Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (98 page)

“But you will be soon, dear,” Barlonda coos,
plucking a magnificent blue-and-gold Italian Renaissance headdress
out of her shoulder bag, along with a pair of pearl-encrusted satin
slippers. “Here, try these on, Lisa. I finished them up on the
drive over this morning.”

****

Fifteen minutes later, I emerge from the Ploughman’s
Room a new woman. Even though I haven’t had the chance to look at
myself in the mirror yet, I already know that I look stunning. The
open-mouth stares and gasps emitting from everyone I pass in the
hallway are proof enough of that.

I duck into the first bathroom I see. There is a
full-length mirror on the back wall across from the toilet stalls.
I nearly faint when I catch sight of myself in the glass.

Barlonda pinned my hair into a simple chignon at the
nape of my neck before she fitted the netted headdress to the crown
of my head; a hair “snood” of gold wire covers my hair, and a
padded, double-wrapped velvet roll in the shape of a wishbone holds
it in place. Although I have no idea what to call the elaborate,
twisted contraption that adorns my hair, I do know it creates the
same stunning profile Sophie Marceau sported in
Braveheart.
The gown is even more stunning on my body than it is on the
hanger—if I do say so myself. The combined opalescence of
purple-blue velvet brocade, red satin, and thousands of pearls have
turned my eyes into deep blue starbursts and my complexion into
red-kissed virgin snow. My chest also has more cleavage than I ever
thought possible in my flat-chested lifetime. If my gown doesn’t
win Baroness Barlonda a Laurel in Costuming, I will personally take
it upon myself to make sure she wins one during my reign as
Queen.

That’s assuming, of course, that Syr Phillip wins
the tournament.

And why wouldn’t he? After all, everyone says he
will.

Everyone, that is, except Syr Phillip. The last time
we spoke, he was full of sadness, anger, and doubt. I give my
cheeks a healthy, ladylike pinch and go off in search of my lord
and favored knight.

I enter the Canterbury Hall oblivious to the gasps,
stares, whispers, and pointing fingers that fly my way at every
turn. “That’s Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar’s lady,” I hear a
middle-aged blonde woman in sixth-century Irish costume whisper to
her stout, Norman-garbed husband as I pass her. “She’s going to be
Queen, you know.”

A familiar, hissing voice hits my back like a thrown
dagger. “Not if
I
can help it.” I turn and find Lady Ramona
of North Fields just a few steps behind me. I can smell her menthol
cigarettes, along with the slightest whiff of mothballs—both scents
appear to be wafting from her gown, which resembles a gaudy 1960s
sofa made over into a bad imitation of English Tudor.

“Hello, Lady Ramona,” I coo as sweetly as possible.
I give her a deep curtsey. “That’s a very. . . interesting gown you
have on.” I try my best not to wrinkle my nose as I say it, but the
mothball stench is getting hard to avoid.

Lady Ramona scoffs. “Well, maybe it isn’t as nice
and expensive as yours obviously is, Lisa. But you might have heard
that my house burned down recently. I lost all my
good
garb
in the fire. I had to borrow this from the Ohio State Theater
Department after I got out of jail.”

“Uh huh,” I say, trying to edge away from her.

“It’s your boyfriend’s fault my house burned down,
you know,” Lady Ramona growls, leaning so close to me that I can
smell the eighty-seven Kools she’s probably smoked so far this
morning on her breath. “And Master Melphus and I do intend to get
some major payback today. So I suggest you tell your lord to watch
out.”

“Right, sure, whatever,” I say, scooting away from
the mousy-haired menthol monstrosity that is Lady Ramona. “Umm,
good luck and everything!” I step away from her too quickly and
trip over the train of my gown—knocking over someone in heavy
polished steel plate mail.

“Oh, excuse me—“ I blurt as I topple to the red
fleur-de-lis carpeting. But before I can finish, my mouth is
enveloped in the most passionate kiss I’ve ever experienced.

It’s Syr Phillip.

My lord and knight sweeps me up from the carpet and
carries me to the wings of the great hall, where a red velvet
overstuffed chaise lounge is waiting beside a pile of Syr Phillip’s
armor, spare gambesons, and rattan weaponry.

“And how is my most favored lady this fine morning?”
he asks, giving me another open-mouthed kiss just as several young
male fighters in various states of armoring start to catcall.

“Syr Phillip, people are making fun of us.”

“Let them,” he replies with a smile as he sets me
gently down on the velvet seat. “I think they deserve to know just
how special you are to me.”

