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To The Sound of Clashing Swords (Story/Traveler)

Medic’s tent her arse. She would be going back to her own tent to rest, then she was determined to do her own celebration once this headache had subsided. She imagined that relieving her stomach of its contents had helped a little bit, but the sun was still bothering her and she couldn’t bear to walk around any longer than she had to.

Which was a disappointment, since the men around her were clapping each other on the back and trading jovial insults as they prepared to spend the day in their cups and the night merrymaking. A punch of jealousy had her straightening herself out as Ricard’s hand steadied her. She tipped her head to shoot him a dark look, only to smooth it over by sheer force of will.

“It is only a headache,” she insisted, stubborn, as she sought out her friend being led off by the blond. The rest of her fellow knights and former champions were already dispersing into the growing crowd around them as people filed in preparation to hit the shops and taverns as well as the carnival itself. It turned her expression mildly crestfallen and dragged her pride even further up onto the surface as she straightened up. “I feel better now that I am out of the sun,” she insisted again.

“And besides, I cannot allow you to slip away from me so easy now without having a wood, Ser Ricard,” she turned pointedly, eyeing him up and down. “Since we will be in such close proximity together,” she added, a small smile curling her lips. Lackluster; it lacked her usual mischief as the look reflected in her eyes reflected uncertainty.
 
Ser Ricard’s eyes grew stern. “It’s not only a headache. You got kicked in the head by a fucking horse!” he would have roared if he didn’t see the crestfallen look in her eyes. He was about to offer a sympathetic word when she turned it around and eyed him as if he was her appetizer and her main course.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, beginning to direct her back to the medic’s tent. “I mean, if I lose my knight apprentice so soon who’s going to wash all my dirty socks?” He smirked down at her as he continued to ensure that they were not deviating from the course. “I like a bit of lavender in the water. You might want to write that down,” he continued. “Don’t want to make your knight mad at you, do you?”

Now that they were away from the banter of the other lads, Ricard had a chance to mull over what her win truly meant. He meant it when he said that it would have been better for Fritz…Sienna…to die on the tournament field than the battlefield. Her grandfather would have at least had a body to bury. Yet beyond all reckoning Sienna had made it. She not only survived the trials, she thrived. Up until the moment she turned her horse and was thrown from the saddle. Had she stayed the course she would have been fine. She didn’t trust herself. Worse, she didn’t trust him.

And he was serious when he said that a hapless apprentice would get the knight killed.

On the other side of the recruits’ tent Edwain was going over a set of ground rules for Jacoby. “Don’t do anything to dishonor the crown,” he continued, “and that includes getting women pregnant while we’re on the road.” He gave the lad a stern look. “You and your little fried will have it especially difficult. He’s trouble,” Edwain decided. “He’ll ruin your career and think nothing of it. It’s time for you to decide what is important in life, Jacoby Reinstahl. Your life as a knight, or the friendship of a cad.”

Then he put a large, warm hand on the young man’s shoulder. “But enjoy tonight. It may very well be the last taste of freedom you get until your year is up and you’ve made it through the initiate year. Remember; if anything goes wrong this first year the title can be yanked from you. Afterwards…well, afterwards you’ll learn what happens. If you get there.”

With a final word of warning he left the young man and went off to seek some quiet before he had to play the part of his birthright later. For undoubtedly, he’d be expected to make an appearance with his fiancée.
 
Sienna always saw Ricard’s friend giving the same stern look that Ricard gave her to her pirate friend. Somehow, she doubted the reprimands were like those of her dark knight’s though. Indeed, she almost stopped and headed back towards the younger man when she caught the flash of gold draw Jacoby aside, scowls and all. Instead, she rolled her eyes forward, allowing herself to be propelled to some extent by Ricard.

“Is your friend as big a prig as you are, Ser Ricard?” she shot back at him when he started going over a list of things she would need to be doing for him as his apprentice. Softened the question with a wobbly grin over her shoulder as she walked, chin pointing in the direction of Jacoby and Ser Edwain.

Only as soon as she caught sight of the medic tent again, she took the lead and swerved off to the side, heading away and towards the romani encampment. Ricard might remember it -- it was where she had pulled him away from his night of fun there, something that shoved something sharp in her gut at the memory and had her changing her mind on where she wanted to go.

Jealousy would not suit her; she knew his character well enough. Despite the crush she might have developed on the man, letting any kind of feeling come between her and her farce was out of the question. Instead, she resisted the urge to take his hand and drag him along, and instead relied on the fact that he would follow her before he could slip away to enjoy his version of the festivities.

It was not long before the more colorful array of tents and pavilions came into view, though the girl was walking funny as she approved them. Her knees felt weak, her legs wobbled, and she was starting to feel light headed again even though the nausea had passed. As it was, she half stumbled into her own mess of a tent, leaving the flap open for Ricard to follow if he chose to.

Hers was not a large space. Not like some. There was enough room to stand in the middle, but the space was taken up with her bedding and her pack, its contents strewn. At least there was a stool she used to wash herself at night in a corner with a bucket of water for any guests to sit down, for her arse landed on the bedding, back to the tent flaps.

“Do not look,” she insisted, already stripping the tunic over her head, fingers grasping at the bindings wound around her chest that ached and felt like they were suffocating her. “I need to get these off… I cannot breathe,” she murmured, fingers clumsy as she worked the bind.
 
“As big of a prig?” Ricard scoffed. “Why, you want to serve under the Golden Knight?” He slowly blinked in the sunlight as they walked, aiming to find her a spot in the medic’s tent and leave her there. At least until the morning. Just because she got herself knocked up, er…knocked over, didn’t mean that his fun had to be cut short. He had earned a night of festivities as much as any of them.

Now he just had to get rid of this little squirt and…

She changed her course around the tent, then started to hurry as quickly as her little legs would take her towards the gypsy camp. “HEY! Get back here you little brat!” He tailed her through the tents, weaving between dull grey fabric that soon turned bright, contestants and spectators, and trying to keep his eyes on the little scamp. ‘This would be much easier if I could just shoot her with a crossbow,’ he complained to himself. Yet he continued to follow her having expended enough energy into getting her to go to bed that now he was invested.

Thankfully she began to slow, weaving slightly as if she was drunk, and he found himself hurrying to stay close lest she fall. Then she ducked into a little tent like a rabbit into its burrow.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, leaning over and ducking into the little bungalow after her. “Sienna – this is not going to be better for you than the medic’s tent. Hell…” he tried to stand up, bumped his head against the tent ceiling, and cursed. He peered around in the tiny dark tent, looking for someplace to be that wasn’t right on top of her. Then at her claim for modesty he laughed. “I’ve already seen you, pipsqueak. There’s nothing you need to be shy about.” He knelt down next to her bed and insisted on her letting him help, slapping away her hands if she protested. “Be quiet. I know what you need,” his fingers pried the ties apart and deftly unwrapped the bindings.

“You need to sleep. If I catch you out raising hell with the others don’t think I won’t cane that back of those thighs of yours,” he warned. “You belong to the King now. If you damage his property there will be a price to pay.”

~ * ~​

There was always a price to pay when one achieved their dream. Now that Jacoby had been selected as a knight, he feared he would fail in the next year. For some reason he thought that once he was in everything would be simple. He’d impress the king, be granted one request, and ask for his father’s pardon. In his young, unpolitical mind, it was going to be easy. Now he wondered how he could ever get the privilege to ask such a thing.

As he glanced up at the dais and saw the king standing with his men and a few nosey nobles, Jacoby couldn’t imagine what it might be like to look into the eyes of the immortal-seeming man and asking for something. He didn’t know if he could ever be worthy. Certainly, he’d have to have done something spectacular to have earned that.

Now that Ser Edwain had released him, Jacoby could seek out Sienna and find out how she was. He rushed to the medic’s tent, searching the different rooms until he was certain that she was nowhere to be seen. He went back outside and asked the pages if they saw where Ser Ricard went. One pointed uncertainly into the fairgrounds, and Jacoby started trotting, looking above all the heads for a short, wavy haired moppet.

~ * ~​

Ser Edwain needed a bath, a moment to himself, and a change of clothing to get his mind right to speak to Lady Maira. After everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours he needed a bit of isolation. He had always known that there was a price to be paid for being born prince. He had accepted it from the very beginning. But he had thought, up until he understood how injured his father had been, that he would have some time to live before he was tied to a crown.

Even afterwards, he thought that King Locke’s reign would last at least another generation, making Prince Syrus crown prince in name alone. But yesterday’s conversation changed all that. Now he knew that his grandfather was seeking a sign that Syrus would be able to rule, and soon. Too soon for Edwain’s taste…but then again, the days of kings were numbered, and only those who wove Fate’s threads knew just when a person’s life would end.

He sighed as he stepped around a tent, preparing to break away from the festival grounds and wind his way back to the castle for his much needed reprieve.
 
Sienna snorted her retort at Ser Edwain’s name - Golden Knight. It sounded as condescending as she had caught him treating Jacoby and wondered what it would be like to knock him and Ser Ricard on their arses in a fair fight instead of atop a horse.

She might challenge her own knight just as soon as her head stopped its pounding and her ribs did not feel as if they were about to splinter through her skin. And yet it was her stubbornness that pulled her back to her own tent.

Face strained, she allowed him to help her with the chest bindings, but turned her face away when they slid free of her torso, freeing her chest and allowing her to breathe. She sucked in a shaking breath and glanced down at the ugly bruise left against her collar by his lance. Prodded it gently with her fingers. This time, though, Sienna did not have it in her to come up with a cheeky reply or even bother with her modesty … not that there was much modesty left to give, considering that she did not have much to work with to begin with.

That alone caused her face to flame. The heat spread to the rims of her ears, flushed across her chest. It was shame that caused her to lift her arms and hide her breasts from his view, but something else that caught the stifled sob in her throat. She was still unable to stop the twin tears that streaked her cheeks -- both of which she was quick to swipe away, her lashes blinking rapidly so that she could staunch any further flow.

