewing his lip . . . or nibbling on something else. His shoulders were broad, and he was a solid man, but he was not as tall as his golden-haired brother, nor even his regal mother. Marian suspected he would be only a bit taller than herself, for his legs were rather short for his torso.

Instead of wearing a jeweled or gold-threaded tunic and belt, he wore a hip-length tunic with a deep vee in the unlaced neckline that showed a large amount of dark hair, and braies that clearly displayed a healthy bulge.

“Now, shall we play chess? You do know how to play, my lady?” he asked, his rings glinting as he beckoned to a chair on the other side of the woman’s narrow back. He reached for one of the goblets next to him and poured bloodred wine into it, then licked the rim with a thick red tongue and offered the cup to her.

Trying to hide her reluctance, Marian took the goblet and sat. Then she realized that there was no chessboard. Someone had . . . drawn . . . the lines of the squares on the woman’s back. The irregular crisscrossing lines looked like . . . Marian swallowed, and involuntarily looked up at John, horrified.

His dark eyes were fastened on her, glittering with delight. “Aye, you are correct. The sting of the whip created our game.” He gave what she supposed he meant to be a heartbroken smile. “Hilde was not behaving as I required and needed to be punished. And I needed a chessboard, and ’twas only after I’d begun her punishment that I realized how she could accommodate me. That is why some of the squares are a bit . . . uneven.”

Marian swallowed. She looked at the woman, who was clearly not one of her class but likely a serf or maidservant-but a woman nevertheless. Her shiny black hair, knotted loosely at the nape of her neck, sagged to one side and her head was bowed. She hadn’t moved, nor made a sound, since Marian had come into the room. God help them both.

“I do know how to play,” Marian replied, her mind working quickly.

She’d not been one of Eleanor’s favorite ladies because of her dull wits and spinelessness, despite the fact that she wasn’t the most accomplished chess player.

“Good,” John said. “But you must understand . . . the rules are a bit different for this game.” He smiled again, and this time the stretch of his red lips carried a hint of slyness. “If you lose a piece to me, you must remove an article of clothing. And of course, I will do the same.”

Marian had expected naught less and was prepared. “But you have so few items to remove, my lord. I should hate for you to be sitting in the chill whilst I am still fully clothed.” She offered a small smile that she hoped appeared confident, and not tense. “I propose a slight alteration in your rules: if you lose a piece to me, I replace an article of my clothing. I shall begin with my cloak when I take the first piece.”

John laughed then, loudly and delightedly. “And so it shall be, Lady Marian, if for no other reason than your boldness.”

“And the winner?” she asked, wondering if there was enough wine in the room to send him under his cups before the game was over.

“Can you not guess?” John replied, folding short, wide hands over his lean belly. A ruby the size of a chestnut glinted on one.

“If I win,” she replied, conscious that he’d appreciated her boldness a moment ago, “I will require a boon of you.” She swallowed, because she knew what would happen if she lost. Those stubby, beringed fingers would be all over her bare flesh, touching, pinching, poking.

“A boon?”

A pardon for Robin Hood. Those words nearly passed her lips-she wanted them to do so-but she stopped them. Not now, not yet. Too soon, too great of a request . . . and too close to her heart. If he knew of a desire like that, he could use it against her. Instead, she said, “Aye, a boon of my asking. Yet to be decided.”

“If your request is within my power, you shall have it . . . if, of course, your king remains standing alone at the end.”

She dared not ask what would happen in the case of a draw.

John sat up in his chair. “Now, then. Shall we begin our battle with a kiss of peace?”

Before she could respond, he stood and leaned over the human chessboard, grasping the back of Marian’s head with a very strong hand. His fingers curled into her skull, sliding into her hair as he tipped her face up by the force of his kiss. His lips were as soft and full and wet as they appeared, and Marian felt the scrape of teeth at the edges of her mouth as he forced his tongue through. He thrust brutally into her mouth, crushing her lips, sucking on her tongue, sweeping so strong and hard that she nearly gagged. He tasted of wine and thick, unpleasant heat, and he took . . . and took . . . holding her so hard that her head began to pound.