I blush as red as the trim on my gown. “Everyone has
been staring and pointing at me ever since I got here. I guess I’m
just not used to drawing that much attention.”

“Well, you might want to start getting used to it,
milady,” Syr Phillip sighs, lightly caressing the side of my neck
with his still-ungloved sword hand. “After all, you
are
the
most beautiful woman in the kingdom. And when you become Queen,
you’ll be the most recognized one, too.”

“So you really think you’re going to win today?”

Syr Phillip adjusts his steel breastplate so he can
sit down beside me. “I think I have as good a chance as any. And if
by chance I do lose this Crown, I can always fight in the next one.
And I swear to you, milady, that I will keep fighting in Crown
Tournament as long as it takes to win the title for you. Your honor
is worth every bruise and blow that my opponents land on me.”

Syr Phillip bends to kiss my hand, and the familiar
electricity jolts through my body. But considering I haven’t
seen—or touched—my favored knight in almost two weeks, that jolt is
very nearly enough to make me swoon.

In fact, I
do
swoon.

I come to a moment later lying on the floor, with
Pegeen holding a damp cloth to my forehead and Barlonda standing
over me, fanning the air with a Middle Kingdom Champions’ List
program. Syr Phillip is at my side, stroking my palm.

“My dear lady Lisa, I really can’t have you fainting
on me like this all day long,” Syr Phillip chuckles, giving me a
peck on the forehead. “I need you to be strong and steady for me.
There are still twelve rounds between me and the Crown, you
know.”

“Is your corset too tight, dear?” Barlonda asks,
anxious. “That can make you faint. If it’s too tight, I can alter
it—it’ll just take a few minutes.”

I sit up quickly. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine, really.
I’m just—I’m just a little overwhelmed, is all.”

“Here, drink this,” Pegeen—aka Pegonia the Royal
Lady’s Maid—says, handing me a wooden goblet filled with a bubbly
brown liquid. I guzzle it down in one drop and almost gag from its
syrupy sweetness.

“Ewww. What the hell is that?”

Pegeen/Pegonia smiles. “Jolt Cola. I brought a
supply of it in my super-secret lady-in-waiting kit for use in case
of fainting emergency.”

Super-secret lady-in waiting kit?
Only Pegeen
could come up with something like that. I love my goofy best
friend.

Syr Phillip stands up. “I’m sorry to leave you so
soon, my beloved,” he croons in his sexiest baritone. “But I’m due
to report in to the Earl Marshal with the rest of the belted
fighters in five minutes. And you appear to be in good hands.”

“We’ll take good care of her for you, Phil, don’t
worry,” Barlonda promises. With that, Syr Phillip gathers up his
sword, shield, helm, and spare gambeson and disappears from the
tournament hall.

As soon as he’s gone, Barlonda sits down beside me
and takes my hand. “Syr Phillip’s right, you know. You’re in for a
very long day, and if you think you’re overwhelmed now, just wait
until you’re Queen. You need to buck up, hon. Find your center of
strength and stay there.”

“Relax, Barlonda,” Pegeen/Pegonia sighs. “Lisa will
be fine. She’s just a little horny right now, that’s all.”

I feel my cheeks go hot as griddle cakes. There are
times I wish Pegeen didn’t know me quite as well as she does. Right
now is one of them.

Chapter
21

The fighting has been going on for over three hours.
Syr Phillip beat his first two opponents—both unbelted ordinary
fighters, not knights—easily. He’s drawn a bye for the third and
fourth rounds, so he and I are taking advantage of the break for a
stroll around the extensive Drawbridge Inn grounds, which are
surprisingly lush for an aging hotel just off an interstate— an
interstate so close that I feel the ground rumble underneath my
flimsy satin slippers every time a semi truck rolls by. Given the
delicacy of my footwear, we stick to the paved path leading through
a small wooded area just to the left of the hotel pool.

“Barlonda certainly did a fantastic job on your
gown,” Syr Phillip gushes. “I think I got more than my money’s
worth.”

I finger the dangling fabric of one of my elaborate
sleeves thoughtfully. The pearls and golden embroidery flash in the
late morning sunshine. “You didn’t have to spend that kind of money
on me, you know. I could have just worn something simple, or the
blue dress I already had. I don’t have to have something
this—
regal
,” I stammer. “Although I do appreciate it.”

