Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales (7 page)

“I need to fuck you, honeybee,” she mutters, pulling my back against her chest.

Henrietta gives a bark of laughter. “You're more goatish than any man I've ever bedded, Cat. Including His Majesty.”

Henrietta slips from my grasp and moves to the bed. She settles back onto the mound of pillows, releasing the last two hooks of her corset. She motions me to follow. I crawl up beside her, and she reaches for my face, pulling me toward her. Our lips meet and she slips her tongue into my mouth, fingers grasping my shoulders. I roll on top of her and she grasps my head, pushing my face into the mounds of cleavage. I open my mouth wide and cover one breast, tongue pulsing against her hard nipple, and she gives a yelp of pleasure. She's achingly soft and sweet, smelling of lavender and roses.

“Raise your hips, honeybee,” the woman behind us orders.

I glance back at Cat. She's still fully clothed, but the nipples of her corset-bound breasts now peek out over the top of her gown. This cannot shock me now, but the fact that she's wearing a belt ornamented with a gleaming gold cock causes me to gasp.

She gives me a haughty grin. “My accessory came all the way from Persia. Do you like it, honeybee?”

I can do nothing but stare at it. A bead of moisture slips down my thigh.

Henrietta gives another breathy laugh. “She's probably never known a woman's pleasure, and you offer her a cock. Honestly, Cat.”

Catherine frowns. “I'm not
offering.
Raise your ass into the air, Isabeau of Provence.”

Panting now, whether in fear or anticipation I'm not sure, I arch my back, raising my hips and exposing my backside to the Lady Catherine and her accessory.

Lifting her skirts, she moves onto the bed and then crawls toward me on her knees. I feel Henrietta's hands slide up and down the sides of my breasts, which now press against hers.

Catherine reaches toward me, and I feel her fingers slipping between the folds of my flesh. She slides them in and then out, then over and between the folds, and the cheeks of my ass, spreading moisture and gently prodding.

I give a low shuddering moan as fire ignites between my legs, and I push into her hand.

She moves closer, teasing my hot, throbbing flesh with the tip of the gold cock now, rubbing along both sides and even along the opening between my cheeks.

“You're ready for me, aren't you, honeybee?” she calls in a low, masculine tone.

“Yes,” I whimper, the muscles between my legs clenching convulsively.

I shudder as the gold phallus slides into my aching flesh. I don't wait for Catherine to start moving, but slide my ass back and forth, feeling the smooth, hard length moving inside me.

I raise myself on my arms as she begins to thrust, and my breasts drag back and forth over Henrietta's. She reaches up and grips one handful, squeezing hard, and then thrusts a hand between us. I feel her fingers against my mound. “There, now.” She smiles. “Isn't that nice?”

The gold cock pumps hard, rubbing my mound over Henrietta's fingers, and suddenly I shatter like crystal.

Henrietta gives a long, ecstatic laugh, exclaiming, “Now you know why we call her the
Prince
of Monaco. Come, Cat, love, I have an ache…”

I roll off to one side, still breathless, and watch as Lady Catherine mounts her friend. Henrietta gives a high squeal of pleasure, folding her stocking-covered legs around Catherine's waist as the gold cock thrusts inside her.

The gown they've chosen for me, with its acres of vermilion and gold fabric, is both lovely and ridiculous. Lovely and ridiculous as this court, all swirls and flourishes. Ruffles and lace. If I disliked the idea of a corset before, I now consider it the most foul of torture devices. My waist and ribs are so pinched that my bosom is hoisted nearly to my chin, the pink pucker of my nipples concealed only by a strip of creamy lace.

But I count myself lucky, because worse tortures were attempted in that boudoir. I had to stop them plucking out my hair to increase the height of my forehead—this despite them telling me my hair was precisely the shade most fashionable at court. They'd barely given up the plucking, opting instead to wind and pile the whole mass high on my head, when they came at me with powder and paint. If the ochre pattern between my breasts hadn't flashed at precisely the right moment, I doubt I'd have emerged unscathed.

Finally persuaded that they'd wrought all the change I would allow, the two ladies led me from the bedchamber to the terrace that overlooks the garden and grounds.

According to the ladies, the terrace, with its parquet floor and cherub fountain, is not long for this world—the king intends to have it enclosed as a formal hall for receiving visitors. But for now, with the king's family still in Paris, he prefers to enjoy a late breakfast informally here, where he can watch the progress of the landscapers.

The ladies deposit me just outside the columned exit. Hands resting atop the high mound of my skirt, I approach a shaded table beside the fountain.

I needn't have worried about how much time has passed since I was sent away to prepare for the king—I find Roark standing stiffly at the other end of the table, still awaiting His Majesty's arrival. His wild mane hangs damp and heavy, and his broad chest is partly concealed by a simple linen shirt. Apart from that, he looks much as he did before. The silver circles still ornament his chest, and the blue paint and charcoal still mark him as “other” in this fussy court.

His gaze moves over me, and I find it impossible to discern whether he approves of my updated appearance. I find it equally impossible not to care for his opinion. To cover my discomfort, I nod and curtsy, murmuring, “My lord.”