Containing herself, she reached over and scooped up the discarded tunic, dragging it back over her head, then sat up straighter and turned her fiercest glare on him. Better that than tear filled eyes. No, she was past the point of being allowed any vulnerabilities. So she prepared for a more blunt approach.

“I want you to respect me,” she began, erasing the warble in her voice with her next breath. “I still do not understand why you have chosen not to make my little secret known…” she trailed off, eyes gone dark as they narrowed at him. “And as you have so pointed out, it is a little secret,” she bit out. “But I still want this. As shameful as your behavior was in the medic’s tent, it was also hurtful, and I would rather you leave what games you think to play with me and just be plain as to your intent, Ser Ricard. I am not so used to feeling so ashamed to feel a thing, and I do not understand if you meant your words to be cruel or not. I am no giggling maid, but nor do I live so freely as the romani do; I was raised to be my own instead, and do not wish to be treated on the basis of entitlement or presumption, but as someone who is worthy. So, tell me how I can achieve such.. With you. Surely if you are willing to risk your own hand in my deception, you can honor me with that much.”

She paused, shifting on the bed to face him more fully.

“Tell me why you did not oust me and topple of chances in this competition. It was your right to do so and, no doubt if I am found out and it becomes known that you have helped me, your honor will be just as damaged as mine. Be honest as to why you did such a thing, Ser Ricard, as it was my own foolhardiness that caught up to me in the first place.”

She looked away again, briefly, pride making war with her embarrassment. Long lashes lowered to form a fan of shadows over high cheekbones as she peeked back up at him. A soft mouth parted, tongue flicking to wet her lips. It was almost seductive if she had not been so nervous. Then she pulled herself back up. “I am weak with a horse. It is no fault of the jarl’s, but I would like you to teach me so that I do not make the same mistake twice. Where I have been raised, we do not keep horses like you do; the mountains are too hard. I only know how to ride a donkey, or a pony bred to traverse the heights. So, I will need to learn how to ride proper.”

She slumped after that, like the words had taken the rest of her flame away. Instead, she watched him with a look of uncertainty, waiting to know what he said next.

~~~

Maira’s relief once the tournament came to a close was absolute. No longer did she need to sit pretty underneath the hot swelter of the sun. No longer did she need to worry about being under the oppressed eye of the elite surrounding her, judging her every move, especially now that she had chosen fate - limited as her choices had been.

The Prince.

It came as paramount relief that the Prince seemed to have better things to do than present himself alongside his mother and grandfather. No doubt, he tended to his father, whom she knew was an invalid at this point, though those were only the whispers of women trying to spread rumor. Maira could only hope that her choice had been the right one and that this ghost of a man would pay her as much attention as he had this tournament.

Once back at the castle by the sea just as the sun was sloping down over the horizon, she retreated to her chambers there before her parents could confront her anymore about what her future now held. They could pester her all they liked at dinner, which would not be until some hours from then.

For now, she wished to soak in a tub with a book and be whisked away within its pages for a time.
 
Her small, pert breasts were finally free, and almost as quickly Sienna covered them with her arms as if denying them their chance to be unbound. Ser Ricard set aside the bindings and waited as she pulled her shift about her body and covered herself once more. But when he saw the tears streaking across her tawny cheeks he frowned. Was she mad that he knew her secret, or that she had been hurt? Or was it something else altogether? He never could understand women.

Then she gave him her ultimatum. Ricard shook his head at her. The audacity of that little whelp, thinking that she could tell him what to do! When she mentioned her secret being ‘little’ his eyes washed over her chest, hidden now by the thin fabric of her tunic. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with her breasts. He quite liked her size; nothing overflowing, no excess to go to waste. Instead she had just enough to be enjoyable, and nothing more. Then his attention was brought back to her words as she spoke about games and free living. And then of being worthy. Of him.

He watched carefully as she turned to him and continued speaking. The shadows cast by her lashes drew his gaze to her eyes, then to her lips and the dimples that framed them despite her sober words. Then that pink tongue darted out, looking like the first bloom of a cherry blossom, and explained her lack of skill with a horse. “Jarl?” he asked, “Is that what you gypsies call your leader?” He scoffed and lightly put a hand upon her arm.

“Listen, Sienna. There are some things you must understand. Firstly, there is nothing to be ashamed of as far as that is concerned,” he said inclining his head towards her breasts. “There are many men like me who prefer the perfect handful to overflowing jugs. As far as not telling anyone your secret, well,” he drew his hand back to his lap. “You were a scrappy lad to begin with. No one thought you had a chance, least of all me. But you proved us wrong, didn’t you?” He grinned at her then. “And when I found out that the little whip on the field was a woman, well, I had to respect your tenacity, no matter how dangerous your ruse might be. If you’re found out, we’ll deal with that when we come to it.”

He drew in a breath, slowing the pace of his words. “And you’re right. I shouldn’t have acted so shamefully towards you in the tent. I was surprised; I wanted to know that you were not an illusion.” He flattened his lips and looked at her. “It won’t happen again. From here on out, I’ll treat you as I would any new knight. Especially since you do not wish to be treated differently due to entitlement or presumption.”

He moved to pull her blanket around her, snugging it around her kindly. “Sleep, Ser Fritz,” he said, grinning, “and I’ll see you in the morning.”

~ * ~​

Ah, the solitude of the castle was refreshing. Everyone was at the festivals save a few castle guards and the servants on duty that night. Most had at least one of the festival days as a holiday, ensuring that none would be denied their ability to celebrate. And now it was just Edwain and his longed-after bath and rest before the dinner was in full swing.

He took a shortcut through the noble’s chambers, then when he was certain that no eyes were about, turned to retreat to the safety of his own wing. It was a generous portion of rooms; a grand door that led to his own hall, antechamber, sitting room, library, bedroom and bath chambers. To his delight he saw that the servants had brought in wood and water, enough for the night, and everything had been tidied for the evening. If only he could stay here, instead of roaming out among the populace as the prince.

Finally he could delay no more. Freshly dressed, once again clad in the darkened glamour of his princely self, he slid the slim silver circlet around his hair and looked at himself in the mirror. Slightly sunken cheeks, dark circles about his eyes, and barely a hint of blue within his eyes, he left his chambers and walked back towards the front of the castle, once again taking a shortcut through the noble’s chambers.
 
She looked more feminine than she did like a boy, even with the tunic draped back over her torso. It engulfed her, made her look small, but the illusion of her being masculine had faded as she continued to watch him underneath the spikes of lashes. The dark curl of hair had tumbled down and free, curling around her shoulders and caressing her cheeks that were still warmed by a blush and her lips were parting, bringing attention to their soft flare. Against any will of her own, the outlines of her breasts pressed against the fabric, her nipples stiff and dark in their visibility.

The pained brightness in her eye sharpened, becoming something more coy, as he smoothed over her insecurities with only a few sentences. The dimples were back, as well as the faint quirk of her mouth. “I simply do not wish for you to treat me like a whore, Ser Ricard. Gropable, then discarded. Do you see me as a woman? Because I can be seen as a woman as well as knight; treating me as you would any other knight and treating me as a woman are not mutually exclusive,” she murmured quietly, watching him as a cat might a tasty morsel.

But also with an acute sense of awareness. It was bold, what she was saying. Even bolder that when he leaned in, pulling a blanket up, that she leaned in until she could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the intermingling combination of man, of clean sweat, leather and horses. She did not think about what she was doing until her fingers were touching his chest, tracing up alongside his pectoral muscles to find his neck. His nape. The dark curl of his hair that ran between her fingertips.

Nor did she think about the fact that she had to tilt her head a little to look at him still, something dark and sultry, yet hesitant, in the shimmer of her eyes. The attraction was there - at least for her - too obvious by the way her pupils dilated, her breath hitched through parted lips when her touch reached skin.

“What shall I present you for breakfast, Ser Ricard?” Her grin deepened as she caught what she was saying, keen awareness returning as to their close proximity that had her nerve endings standing on in. Only she was not about to move except to slide her eyes to where her fingers slid through his hair.

~~~


Maira had to be summoned to dine with her family and a handful of other nobles who were staying in her father’s house, the King included. Which meant that there was a chance that the Prince would be in attendance to and her stomach was already sinking, losing its appetite for any feast, at the thought of meeting him.

No doubt he, too, would think that she was a bitch as well. In a way, that fueled her to some sort of grim satisfaction just as much as it stung. Let him. Was it not what she wanted - to be left alone? And what better way than to have his opinion so low that he would leave her be?

So she dressed, shoving her arms through lace and fabric in a brusque manner and allowing the handmaid to help lace up the back until it was cinched tight around her waist. The skirts fell to the floor, a deep emerald green that brought out the natural color of her eyes. With her hair freshly washed and dried, smelling of lavender and a tinge of honey, she braided it down her back so that it was kept out of her face.

With her jaw set stubbornly and trepidation rolling through her, she made her way down to the great hall and made quick note of who was present. There was her father seated to the left of the king, her mother to the sight of him. The king’s daughter in law sat at the king’s elbow and there were two vacant spots next to her, which she presumed were for her son the prince and her husband, the renounced heir due to his injury. Then further down the line were the other nobles who had traveled to see the tournament, with more filtering down from the staircase to be seated.

Stiffly, Maira paid her polite social trivialities as she passed, then sat next to her mother, placing her across from one of the empty seats. Her mother turned to her, beaming, as soon as she had made herself comfortable.

“You look lovely, dear,” she whispered excitedly, looking her over. “I am sure the prince will approve.” To that Maira fought to keep her expression serene instead of rolling her eyes.
 