Syr Phillip goes to stand in the shade of an
ancient-looking oak tree whose branches are draped with grapevines
and Spanish moss. He’s taken off his armor for our walk and is
wearing only the sweatstained padded gambeson and loose-fitting
flannel fight pants he wears underneath his armor, although he’s
made sure to keep on his white knight’s belt and golden spurs. “On
the contrary, Lisa. If you’re going to be my Princess and Queen,
you deserve to be attired in a manner appropriate for your station.
Although I wasn’t exactly expecting Barlonda to make you garb that
would make you worthy of ruling over heaven itself, even for six
thousand dollars. I look forward to seeing her finish the next
three gowns she owes me, but I’m not sure how they could top this
one.” Syr Phillip pulls me close to him, and I smell his masculine
scent—a mixture of sweat, armor grease, and musk. “Although you
could easily rule the kingdom of my heart wearing nothing at all.”
My lord and knight kisses me, open-mouthed, with more passion that
I’ve ever felt from him before. A hot prickly sensation travels up
and down my body in waves, and I feel like I just might swoon
again, although I know that even if I do, Syr Phillip’s strong arms
will hold me up this time.

Syr Phillip runs his hands up and down the sides of
my gown, assessing its construction. “You know Lisa, when I placed
the order for this gown with Barlonda, I made a couple of special
requests about how it was to be made. Do you know what they
were?”

“No,” I reply, giggling. Although judging by Syr
Phillip’s roving hands, I’m starting to get a bit of an idea.

“The first request was that the gown be
high-waisted, with a very full skirt.”

“Uh huh,” I say. “But aren’t all Italian Renaissance
gowns styled that way?”

“I believe so,” he grins. “But they don’t generally
have built-in corsets or attached underskirts, like I specifically
asked Barlonda to make sure yours had. Because that way, it would
be a lot easier for you to get on.
And
off.”

I think I know where this is going.

Syr Phillip’s arms are almost crushing me now. “I
want you right now, Lisa. Please. I don’t think I can fight another
round today until I do.”

I can feel my lord and knight’s urgency even though
his heavy padded gambeson. I lift up the hem of the quilted garment
and reach under the drawstring waist of his leggings to stroke his
burning need.

“Oh, yes—“ Syr Phillip moans in my ear, his breath
hot and fast. He reaches into my gown’s plunging neckline to cup my
left breast, and expertly pops it out of my bodice. He goes to suck
on my nipple, biting around its tip gently with dozens of tiny
nibbles that send me reeling.

“Phillip,—
oh!”
I yelp as I feel my lord hitch
up my skirts with one hand and rearrange his own waistband to
reveal his throbbing member, which presses itself against my
quickly dampening thigh. “Are you sure?” I breathe. “Won’t someone
see us?”

“Lisa—please—I can’t take it much longer. If someone
sees us—let them watch. I don’t care.” Syr Phillip’s fingers are
fumbling with my panties, which, ironically, are getting tangled up
with his quivering erection. “Help me,” he begs.

I do. In a lilting moment, I tear my panties off so
fast the seams rip wide open, and in an instant, my lord and
knight’s blazing sword has found its home. Syr Phillip grabs my
legs and wraps them around his waist, holding me up with both his
firm hands squarely clutching my buttocks. We settle into a perfect
rhythm against the trunk of the ancient oak. The tree trunk is
split into two backward-curving stems right at my waist level, and
Syr Phillip and I recline back into the old oak’s folds as we move
faster and faster, then slower and deeper together, as if the tree
has grown this way for a hundred years just so it could support the
moment of our passionate embrace.

Syr Phillip’s grasp on my buttocks grows tighter and
tighter, while his thrusts grow stronger, so deep and hard that
despite all my efforts to keep our tryst quiet and discreet, I cry
out my joy in a voice that shakes the old oak to its roots.

“Oh, God!” I cry. “Yes! Oh—oh, you’re so, you’re
so—“ I put my wrist in my mouth and bite down on it to contain my
screams.

“Lisa—oh, Lisa, I love you—“

Even in the heat of our embrace, I can hardly
believe what I’ve just heard. The thought of Syr Phillip Reginald
of Blackstar—or even just plain old Phil Dawson—really, truly
loving
me brings me to the brink of the most incredible
release I’ve ever experienced. The slick lips of my need start to
quiver, first at their tips, then deeper and deeper until my entire
being ripples in longer and longer cycles of vibration. The tremors
pulsating throughout my body jolt me into pleasurable exhaustion.
Syr Phillip’s own moment of delight just follows my own, and I feel
his essence burst inside me in dozens of tiny, rapid explosions.
All too soon it’s over, and we collapse against each other, damp
with sweat and heady with pleasure.