Raising an eyebrow, he returns my nod.

I know the transformative power of his gaze, and the reaction it forces from my body, so I let my own eyes drift to the table. Only two places are set, and I wonder which of us will not be dining. My stomach is so tight from fretting about this meeting I don't feel I could eat a bite.

Before I can ask Roark to explain, I sense a flurry of movement near the columned entrance to the terrace and, turning, I find the king and a train of servants approaching. I've never seen a likeness of Louis, but there's no question. Even were he not draped head to toe in the richest fabrics I've ever seen, the scurrying and ducking of the men traveling in his wake would make it quite clear.

He stops short of the table, gaze sweeping from Roark to me. A smile curls his lips and softens his sensual features. “My Lord Dragon and
la Occitane
. Welcome to Versailles.”

The king's eyes are on me and I curtsy as deeply as I can manage without tumbling into a heap of silk and linen. When I finish, he raises his hand, gesturing for me to join him at the table. The king takes his seat at the head, while Roark remains standing at his back. I watch footmen in their butterfly dance of service, and when finally they still, the table is laden with roasted fowl, bowls of fruit, and herbed and roasted vegetables, all with accompanying sauces.

The king gestures again, and two of the footmen step forward to serve us, heaping our plates high with delicacies that have been part of no breakfast I've eaten. This complete, Louis waves them away and the three of us are alone again.

He raises his goblet. “To you, Mademoiselle Isabeau. I'm enchanted by your presence at my court.”

“Your Majesty,” I reply, raising my goblet.

He sips, and so do I, fortifying myself for whatever is to come.

The king forks a slice of duck breast into his mouth, chews thoroughly, and swallows. He sips his wine again and replaces his glass with an amused smile. “Lord Roark informs me you wish to bargain with me.”

I feel heat in my cheeks and drop my gaze to my plate. “Your Majesty, I—”

“It leaves me asking myself why I would deal with a country girl like yourself instead of simply instructing my army, which is more than a match for your artists and chemists, to take what ought to have been freely given.”

His smile has not slipped even minutely, but I feel my anger rising. I ball my hand into a fist on the tabletop. He's taking advantage of my most obvious vulnerability. And why wouldn't he? It's the same question I asked myself back in the cave.

“Have you something to say, mademoiselle?”

I fold my hands on the edge of the table, pressing against the wood to stop my shaking. “Roussillon has never consented to be part of France, Your Majesty.”

The king laughs. “Neither has Orange, my dear, but there you are.”

“Neither have we offered her any threat,” I continue, knowing the same cannot be said for Orange and her Dutch connections. “We only wish to be left alone.”

The king takes a few bites of his breakfast and seems to consider this.

“May I speak, Your Majesty?” asks Roark.

“Please do,” agrees the king with a wave over his shoulder. “As my ally, I value your opinion.”

Roark's gaze rests on my face. “The lady and her Persian are a match for your army. But her dragon is currently in my power.”

Louis lays his fork beside his plate, his placid smile flattening. “I understand her dragon is in the power of
my
army. Are you threatening me, Lord Roark? Speak plainly.”

“No, Your Majesty. I only suggest that Isabeau, as a shifter, and her dragon, Aurora, are more valuable to Your Majesty than a pile of gold as high as the Bastille, even were there such a thing.”

The king gives an unprincely grunt. “I see where you're going, Lord Roark.” Lifting his wine, he studies me over the rim of the goblet. “What is your proposal, mademoiselle?” he asks.

I understand my position perhaps better than anyone at this table realizes, and I've had the whole flight from Roussillon to ponder my next steps. Regardless of all that has happened since the previous evening, I know there can be no excuse for abandoning my oath. I'm still a dragonmaid, sworn to defend the Artists Guild of Roussillon against her enemies. Without that oath, I don't know who I am. So I take a deep breath and answer the king.

“Leave my village to continue as it has for as long as anyone remembers—outside the rule of any landholder or prince—and I will join Roark in defending France from her enemies.”

I'm not sure what this will mean. Most likely saying goodbye to my family. Perhaps dying in defense of a people I don't know or understand, fighting wars I care nothing about. But I have only myself to sacrifice.

“Not acceptable,” says the king, studying me with the severe gaze of a man nearing the end of his patience. “The south will submit itself to French rule or pay the price. I will not share a border with a hostile people, and I will not suffer your gold finding its way into the hands of Protestants or enemies of France.” The king leans forward, striking a fist against the table and making me jump. “You are a French citizen, mademoiselle, and as such I'm entitled to your service and not in any way obligated to bargain with you.”

I struggle to maintain composure in the wake of this imperious refusal. He's said nothing with which I know how to argue, and I have nothing else to offer. The best I can do now is hope that by conforming to his wishes I can gain favor and be granted permission to return and protect the village from outright pillaging by the French army.

I glance at Roark before I speak, and he frowns and gives a hard shake of his head like he's read my mind.