She was witty, that one. Ricard considered her reasoning even as he prepared to leave her, but as he leaned in closer and she looked up through her dark lashes, her eyes mysteriously churning with feminine desire, he felt his throat tighten with the desire to know her completely. The soft hint of hardened nipples pressing against her shift did nothing to lessen his longing. She was pert, firm, young and unspoiled. He ached to be the one who unfolded her mysteries and laid them before himself to explore.

Who was this slip of a woman who dared the enter the tournament of men? She had fought well, though her movements at times were chaotic. She had kept her humor and joy about her, though she had been battered like the stony shores of a seaside. And she was right; being treated like a knight did not mean that he could not treat her like a woman…especially when they were alone, and she was looking at him as she did now.

He lowered his eyes to her lips and then back to meet her sultry stare. His full lips parted in a surprised soft smile when she asked about breakfast. His head tingled where her fingers had touched him, and he found that he quite liked the way it felt.

“Sienna, you must understand something.” He kept his voice low and intimate. His hand moved to touch her hair, pulling the curls gently away from her exotic eyes and looking at her. “I am not a man content to settle down with one woman. And yes, most who I dally with are whores.” He steadied his gaze on hers. “If you truly want to be a knight, to do more than simply impress your grandfather, you would be best served by giving yourself time to heal.”

“And then we shall discuss what I see burning in your eyes.” It took all his self-control to merely kiss her forehead, his lips pressing firm and full against her skin, and then pull himself away. He gathered his things and stood at the doorway, his eyes smoldering with a desire that he could not let himself have. Not with her body bruised and broken and her mind so intoxicated with her recent win that she might not be thinking clearly. Not until the final knighting was done and he’d bested Ser Edwain in their bet about the little scamp’s chances at knighthood. Then, and only then, he would let himself indulge in the discovery that his body yearned to have.

The early evening air was swiftly cooling. Soon festival goers would huddle about fires, warming their hands and waiting for the evening fireworks to be lit. Musicians even now roamed the pathways, courting coin for song. Ricard stood for a moment outside Sienna’s tent and looked towards the fires. He knew that gypsy women would be plentiful there, but right now…right now he wanted a shower, a bottle of something strong, and his bed. Tomorrow he would deal with the conundrum that the little moxie had brought to his door.

~ * ~​

As Prince Syrus strode down the main hall towards the banquet room, he was intercepted by the assistant to the physician, a thin young man with a long chin who seemed to bob his head with every important word. Syrus recognized the want in the man’s eye; a need to speak, yet hesitating until spoken to.

“Maldive,” Syrus paused, turning to the man. “Were you looking for me?”

“In truth I was searching for the crown princess,” he said, bobbing his head at the second and eleventh syllable. “I, we, uh, your father is in deep sorts tonight,” he explained. “I’m afraid it would not be a good idea for him to be, uhm, in public.” He lowered his face, yet his eyes stretched up to peer at Prince Syrus, causing deep creases to form across his forehead. “Deepest apologies, Your Highness.”

“I see.” He loved his father. Had loved his father. The man who sat in his father’s skin now neither resembled the man Syrus remembered nor was he pleasant company when his potions did not take effect. As much as it pained him to admit it, Syrus wondered often if death wouldn’t have been kinder than to be the drooling, half conscious man who Prince Victor was now. He couldn’t bathe or feed himself, and more private matters like toiletries had been given over to treating the poor man like a child. Yet at one time Prince Victor had been a handsome man above men. He had been strong, smart, clever and desirable. He was a man his son idolized. He worshiped his Da. It killed Syrus the first time his father, upon waking, had spat and flailed at the child, yelling at the servants to ‘take the brat away.’

And ever since, year after year, it seemed Victor’s capacities grew less and less, until Syrus even doubted his father recognized his face.

Now he stood before the physician’s assistant and realized that he had felt a wash of relief at the news. “Very well,” he said, making himself sound disappointed, “I will let the crown princess know.” He made his way to the great hall and paused inside the grand doorway, taking in the sight before him. Many were already seated. He saw the two empty seats next to his mother and knew that leaving one unfilled would remind the nobles that the king had a son who was no longer worthy. Victor was too sickly to even sit at the table and sup with his people. What else was failing in the kingdom?

He inclined his head slightly to look between the other guests and saw Lady Maira sitting stiffly beside her mother. Quickly a plan began to form, and he treaded his way through the crowd, allowing his subtle colors to further keep him from eager eyes until he was parallel to the high table where the King, Princess Olivia, Knigtt General Ser Jonas, and Lady Annabeau sat.

And of course, Lady Maira. He could not forget her.

Syrus went first to his grandfather and mother to greet them as was customary. Quietly he shared the news. “Father is not doing well,” he said. “His physicians recommended keeping him in tonight.” With a short glance at King Locke, he added his request. “I’d like Lady Maira to sit beside me.” He saw no protest in either of them. At least, none that he would heed. Nodding his thanks, he then walked behind the king to address Ser Jonas.

How different the man seemed when not looked through the eyes of a knight. Formidable even in his sixty years, the man was a force to be reckoned with. With one hand on the Knight General’s chair, and one on Lady Annabeau’s, Prince Syrus leaned in and greeted them. “Good evening, Knight General, Lady Annabeau,” he began. “I wonder if I might borrow Lady Maira. We seem to have an available seat, and…” he tilted his head in her direction, “we have yet to speak since the announcement.”

He really wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Hopefully she wouldn’t be either.
 
Sienna thought he might kiss her then. She almost closed the gap herself when her breath caught in her throat on a soft gasp when his fingers sent tingles through her skin even though he hardly touched her. Instinctive, she leaned into the touch, lips parting as anticipation made the rest of her senses both foggy and more acute.

Then he had to speak, snapping her focus back to his dark eyes, her focus on what he was saying. Her frustration made itself known with a little groan that vibrated in the back of her throat, followed distinctively by a derisive snort. She had a retort resting on the tip of her tongue, but the tender kiss he pressed into her forehead had her swallowing it, eyes closing as she ran her fingers one last time through his own dark hair, down the solid expanse of his chest, then finally back down to drop into her lap.

Her eyes swam with interest as well as confusion; desire that she did not know how to conceal. Or even really to act upon. The man was right about the fact that she needed her rest. More importantly, she would prefer to soak in a hot bath for forever and a day, but she supposed that could wait until the morning.

Once he had stepped outside of her tent, Sienna groaned out loud and kicked off her boots before she flopped back down into her bedroll, dragging the blanket he had fit over her shoulders around the rest of her body. Shooting another guilty glance towards the now closed tent flap, she waited until his silhouette had disappeared from view, then turned her attention to the flapping cover above.

She felt a sense of giddiness as her hand slipped down underneath the blanket, pushing her breeches down until she could wiggle out of them. Then, with a secret hitch of her breath, she closed her eyes and slid her hand up again, until it rested against the dampened front of her smallclothes. The shiver that rolled down her spine almost made her retreat with guilt as pleasure leapt at her fingers that flattened the cloth around the shape of sex. Dragging her lip between her teeth, she cupped herself, feeling the heat emanating from between her thighs.

Then with her head tilting, a covert glance to check the tent flap, she slid her bare hand underneath the band of her smallclothes, touching her fingers to the hot slick that dampened her folds. Tentative, she teased the hood that hid the little nub of nerves that sang with the memory of her dark knight. Her breath lurched. Then, with a shivering sigh, she relaxed back into her bedroll and shut her eyes, her fingers working their own encouragement on her body.


~~~


Locke glanced up from his conversation with the Knight General when Syrus appeared at the entrance of the banquet hall, his brows lifting curiously at his grandson, before he returned his attention to Ser Williams. All the while his daughter in law snuck vague touches here and there, her fingers touching his sleeve, her forced laughter catching too close to his ear.

He should have pushed her away, but even a gentle refusal to her advances squeezed the empathy in his heart. He knew why she did it -- Victor and he looked similar enough, at least from before, when Victor was more of a man than he was now. When Olivia and he had courted, it had been a more charmed courtship than what a majority of the elite enjoyed. Though Locke and his son were two very different men.

Their similar appearances was where it stopped.

However, his heart hurt just as much as Olivia’s at the loss. And in a way, his reluctant acceptance of what small comforts she took by sticking by his side when she could not be by her husband’s helped him through the pain as well. Something he was careful not to show, especially not in the face of those who looked up to him as their King.

So as Syrus delivered the news that Victor was not faring well enough, his expression turned solemn as he nodded his understanding. Olivia looked more crestfallen, stricken even, as she turned her attention to her son. She at least caught his hand before he could move away, pressing a kiss to it, then a squeeze with a hasty, “I love you” before he moved on.


~~~

Maira’s spine became even more rigid as the Prince came into view. Despite her self-administered tension, an open sort of curiosity followed the man as he prowled between the chairs, making his quiet formalities. She knew of him and knew him very little; he was Prince Syrus, a man a handful of years older than she, and that he kept to himself. A trait she knew that his grandfather possessed as well.

Her stomach was a ball of fresh, fiery nerves as she squinted at him, her memory teasing her with his familiarity.

Only to drop and disperse in a hundred seething snakes when he came closer, his voice loud and clear, despite that he chose to address her parents and not she. She opened her mouth, fire on her tongue, but her fire was shy to make an appearance and she clamped her lips shut in a thin, tense line as she stared at this man, green eyes trying to bore a hole in his face.

No.

No, it could not be. His hair was darker, ashen in a way. His eyes looked sunken; there was not a light in his face. His mouth was too grim, though that in a way, brought the pained tinge of memory from the night before.

Unbelieving, she rose from her seat as her mother turned, excited, and encouraged her to round the table and sit next with her betrothed.

A butler helped her draw her seat back, something that Maira hardly noticed as she continued to focus on the Prince with frightening intensity. Jaw locked, she finally grated out, “I suppose we do have much to talk about,” she agreed, stiff motions carrying her around to sit in the seat that had once been across from her. It left the seat next to Princess Olivia for him.

She managed to contain herself until he had found his own seat, then turned a pivot in her new seat, her eyes wild in their panic. “Why?” She blurted in a quiet hiss. Other words, for now, seemed lost to her. “How?”
 
There was a warning in Maira’s voice that set Syrus’ neck to tingle. A restraint filled with anger, though he mistook it for her disapproval of being betrothed to anyone. He followed behind as her skirts swept the floor and she moved around the table to the royal family’s side. He intercepted the butler who attempted to pull out her chair, choosing instead to help her with her chair himself. If he was to lead, he would need to learn to serve in ways that amounted to more than simply carrying a sword and shield.

As he sat between Maira and his mother he felt the gentle press of his mother’s hand and took it in his own. Briefly he turned to her, bringing her fingertips to his lips and gifted her with a rare smile of shared comradery. In many ways he knew she lived as a walking widow. The love of her life was dying. Slowly. Stories had filtered through his adolescence of the love she shared with her betrothed, though he would never know how much of it was truth and how much had been crafted to ease a young boy’s heart. Then he turned at the sound of green satin moving at his side to meet his fiancée’s eyes.

“Why?” She blurted in a quiet hiss. Other words, for now, seemed lost to her. “How?”

His darkened eyes met green fields of panic. Did she…? He blinked in momentary confusion. “You can see who I—?” he whispered, leaning in slightly to give the appearance of a shared flirtation rather than flustered questioning. “You know me.” It was a statement. Somehow, she was not fooled by the slight glamour that changed his features just enough that a ‘uniform’ could make that change complete to the common mind. Lady Maira’s mind was anything but common, a truth that he had witness only a night before.

His tongue darted out, wet the edges of his lips, and he slid his gaze away. She had put last night together with today, saw through his deception, and deserved to understand what her life might be like married to an absent husband until the time came for him to return completely to his destined life. The question of ‘how’ was less complex than the ‘why’ of what he did. He turned his face back to her as he assembled the words to begin to explain. His royal blue eyes shimmered in the shadow beneath his brow as he brought them to fix on hers. “I did not want my life constrained or dictated by my birth, but to earn my country’s respect through merit,” he finally said, studying the woman at his side. “And I think that we, with a few mutually agreed upon terms, could find this arrangement very liberating for us both.”


That woman, that girlish feline with the dark, taunting eyes, pert chin, and luscious smile accented by her dimples, haunted Ricard’s thoughts as he made his way to his field tent. In many ways it was fortuitous that she had been unhorsed. He would not have known her feminine state had it not been so, and his thoughts would be filled with confusion over his feelings for Fritz. A lad. Instead, he could embrace the thoughts that now were dancing in his head; the memory of her stolen kiss and then the ones afterwards. The touch of her fingertips along his chest, the way she looked at him, just daring him to capture her lips in another kiss…the way he wanted to pull her against his frame as his hands swept along her slim curves, pulled her hips against his hardened lust, and swoon into the moist valley of her desire.

Ricard shook his head and ran a hand through his hair as he readied to duck into the safety of his temporary shelter. She was going to be the death of him.

Had she not been injured he would be losing himself in her right now. He saw the invitation in her eyes. He felt it in the way her groan resonated in her throat. He wanted to hear her make those primal sounds again, and then gasp and moan in response to his ministrations as he explored the lithe body that had beguiled him ever since the imposter stepped upon the field.

Instead, he had a cold basin of water to bathe with, a stiff flagon of spirits, and a hard cot on which to lay his head. Ricard supposed it could have been worse. Had she not won her place on the field he would have no excuse to see her again. Now, at least, he could see how far and how well a lady knight could advance. Not to mention the flush bet he had won against Edwain.

He stripped off his boots, chain mail and clothing, and set the items aside. He dipped a cloth into the water and wrung it out before beginning to bath himself, for the first time glad that the water was cold. He thought about the way the scamp had looked up at him. The hunger in her eyes were unmistakable. He could still hear the way her breath sounded as her lips parted in anticipation. He had wanted to meet her then, to cross the short distance between them and answer the call of her body with his, but there was too much at stake.

Not to mention, she probably had a few cracked ribs that needed to heal.

The moistened cloth moved down his arms, across the expanse of rugged, fur-covered chest, and then down to wash his sex. His hand slid over the rigid proof of the direction of his thoughts and he let out a low groan in his throat as his fingers released the cloth to fasten about the girth of his need. He remembered the soft scent of Sienna’s skin and the way her hair curled about his fingertips. The taut softness of her petite breasts in his hands when he first discovered what she was, and the way she sauntered across the field in triumph after a successful match.

As his hand worked slow and tight along the length of his manhood he closed his eyes and let his head fall back as he released the breath in his lungs, imagined what it would be like to have those flashing dark eyes of hers smiling up at him, her fingers trailing along the muscles of his thigh, her lips curving into that smile as her lips parted…

She might indeed be the death of him, but he thought it might be worth the risk.
 
Maira reacted rather than thought. Of course, that was what she had always done, and why she had ended her evening with Ser Edwain the Golden Knight like she had. Ser Edwain, the Crown Prince Syrus. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as she stared at the man who dropped himself down in the chair next to her, leaning in close so as to not draw an eye. Only Maira drew a couple of speculative glances her way when she reached out and tugged at a strand of dark hair as if expecting it to turn blond under her fingertips. Then her hand slipped down, fairly poking the Prince in the hollow of his cheek as if expecting that, too, to change back to the strong presence that emanated from the knight…

...that did not want her.

Of course, she did not want him either. Had not wanted him when she had forced him out into the night like a silly child, thinking that…

“No,” she said suddenly, alarming the servant who had leaned around her to fill her goblet full of wine. “No, no. No. You cannot be the Prince. You are an ass,” she whispered urgently -- loudly. The words drew the attention to the Lady Emerson who sat on her other side, who choked on the wine she had been sipping to shoot the wild Williams girl an incredulous look at having addressed the Prince in such a way.

“And you hate me. So why would you agree to this?” Maira was at least not prodding his face any longer. In fact, her hands were making themselves busy by clutching her now full goblet, drinking a mouthful of the mulled brew as if it would clear her head instead of befuddle her. “You do not want me. And I fail to see how… how marrying me would be liberating in any way,” she hissed over the edge of her wine glass.

Her eyes darted down, fiery lashes blinking rapidly as her throat closed. The situation, to her, was one born of nightmares. Glancing back up at him, she sucked in a deep breath and put her goblet down, glancing over at her parents who were equal parts concerned and interested at the transaction that she was having with the man.