“However,” the king continues, raising his glass. I note with surprise that he's found his smile again. “Were you to agree to a condition of
mine
—were you to agree to become my mistress, Isabeau of Provence—I should make you regent of Roussillon.”

My mouth falls open, and the king's smile widens.

I look again to Roark—his hard composure has faltered for the first time since I've met him.
This
he did not anticipate. His color rises to the surface, triggering my own.

I return my attention to the king and discover that he, too, has been abandoned by his composure. He stares openly at the ochre pattern between my breasts.

The king has erred. I'm no courtier, but I understand now that his initial refusal was only to gain a better bargaining position. He hoped to frighten the unsophisticated
Occitane
into negotiating on
his
terms.

I take a deep breath and sit up straighter. “Not acceptable. My regency would last exactly as long as Your Majesty's interest in me.”

His gaze climbs slowly from my chest to my face. “I think that would be a very long time,
ma douce
.”

I reach for my goblet and sip, gaining time to quiet the shaking in my hands and voice before I reply. “I will serve Your Majesty as shifter and dragonmaid. Roussillon will accept French rule and agree to a tithe.”

The king frowns. “Triple that.”

I rest my elbows lightly on the table, folding my hands before my chin. “Twenty percent.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “That's not triple, mademoiselle.”

“No, Your Majesty.”

Frowning deeply, the king sinks back into his chair. “Twenty percent. And you become my mistress or I'll expect Roussillon to pay the fee I've promised Lord Roark.”

My heart gives an offended thud, though Roark's told me himself he's a mercenary. I glance over the king's shoulder, meeting the shifter's gaze. His color is dark and distinct, and I feel a rush of heat between my legs. His body is making it plain he doesn't want the king to have me.

Returning my attention to the king I reply, “Roussillon will pay Lord Roark's fee.”

Our gazes lock in expectant silence. His fingers brush absently at the base of his goblet.

Finally he lets out a sigh. “Agreed,” he says tersely. My lungs fill again with air.

He raises his hand, motioning over his head, and a footman hurries onto the terrace and refills both our glasses before departing again.

Louis raises his goblet. “Allies.”

I raise mine again in answer, hoping he doesn't notice how hard my heart is thrashing against the beastly corset. Or the droplet of sweat that's collected above my lip. “Allies,” I agree.

I drain half the wine in one swallow. The king chuckles and continues his meal, and my attention shifts to Roark.

The triumph I see in his eyes undoes me. Does he think this makes me his? That I must choose the protection of one prince or the other? As much as this piques me, I see the color still marks him strongly, and my own color fills in as vividly as the painted hills of my home. Heat sears the flesh of my face and chest.

“I must ask, mademoiselle….” I find the king's eyes on me again. “This color…So unique and…
arresting
. What causes it?”

I offer him his own bland smile. The smile that says
nothing you do can ruffle me
. It's meant not for him, but for the man behind his chair. “Animal attraction, if I understand correctly, Your Majesty. But Roark is the expert.”

At last the king glances over his shoulder. “Is this so, Roark?”

Roark's smoky gaze shifts from me to the king. “Majesty,” he replies stiffly.

“And have you
had
this exquisite creature?” The royal gaze now traces the lines of ochre marching across my flesh. My skin is already too hot to register the effects of the shocking question. “Forgive me,” he says with a lusty smile, “but I must know.”

Roark gives only a grim nod—which the king cannot see, because both men's eyes are stuck fast on
me.

I suffocate under the force of the corset squeezing the excitement that tries to build in my breaths. My anger is changing, filtering through layers of animal heat and desire, and I begin to feel my power. I need not be a pawn in the chess game between these two powerful men.

Roark might as well be back in Roussillon, as far as the king is concerned. His eyes move without apology over the curves so ruthlessly displayed by my gown. I imagine myself the Lady Henrietta—I think how a courtier might manage this—and I rise from my chair.

Lifting my skirts from the floor, I make my way down the length of the table. “Perhaps Your Majesty would like a demonstration?”

Delight brightens his eyes. “Oh yes, mademoiselle. Please.”

I move behind his chair, between Roark and the king, and I sink into a cloud of silk, knees coming to rest on the hard floor. My sleeves trail from my elbows as I reach up, working at the hooks closing Roark's breeches. I glance up, meeting his glittering gaze, challenging him with my own. Not a muscle in his face twitches as his cock jumps into my hand.

“Ah, here we are,” I breathe. Holding his gaze with my own, I sink lower, until I'm close enough to take the gleaming red hood between my lips. But first I lick the pearl of moisture from its tip.

The king lets out a loud groan. “My good man. How
delicious.
”

I grasp Roark's hips, sliding my face over his cock until I feel it bump the back of my throat. I close my mouth, swallowing him deeper. The groan that vibrates inside him is barely audible.

I tilt my head back so I can continue to watch him. The satisfaction I feel at his powerlessness causes a swell of pleasure, and moisture seeps down onto my thighs. His lids lower, half veiling his eyes, as his gaze answers mine.

I begin to slide back and forth, slicking his shaft with moisture.