“I need air,” she murmured, pushing her palms against the edge of the chair as if to stand.


~~~

Sienna knew that she ought to sleep. That her injuries would be the better for it. But there was too much excitement for her to simply doze off, despite the hot flush that spread from her cheeks to her collar to her stomach as she hesitated in her fingers’ tentative exploration of just what the dark knight had stirred with only a touch.

It was more than that, though. She still held the memory of his rough mouth against her lips, his fingers teasing her breasts, his hand cupped between her thighs. She moaned, despite herself, dual pair of fingertips curling as they stroked the swollen bundle of nerves, coating herself in her own wetness. The sensation swelled, becoming an ache, yet she kept at it until she turned her face to the side and moaned into her pillow. Her legs thread open, her hips rocking carefully as she dared quicken the pace her fingers took rolling against her hooded clit.

Up until her toes curled and her moans turned frustrated. Her free hand slid up her tunic, past the bandages wrapped around her torso, until she cupped her own breast. Behind her closed lids, she could imagine that it was Ricard’s hand that fondled the mound, that it was his thumb that streaked across the aching nipple -- shooting sensation that was almost as acute as what her fingers delved between her legs.

The touch certainly made her moan again, louder, her fingertips sliding down through her soaking slit, parting lips to coat the digits in more of her own heat. This time when they found her clit again and its incessant ache, she rolled her fingertips with purpose over the bed, her breath ragged and panting.

Then Sienna tensed up, thighs bracing and toes clenching, an almost pained groan sliding past her lips as a dam seemed to break. The pressure stemming from her nerve endings released, washing her in pleasure, clenching her insides. Her pulse seemed to flicker or stop as her pleasure spiked abruptly, then fell like waves crashing. Her entire palm cupped her sex as she turned, careful of her ribs, and moaned into her pillow as she rode the sensation with her nipple pinched between one set of fingers and her sex rocking against her hand, soaking it.
 
The sharp pull of Maira’s fingers on his hair made Syrus scowl. Then she poked his cheek, drawing a gasp of surprise from him. Did she think he would dissipate like the morning fog? “Maira, what –”

She declared ‘No,’ and he closed his lips and he shot her a confused look. Was she telling him, the prince, ‘no?’. Was she insane? He knew she was spirited; that much had been made clear the night before. But insanity was something he couldn’t abide. Not…not with his father in the state he was in. Syrus couldn’t bind himself to that after watching the way his mother had mourned over Prince Victor.

But as his thoughts drifted to darker places, the lady brought him back to the present by calling him an ass.

Syrus laughed; partially from surprise, partially because she was right. His laugh was outrageously unexpected and drew looks of concern from around the table, save for his mother who felt that it was a good sign. Olivia smiled in the couple’s direction, only to have her smile falter at the words that followed from her future daughter-in-law’s lips.

Maira’s question of why he would agree made Syrus sigh. “Hush, Lady Maira. We can discuss that later.” But she would not stop. It seemed the wine she gulped down energized her, as his intended continued on her path.

“You do not want me. And I fail to see how… how marrying me would be liberating in any way,” she hissed over the edge of her wine glass.

Now he was confused. Did she want marriage to be something born of romance and love affairs? He thought she didn’t even want to be married. What did it matter if the person ‘wanted’ her or not, as long as they treated them fairly? “Neither of us wanted to be married,” he hissed back. He reached for his wineglass and brought it to his lips, hoping that whatever they were serving was potent. It wasn’t near enough, but he drank it anyway. He couldn’t understand why she was so upset with him. Up until last night he didn’t know her, let alone have any reason to want her. She had been faced with being married off as a tournament prize to some random fellow who happened to wave his sword around effectively enough to be chosen as a ‘knight,’ though Syrus felt like the whole competition was a sham. Else, how would that little curly-haired brat, barely big enough to lift a sword and too scared to sit a horse with a lance, have been chosen?

Syrus thought that this arrangement would be acceptable to Maira. He would leave her alone, she would leave him alone, and they would have an agreement that benefited them both in their individual pursuits. As long as she kept her side of their arrangement, she would have everything she wanted. It was a fair transaction.

“We need to talk,” he said, putting his glass down and starting to push his chair away from the table. At that moment Maira declared she needed air and did the same. Syrus’ eyes scrunched at her warily as he felt the gaze of people in the grand hall watching them. Quietly, lips barely moving, he implored, “Don’t. Make. A scene.” And rose to escort her from the room where they might speak more freely.

Those they passed as they left the grand hall turned to watch the new couple, then returned to their conversations, now spiced with speculation on what had led the two to need to leave the royal dinner so quickly. To cover their exit the small orchestra shifted their song to something a little livelier, hoping to distract from the sight of the pensive prince and his fiery fiancée as they departed. Once they were clear of the inner halls of the castle and stepped out into the stone veranda leading to the gardens, Syrus let his glamor fall. His dark brown hair lightened to its golden hue, eyes brightened to shine bright teal in the moonlight, and his face took on its hale and tanned appearance, looking once more like a man healthy in his prime and used to the kiss of the sun than one still mourning his father’s condition. Even his clothing changed slightly to denote the difference between knight and prince. His shirt became a tint of darkened grey instead of black, and threads of silver adorned his collar.

He stepped in front of her to keep her from continuing her flight. “Wait,” he commanded, holding up a hand as if to bar her from going any further. “Before we continue, I want to get one thing clear. I do not hate you,” he insisted, “though I understand if the feeling is not mutual.” He stood before her now, not as Syrus, but as Edwain, though he still wore the prince’s circlet about his brow.

“Now, why are you so upset, when you’re the one who picked me?”


Jacoby finally found Sienna’s tent in the maze of little gypsy ‘homes.’ At least, it looked like her tent. He had already walked into too many wrong ones for one night, though he had been invited to join the last tent owner’s bed. It had been a tempting offer.

As his fingers brushed the tent flap, he heard a sound that stilled his hand. A moan, frustrated. Breathing that was more excited than fearful, and then loader moans that were filled with passion and want.

‘Oh,’ his lips curved into a circle as he stood there, wide-eyed, and listened to something that was too intimate to be overheard. No matter who was in that tent with her it was evident that Sienna was enjoying her visit, for a long, drawn out moan followed, and the young sailor moved away from that tent with thoughts of Illeana now filling his mind. ‘Where were those showers?’ he wondered, stepping away and leaving his friend to whatever form of ‘healing’ was going on inside.


The tight grip Ricard held about his girth was nothing compared to the imagined feeling of Sienna’s body spreading to accommodate him. His legs and buttocks tensed as he thought of her sly glances during the tournament. Every time she would look over her shoulder to see if he was watching, and to see if he had witnessed her clever moves on the field, had been seeking his approval. He considered that she had not only striven so hard to do well to surprise her grandfather, but to please her knight, and a pearlescent drop formed on the tip of his bulbous head as strong fingers washed along his length, crested the corona, and tightly slid down to the base of his root.

He saw her perched above his hips as she placed her hands on his chest and braced herself against him. Her petite breasts sliding against his hands, her mouth parted as she eased her body around his, squeezing him tightly as he breached her sheath and entered her fully. The image made him groan, tense, and open his sultry gaze to stare numbly across his tent as his other hand ran along the hard plain of his hips, then up to his chest before sliding firmly down his abdomen to cup his fleshy sacs, then grip beneath his other hand to simulate being fully encapsulated in her firm, youthful body.

She was so pure, so untouched, that the thought she had never properly lain with a man entered Ricard’s fantasy and he let out a moan of release as his body tensed, and the pressure of warm, slick seed felt like it originated in the back of his head, shot down to his testicles, and force its way from his body to spurt across the knuckles of his hand. Each shot shook him until it sputtered to an end. Even then, his shaft twitched its final release, and Ricard staggered back as step. His head spun. He released his hold and stood there, panting as his body flushed with the need to sleep now that its lust had been fulfilled.

Several minutes later he had collected enough of his wits to resume his bathing. Once he was dried and dressed, Ricard’s thoughts turned again to the dark-haired nymph who had captivated him so easily. Was she alright? Had her wounds increased? Was she bleeding internally? If so, who would help her?

He paused as he readied his bedding. If she called out for help no one would hear her. She was clear across the campsites. He clenched his teeth as he began to roll his blanket. He would sleep on the floor; surely now that he had spilled out his fervent heat he could contain himself around her. She was injured, after all. There was nothing to be done for the desire that he saw in her eyes. Not yet. But he was her knight, and her welfare this next year would be her responsibility as she went from initiate to fully realized honor. If she died the night before her knighting it would surely be seen as his failing.

Not to mention…the bet.

He strapped his sword to his side, clasped his cloak about his shoulders, gathered his blanket, and was gone. A few minutes later his fingers slipped through the slot of Sienna’s tent and pulled back the flap. Then, quietly, he stepped in.
 
Maira could not have left the room fast enough, anxious to be away from the prying eyes, the curious glances. The conversation that she was meant to have with Edwai-- with the Prince-- should have been a private affair, not a surprise thrown at her from the dinner table. Not to mention the flush that was crawling up from her collar into her face was making it hard to breathe.

This was the man who had put her over his knee like a child in the middle of a festival and spanked her.

The Crown Prince.

If she were not still thoroughly embarrassed by the entire ordeal, she might have laughed. In fact, the thought made her smile, making the redhead look all the more crazed and no doubt continuing his inner thoughts on whether or not she was mad or not. The smile was short lived as he hissed at her like the snake he was, causing green eyes to narrow as she leaned in until her nose practically brushed his.

“Neither of us wants to be treated as amenities to further a broken cause. At least I am not a lying snake about what I want, much to my poor Father’s chagrin. He would have preferred a meek girl, not a flaming redheaded bitch that he got. Even my mother believes me demon touched for having a thought in my head. In her opinion, I should shut up and be meek,” she whispered at him, fervently. But at least she was keeping her voice down now.

Then she stood with him, jaw set and heart shaped chin pointed out. The girl at least had the decency to flash a saccharine sweet smile at everyone at the table, announcing as demurely as she could muster, “The Prince and I have decided to have a private dinner in the gardens to celebrate our recent engagement.”

How was that for making a scene?

In dainty slippered feet, she lurched in front of him as he guided them both from the dining hall, traversing briefly through the halls, before finally emerging into -- bless the gods -- one of the private gardens of her father’s estates. As soon as she stepped foot outside, Maira breathed in a sign of relief, fingers curling around the bodice of her gown and lifting it to allow some of the cool sea breeze to slap at her skin. Once she was sure that she could breathe again, she whirled around in time to see the golden haired man she was now disgusted at herself for fancying at a glance.

Just because what? He had smiled at her to be polite?

“Why do you run around like you as at a bloody masquerade? Are not princes supposed to be borne of some sort of dignity?” She looked him over, frowned, snorted in an unladylike manner, then closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, something cool had slid across her features, giving her the appearance of serenity as she looked back up at him. “Fine. You do not hate me. But you also do not respect me and, quite frankly, I do not understand why you agreed to broker such a deal unless you would like to tell me that you have been left as much in the dark as I have.

...And at least you knew who I was when you were told the news. I picked the Prince over some arse of a knight. So, Your Grace, you are wrong to say that I picked you; I was deceived into thinking that the Prince and the man who said such vile things to me were two entirely different entities. But we can blame that on my childish ignorance.”

She did not exactly pout, but she did look wounded, eyes trailing off to watch the water splash in the nearby fountain. She took her long pause again, then spoke, but did not look at him.

“This union is not a good one,” she finally said. “It is an indulgence borne from my father being friends with the King. It is not a good match -- politically. They may spin it like it is all they like, but you would be best matched with the Jarl. They will be visiting, so I am told, to wrap up the festivities and further strengthen an alliance with the King. ...Her father has recently passed, so she is quite young and pretty. A knight would have been a better match for me,” she admitted, chewing at her lower lip. “I am no fit to be a bloody Princess.”

~~~

Sienna was not expecting any visitors after Ricard had left. Anyone - and there was only one person that came to mind - that would have stopped by her tent would have been Jacoby, but she was living on the assumption that her comrade would be celebrating his evening with a particular lusty romani while they were still encamped here.

It was why when the flap of her tent rustled and opened while her hand was still down her breeches and in her smallclothes, sticky with her body’s desire, that she whipped the appendage out and up so fast that she ought to have gotten whiplash from the motion.

Guilt scrawled itself across the saucer eyed shock that plastered itself across her face as she swiped her hand on the side of the breeches and straightened down the tunic she wore from where it had ridden up her torso when she had toyed with her own breast.

Imagining … him.

Oh fuck. ...Only she groaned the words outside instead of thinking them as she thought as she caught sight of the man himself stooped in her tent, eyes on her. Mouth gawking, Sienna turned a few shades of red at having been caught with her hand down her pants, stroking herself to illicit thoughts of the dark knight.

And now he was here.

She made a little whimpering noise in the back of her throat as she sunk deeper into her bedrolls, searching for signs on his face to tell her that he had not seen what she had been doing, until her thoughts finally caught up to speed with everything else.

“I.. ah.. ...Ricard, what are… I thought you…” Her tongue whipped across her parted lips, moistening their soft fullness, as she looked him over. “What are.. You doing here?” Did her voice sound as husky as it did to her?
 
Maira, for all her feistiness and anger, had a good point. When she accused him of running around like life was a masquerade he looked away and let the entire glamor fall away, revealing not the Golden Knight or the Dark Prince, but something in between. A young man, tanned by sun and soldiering, with deep blue eyes and hair neither sun-streaked nor ashen, but more the mouse brown common among their people. He did not truly know who he was apart from his two personas. When his father had been injured, Syrus was just on the cusp of puberty. Prince Victor was meant to be his mentor through those growing years, showing his son what it meant to be a man. Giving his son his identity, his sense of who he was meant to be. Instead, Syrus found himself floundering between a mourning, desperate mother whose entire world was shattered by a horse’s hoof, and a grandfather who seemed to retreat into the duties of his crown.

And as a boy, Syrus coped in the way that boys do. He used his imagination and compartmentalized himself. As the prince he mourned and grew darker. As Edwain he allowed himself to continue to play in the sun, laugh with other palace children, and not internalize the guilt he felt that his father had been changed. Now it seemed the two lives he led were beginning to clash.

So Maira might blame her choice to pick the prince on her childish innocence, but Syrus knew that it was really his childish escape that had trapped her into this decision. He thought of his conversation with his grandfather and lowered his gaze, his mind traipsing over the heartfelt and needful advice he had been given. Something had happened when King Locke had spoken to his heir. Syrus felt, for the first time in a long time, the touch of a father’s heart upon his own. He desperately would have wished that Victor had not been injured and could guide him along, but with that option gone, finding that Grandfather was open to, and wanted, to speak with Syrus on the serious things of life had given the young man a life line he had not realized he needed.

“This union is not a good one,” she finally said.

Syrus raised his eyes and looked at her. As she laid out the reasons for better matches, then concluded with the determinization that she was not fit to be a princess, his expression went from concerned, to contemplative, to compassionate.

“Maira,” his voice was soft and warm, “please, stroll with me as we speak. Like a horse, I think better when I’m moving,” he said, chuckling softly at his own expense. “After last night I know I do not deserve your indulgence of my company. I am…truly…sorry for treating you as I did.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “You may think that you are not fit to be a princess, but I think you are fit to become a Queen. If you’ll hear me out, I’d like to present you with the reasons why I believe it to be true.”

He paused in his steps and looked at her, then held a hand, palm-up, to invite her to take it. “Please.”

Whether or not she took his hand, he continued in their leisurely stroll through the garden. “You have a mind for politics. Just now you analyzed which matches would be best, politically, for our kingdom. That demonstrates your awareness of things in the world and your quick with.” He glanced at her, his lips curving up in a smile. “The king will need a wife at his side who can help him see through the…forgive the term, the ‘bullshit,’ that is brought to court every week under the guise of flattery and deception. I think you can do that. I know you can.”

“And allow me to share something else,” he added, thinking on her claims that he hated her and didn’t want her. Those vital words shared so impulsively at her shock at discovering who the prince truly was gave him a modicum of insight into her state of mind. “Last night I asked my grandfather to speak to yours and release you from the tournament. I…didn’t want you to be a trophy wife. I didn’t think you did either, but your father has determined that you will wed, and the time is now. So you were given one more opportunity to choose a husband instead of having one thrust at you.”

He stopped and turned to her. His indigo eyes searched her face as he considered his words. Whether or not she believed him, he had just realized this truth, and felt she deserved to know it as well.

“When I found out this morning that you had chosen Prince Syrus as your husband, I was surprised. I was also disappointed. You see…” his tongue washed over his bottom lip. He swallowed, then continued. “I was hoping you would have chosen Ser Edwain. I wanted you to pick the me that you knew rather than the me that you didn’t.”


Oh fuck. ...

The soft groan from Sienna’s lips drew Ricard’s eyes to the little bed and the little woman who laid there. The musky scent of sex trailed in the air, and had she not hastily jerked her hands away from her body he would have still had a hint of what had transpired. His eyes adjusted to the dark as she pulled down her tunic, covering the brief flash of her waist as she whimpered and edged away.

“I.. ah.. ...Ricard, what are… I thought you…” Her tongue whipped across her parted lips, moistening their soft fullness, as she looked him over. “What are.. You doing here?”

Oh, the little scamp. He had caught her pleasuring herself. Ricard wondered if he had walked in mid-stroke, or if she had the opportunity to finish before he entered her private quarters. No matter – he could not undo it now. “I thought you’d be asleep,” his smile pulled on one side, noting the husky undertones and soft panting that accompanied her words. He felt his already served shaft plump at the realization that she had found reason to seek physical solace, and though he was much more restrained now that his own need had been answered, he remained curious about hers.

“I was concerned about you,” he dropped his rolled bedding on the floor, allowing it to thump heavily on the canvas-covered dirt. “I thought I would sleep on your floor,” he took a step closer, his dark eyes intent on her, “be here if you needed someone.” His smile remained coy as his eyes danced along the line of her blanket-covered form. “So…do you need someone?”
 
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Some of the fire that had burned behind her green eyes had been banked now that they were alone. Maira had never fared well surrounding by people, especially those who watched her, judged her, expected her to act differently than what she was. Perhaps if she had not been raised to run wild in the country and instead trapped between a city’s walls to mingle in a court, she would have turned out to be the lady her mother so desperately wanted her to be instead of the wild child her father had indulged with her freedom for so long.

So while the fresh breeze cooled her face and ruffled through her hair, there was still confusion that pulled her brow down and married her forehead into lines. For a young woman who had just passed her twenty first year, she looked far too old and pensive. It was a change from the anger and frustration she had been emanating the entire week.

She hesitated when he offered his hand to her, glancing at it with a softening expression. Her hand reached as if to take his, but at the last moment she changed her mind and instead looped her arm through his instead, letting him lead the way through the stone pathway that formed a colorful mosaic around the bubbling fountain in the center. It was warm enough in the season still that the flowers that budded from soil, vines, and bushes were in full bloom, their scent wafting through the air.

“But as Princess or even Queen, I would be as you - only worse, I will be a woman in a man’s game - and confined to the politics of the people who expect to be governed…” Maira looked young then; more, she looked her age and her voice carried a tremor of anxiety as she spoke. Absently, her grip tightened around his arm, savoring the feel of its strength beneath her fingertips. As she talked, her gaze wandered, refusing to meet his gaze for the time being. “I wish to be as the dowager Trynal -- the sister to one of your senior knights, Alun Trynal. She was wed young, but she wed a knight while her family had a Duchy. She married because she loved him, not because her family forced her into her station as they are wont to do in order to further their political prowess. But when he died in battle, she never remarried. Instead, she inherited her Duchy after all, and proceeded to further trade gains for our entire kingdom overseas. She is an ambassador.”

So Lady Maira had an idol, another woman that she looked up to. It rang in her voice, perked a smile on her lips. She did not even realize that she was rambling still. “No one has ever said a thing about the fact that she traveled across the sea a year after her husband’s death and returned pregnant; she passed them off as his and no one dared question her morality. She still travels, now that her daughter handles the estate, though I’ve heard her son is a … privateer.” There was the grin again. “I would like to have that life.”

She blinked a time or two, her focus returning from whatever fantasy her imagination had embarked on, her easy smile replaced by something more stricken as she shot him a panicked look. Perhaps her prattlings would come across as childish to him again and anger him. Cheeks coloring, she slid her arm from its link with his, self-conscious of a sudden.

The flush only grew with his last words, her embarrassment at his admission growing into frustration. Her features hardened, jaw setting, while her eyes narrowed up at his face. “...Why do you say you wished I would have picked Ser Edwain, when Ser Edwain would have nothing to do with me? I did select Ser Edwain, despite that there was a more willing soul there, but…” She shrugged helplessly, closing her mouth before anything else could pour from it. If she did not want to come across as childish, then admitting to a silly crush on the notion that he would be kind was not the way to do it.

~~~

Sienna struggled into a sitting positioned as Ricard’s sleeping roll hit the ground beside her own bedroll. As flustered as she was with her pulse beating in her ears loud enough that she was sure he could hear it as well, she kept tossing furtive glances at him while trying her best to resist his gaze.

“...And I thought you had left me for the evening,” she retorted back, but the words were weak on her tongue. And did the little hitch in her voice give herself away that she was, in part, excited that he had returned to her tent?

Lips parted, she tilted her face up to study his face, but only glanced at his eyes, watching him venture closer. Her tongue teased the outline of her lips, her dark eyes hungry, yet hesitant. “...So you are just to… stay on the floor?”

He had said as much, but his little scamp was at a loss for words. Or, apparently, actions on what she should do in this situation. Because she was wide awake now. “...Ah, do you need someone, Ser Ricard?” She tried to tease him, but her voice broke, and lacked its usual deviancy.
 
Did Lady Maira not understand that her position would put her in a unique position to change the status quo? Syrus could not understand it. He heard her admiration for the widowed dowager Trynal, her illegitimate child, her rise to power…the prince’s heart clenched at the thought. When she declared that she would love to have that life, he felt he understood.

Prince Syrus felt his heart drop when she said that she did pick Ser Edwain. “No, Maira. You didn’t pick Ser Edwain. You chose power.” His eyes hardened on her. “I do not know who the ‘more willing soul’ is, but consider choosing him if you have someone you love.” He drew a breath in through his nose and let it out, as if cleansing his soul. She chose the position of the crown princess instead of who he felt he truly was…Edwain. She chose an unknown, and perhaps she hoped that her unknown would die off and leave her free.

“Eventually I will have to marry,” Syrus said. “But you must marry soon. I have only a few requests of my future bride: don’t contradict me in public, do not embarrass the crown, do not give me another man’s child, and do not let your indiscretions become known.” His face grew stony as he moved away from the thought that they could have something more than just a marriage of convenience. Had he not been the one to say that marriage was a transaction? How could he have hoped after one silly night in her company for anything more? Was that not the definition of insanity itself?

“As Ser Edwain I am expected to go to battle. It’s likely you would have the widow status you desire.” His eyes sharpened as he looked at her, and his jaw tensed. “Have one child with me and your position is secure here. You will inherit the crown, whether through me or through our child. But if you want a life with this ‘other’ you speak of, then take it, Maira. Take it, while you still can.”

He released her hand. “I won’t stand in your way.”


Ser Ricard saw the question in her eyes as Sienna tilted her face towards him and asked him if he would simply stay on the floor. Then her voice hitched, and he saw the desire in her as she tried to tease him. What was it about this little minx that had drawn him like a moth to flame? Every fiber in his being told the knight that she was trouble. She was dangerous, despite those dimpled cheeks and the dark eyes that swam with mystery.

“I don’t know if it’s ‘someone,’ or a certain person I need,” he said as he stepped closer to her mattress. He studied the curly-haired temptress on the bedclothes. “But you are injured.” His dark brown eyes moved over her form. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Otherwise you’d be already tossed, Urchin.” His smile widened. “Are you inviting me into your bed?” His hand fingered the hem of his shirt, and slowly he pulled it off his torso, revealing a lean body with a soft wash of dark hair across his chest.

“But I think you need a warm body at your side,” his hands moved to his belt, and he unbuckled it and set the sword next to her mattress, “perhaps a strong touch to keep you grounded,” he said, slipping his boots off, “and a firm anchor to make sure you don’t drift off to parts unknown,” he finished as he unbuttoned his trousers and slipped them down his long, sturdy legs, revealing the plumped manhood that had reacted to the scent of her sex. “If you think you can handle it, knight apprentice.”
 
As soon as the Prince’s eyes hardened, her heart dropped like a stone and bile rushed up to burn her throat. The knot that had formed choked down the panic that fought its way through her, making her dizzy. Her face drained, losing its anger, and replacing it with the edge of panicked fear. She had overstepped. He was, after all, the Prince.

“I do not.. There is not..” she trailed off, her tongue thick. She wanted to look away from his face, but she was too frozen in place to make much movement except for the twitch of her fingers at her sides. “I just would..”

But his voice cut like steel, leaving her cold, her mind gone numb. She tried swallowing, even closed her eyes, barely registering the words he spoke with all their cold indifference. Not for the first time even within the last few minutes, Maira believed that she would make a poor choice for ruler if she could not even find the courage to fix her own blunder.

Dragging in a rough breath that hurt her lungs to pull, she finally raised her chin again and stared at him with wavering green eyes. They might have threatened tears, but her pride was refusing to spill them. And she also refused to acknowledge her flight response that was at the very forefront of her mind: run away, run away, join the romanis, find a ship to stowaway on; leave it all, be free.

“I do not wish for a transactional marriage,” she said carefully, watching her tone so that she did not come across as scared, but nor did she come across as feisty. “But I do wish to make a difference. This was the point of my story. If given the opportunity, I would like to make a difference. There are not a lot of women who are in a position to do such. I…” She swallowed again, shoulders stiffening. She turned away and walked off a few steps so that he could not see her lower lip quivering. She fought for control over her own features. “But I realize that, like the dowager Trynal, I will not be graced with a love match. It was a love story, Your Grace, I…. did not mean any offense by it.”

Formal. Careful still.

“I understand if you wish to call off the engagement,” she finally said, watching the fountain carefully, as if focusing on the splashing water could rewind back time. Or make it move faster.

~~~

The truth of it was that Sienna was already feeling better, always having been fast to heal. Her release had seemed to make it even more expedient, though she could easily blame it on the rush that followed it. And, of course, the man that had her rapt attention that invaded her tent like a fantasy come to her beckoning call.

Regardless of how much she flirted and regardless of how much she could tease and make eyes, steal kisses, that was about where her experience ended. Watching her knight inch closer to the edge of her bedroll, lifting his tunic over his head in the most provocative of ways, Sienna began to panic with the understanding that Ricard may assume that she was far more experienced than she truly was.

Her heart thundered in her ears, threatened to breach through the cage of her ribs, as her eyes wandered up the expanse of his torso. Swallowing hard, she forced her eyes back up to meet his gaze with an expression that was a mixture of surprise, naked lust, and a hint of anxiety. So she did the only thing that she could think of. She opened her mouth.

“...Are we to cuddle, Ser Ricard?” Her mouth was dry, her skin hot and tight. Her nipples throbbed with her pulse, sensitive as they rasped against her tunic. Not to mention the insistent pulse between her thighs that had grown as the anticipation crackled through the air.

“Or…” she trailed off, sights dropping back down as his trousers dropped. “Oh,” she murmured, face heating with a fire that turned her cheeks red. “Well I… I am feeling a bit… better, ah…” Her mind swarmed with what she should do next. Should she grab him again, kiss him? Should she pretend to be less than a maid and use her knowledge instead as a way to convince him to stay? If she admitted her state, would he leave again?

Because she did not want him to leave again.

Dragging in her breath, she looked away momentarily as she struggled with the wave of shyness, then turned back with a practiced little grin and scooted over, patting the space next to her. “If… you are to stay… I think I would certainly feel more secure with you staying next to me--” She put a flirty note in her voice and glanced back up at him.
 
Last night it seemed that Lady Mora couldn’t get words out of her mouth fast enough. Now she was struggling to form words. Syrus had been hurt that she had rejected him as Edwain, and instead chosen the crown. Had he been a slob, foul-tempered and unsightly, he assumed she would have chosen the crown regardless, and his pride prickled at being set aside.

He had never in his life said more than two words to the woman aside from last night. And here she was, saying that she didn’t want a transactional marriage, but one of ‘difference’ and romance. You couldn’t romance someone you didn’t know. If she wanted romance with whomever it was she was thinking of, she should go after it. If she wanted to make a difference, there was no better place than at Syrus’ side. But she couldn’t have both.

Syrus looked up into the stars as he heard her say she didn’t mean offense. Her back was to him, silhouetted against the fountain and lamplight, looking like an anonymous beauty with sunset hair. As he watched the sky, looking for signs or direction, he wished he could be like they were. Completely removed, doing what they needed to do with no knowledge of how their actions affected those on the earth who looked to stars for guidance. He felt frustration simmering in his heart. Had he not given Maira what she sought? One last chance to pick her future instead of having it selected for her. One chance to set her life on a better course…and now she was unhappy with her choice.

“I understand if you wish to call off the engagement,” she finally said.

Syrus lowered his gaze and fixed it upon her back. He pressed hands to his hips, trying to figure out what this vexing woman wanted, then stepped closer to her until he was standing behind her right shoulder. “I will not embarrass you by calling off the engagement, Lady Maira. I would not do that to you.”

What had his grandfather said? Syrus would have to put aside his own feelings, listen to others and find out what they needed. Maira had wanted a love story. She wanted romance, and epic adventure…she wanted someone to make her feel special and desired. Even if he didn’t feel it himself, Syrus could make her believe, couldn’t he? He knew the way that people worked. Romance was a formula he could follow, like battle plans into a war.

He slipped his left hand into her right, stepped further until he was turned to look at her. His azure eyes sought out her emerald ones and saw the shimmer of held back emotion in them. She was vulnerable right then, swimming with confusion, hurt, and possibly longing. Could he set aside his own feelings of hurt and think of her? Treat her as he would if she was his entire kingdom…he brought his right hand to her cheek, softly touching her as if he thought she’d break.

“Maira…I want you as my wife. I need someone who will call me out, privately, when I’m wrong.” He smiled softly. “Someone brave enough to call the prince an ass on their engagement night.” He chuckled softly. His right hand slid along her shoulder, down the line of her arm, to find her hand and take it in his own. “I’ve been living two lives for too long, and it’s time for me to become whole again. I don’t think I can do it without you,” he said, still searching for signs in her eyes that he was getting through. “Please…give me a chance to earn your heart, as well as your hand.”


She was a mixture of youthful playfulness and womanly seduction, his little minx. Ricard watched the play of emotions across her face, then as she moved aside, her scooting almost childlike, though her glance was definitely not, he had a moment to reconsider the breech of conduct he was embracing.

‘Rules of conduct be damned,’ he thought. ‘I want her.’ He wanted that scamp who knocked people over with sticks, darted through their legs and was ready to fight while grinning like a fool, and who was brave enough to steal a kiss from him despite her disguise. He wanted to hear her moan his name at night and fight by his side in the daylight. She was unlike anyone he had ever met.

“Would you, now?” Ricard asked. He slid beside her on the bed, turning to face her as he braced upon an elbow. “Feel more secure…” He slid a calloused hand along her arm, then over her hand, before sliding it along her waist and to her rib cage. He could feel his manhood stiffening at her proximity, the greedy appendage eager for attention.

“…with me next to you?” He leaned forwards, brushed his lips against hers, then slowly began to kiss her. His hand slid gently again, careful of the wrappings around her chest, down over the curve of her hip, to slide along the fullness of her ass until his fingers brushed her sexpot from behind. As his tongue began to part her lips he pulled her hips closer to him, then skimmed his fingertips across the wet surface of her nether lips as he moved his hand to hook behind her knee and bring her leg over his.

The excitement of doing something forbidden, of helping her hide her femininity as she sought her knighthood, added to his arousal. He thought about the prospect of training with Fritz during the day and loving Sienna at night, and the dangers associated with hiding it from the Knight Captain. Yes, he might be risking a lot for this pleasure, but what was life if it was lived in fear?
 
They were strangers to one another. And Maira read too many fanciful novels for her own good. Stop being such an idiotic girl. It was a war she waged that shamed her - and one that came back to slap her in the face more times than she cared to count. It was why she swiped her emerald sleeve across her face as the tears leaked from between her lashes as she blinked them away. She swallowed the rest of her feelings down and gave one final slash across her ruddy cheeks before she had deemed she had control over her emotions.

No doubt the Prince would see this as immature, trivial, weak, insipid; a spoiled girl crying over literally nothing but dreams and stardust.

Her shoulders slumped forward before she could bring them back up again and she turned back to face him as he spoke. There was a mixture of relief and trepidation that rode her features as she stared back at the man who had made her feel small. Still did. She tried his patience, she knew, which made her guarded.

It all melted away with a shock of surprise as his warm hand slide across her cheek.. Maira had never been good at hiding her emotion; she wore it all out in the open, always, which reminded her again that a Princess and Queen should be reserved, polite, regal.

Things she knew she would never be. She should have taken her chances with a brute. At least a brute she could smother with a pillow in his sleep and whisk herself off to join a band of witches that danced naked under the moonlight.

...That cracked a smile on her face, filled with an inward humor. Quickly, she tilted her head to hide the grin so that he did not think she was laughing at him. Or really, into the hand that caressed her cheek.

“Edwain, you do not have to play pretend on my behalf,” she turned her face back towards his as his hand trailed, reaching for hers. When he took it up, she gave it a little squeeze, her smile turning a little sad. “We are strangers, I know. You do not have to earn my heart or my hand. I… it is… a shock to me, is all. Just promise … just promise if we are to do this that you will not be cold or cruel, that you will at least pretend that I am someone worth speaking to instead of immediately discarding. I know I have no right to ask that of you…” She trailed off, again at a loss for words, eyes searching his face to see if she were still saying the right thing so to miss another rebuttal.

“I am hoping that we can at least be friends,” she finished, rational thought finally breaking through her initial panic. And yet… she closed her eyes, a streak of a tear escaping from behind her lid. “I have another request as well.

...Please do not ever insinuate that I would stray. I am… I am not… just a vessel to give you an heir, either. Please do not treat me as such.”

It was likely too much to ask, she knew. So there was no expectation in her gaze when she opened her eyes again.

~~~

Ah. He was there, then, his bare form sliding into her bedroll next to her. It was too small for too people -- for certain, it was too small for him as well as her. The sharp inhalation of air was signifier enough that she was aware of his presence near her if her wide dark gaze did not.

The breath did not exhale until his lips brushed against her own. A shock of pleasure at the contact had a shudder darting down her spine and had her skin prickling underneath the rough tunic where the warmth of his hand trailed. Her hand had a tremble to it as it lifted, cradling the side of his face, fingers splayed across the roughness of his jaw.

It made her moan, press forward, her lips soft as the pair slid across his. Shyly, her tongue plied their chances past his lips, deepening the kiss of her own accord.

Her other hand strayed, an inquisitive that pressed against the broad muscle of his chest. Her fingers stroked the down of chest hair that sprinkled his chest until she dragged her mouth - reluctantly - from his lips to grin against his cheek.

“Ricard, I…” She seemed fond of the words, the way they tripped over her tongue. She still wore her breeches, the tunic while he was fully unclothed with her. And his roaming hands were familiar, causing her to close her eyes, dip her head to press a searing kiss against the side of his neck, breathing him in as her breath hitched as his fingers grazed the evidence of her arousal. “...I have never lain with a man,” she admitted on an exhale, her voice heady with both nerves and desire.

Her head lifted, face tilted to his, eyes searching while her hand skimmed the hair of his chest again, traced the line of muscle down his stomach with open curiosity. Then her grin dimpled, turning into something more mischievous, as she reached between them to drag the pads of her fingertips over the ridged head of his cock.

“...So you will tell me if I am doing something wrong?”
 
‘Oh please,’ Syrus silently begged, ‘don’t cry.’ This was his weakness. A woman’s tears were like the silver bullet in his heart, able to stop him cold at any moment. He couldn’t abide by it; he felt weakened by it, and when she smiled at him he thought his heart might break at the fear that she was going to break the engagement herself.

His breath froze when she said that he didn’t have to pretend on her behalf. She turned away, then back again, and he felt his lungs fill with air as if she had been the one to provide it. “I promise, Maira. I will never again treat you like someone not worth speaking to,” he swore, stepping to face her once again. She was much more complex than he could have imagined yesterday. He found himself intrigued by this woman before him.

Then she asked him not to treat her as a vessel for an heir, Syrus closed his eyes. She was as much a vessel as he was a conduit. Without an heir the stability of the kingdom would be vulnerable to the warring selfishness of private interests, those more intent on personal gain than on what was best for the kingdom. True, there were lines of rulership whose hearts were no better than the greedy hands of merchants and politicians, but his family was tasked with a duty that he was taught was sacred. A covenant. When he opened his eyes, they were brilliant blue once again. “Maira, I meant it when I said that I was disappointed you hadn’t chosen Edwain. I wanted you to choose the me you knew, not the me you didn’t.” He brought her hands to his lips and kissed her fingertips, then brought then back down to the level of their waists.

“My dear, I don’t want you to produce an heir for my sake, but for your own,” he tried to explain. “I will be sent out to defend the kingdom. It’s inevitable. Even now, things are brewing in the South.”

He continued to hold her hands as they stood beside the fountain. The sound of its spray kept their words sheltered from normal ears, but their body language was unmistakable. He was completely focused on the woman before him. “You’re not a vessel to me. An heir would protect your standing. I want you to have your dream, and though I have no plans to die, I would not want you to be caught up in the whims of marriage and politics once again, because you were a childless widow with no claim to the throne.” He caressed her cheek with his thumb, staring deeply into her eyes as he wiped away her tear. She had claimed her own sense of honor when she asked him not to insinuate that she would stray. He would try to trust her just as he would another in the knighthood then; extend to her the benefit of the doubt.

He wished that this was as simple as giving an order. He could reassign guards as needed; they might grumble at going from one side of town to the other, or changing the time of their shift, but they would obey and a body would be present when needed to protect the gates or ride out on patrol. It was nothing personal; the kingdom had needs, and soldiers were there to provide them. So, too, were the needs of a marriage in his eyes. Eventually, he assumed, any two people could learn to get along and care for one another. Why did the pitter patter of hearts need to be a part of the design? He blamed it entirely on the silliness of those authors who insisted on romanticizing romance. What a ridiculous notion.

“We have been granted time for our courtship.” His mind continued to calculate how to best ‘put her needs before his own and respect her as one of his people.’ “This will give us both a chance to get to know each other and to grow,” the last part pertained mostly to himself, he assumed, as he repeated words his grandfather had spoken to him that morning, “and we’re not being asked to rush into marriage right away. We’re strangers, you are correct. Let’s trying being friends, at least.”

He caught a glimpse of servants bringing out a small table, two chairs, and some platters of food and drink. One of the servers had heard the lady mention that she and her fiancé were taking their dinner outside, and they had hurried to accommodate. Syrus smiled at the accommodations that were being provided. Perhaps he should pay more attention to what the castle staff did. They seemed to alert to the needs of the family and act, always where they were needed, stocking the fireplaces, tending to the family…putting the royal family’s needs first.


The sound of his name from Sienna’s lips sent tremors through his skull. It felt intimate; not the intimacy of sexual play, but of something deeper, something that he didn’t feel when he was playfully tossing a woman he had just met, or a whore. There was a sense that this would not be just a physical relationship. They would be training together for a year, fighting side-by-side after that, and sharing victories and laments for as long as she could hold the pretense that she was indeed a boy. And perhaps, just perhaps, she would be the one to convince their new Knight General that women should be allowed to fight. Ricard could see the shift in the kingdom, starting with the wild ripple that was this wavy haired temptress beside him.

He felt her lips fasten on his neck, and Ricard let out a moan that caused his hand to grip tighter around the back of her knee. He could feel the moist heat pressing through her trousers, taunting him with her proximity. Then his mind played back her whispered confession, and his eyes opened to stare at the tent wall behind her.

“...I have never lain with a man,”

He felt her lifting her face to look at him as her fingers moved down his chest. He turned his face to hers, looking into her glistening eyes and seeing the dimpled grin beneath it. Then her soft brush of fingertips tickled his sensitive head, causing him to draw his breath in sharply, both at the sensation and at the question that now burned hotly in his mind.

At her request, he brought his hand from her knee to her wandering digits and pressed her hand against the length of his cock. “Men prefer a firmer touch. It’s…sensitive.” He pulled his lips at one corner into a smirk. “Ticklish.” Dark lashed brushed against his cheek as he blinked, licked his lips, and then met her aroused gaze. “How old are you, Sienna?” She was lithe and feminine, but petite, and for a moment he feared that he would have to clothe himself and be excused lest he cross a line he was not willing to cross knowingly.

Once he got an answer, whether he believed it fully or not, his smile widened. “The first thing that you’re doing wrong, little minx, is you’re wearing much too much clothing. So, let’s remove everything but your bandages,” he suggested, then thwarted any efforts with slow kisses along her neck as he made his way to those rose petal lips, then slid his tongue between them.
 
This Prince was cold and hot. Maira had to wonder which was the truth of the man who wore two faces and how much those around him knew. She may not know him - either as knight or prince - but in the brief episodes where she had been in his company, he was as much of a complex conundrum as she could take. But knowing that, it at least eased the lump in her throat and started to put things in perspective.

She reminded herself that she was at least somehow clever, even while she could admit that she reacted rashly in most instances. It was why she bit her tongue when he admitted that he wished she had picked the knight - the man who had smiled at her on the field, then turned callous off of it. She was at least not so naive as to think that the first glimpse had been anything but polite and the frustrated anger he had displayed that night was the truth of his feelings.
It hardened her, especially as he brushed her knuckles with his lips.

“So the King will allow his own heir to run off to join the front lines of a war as a knight?” She asked the question with genuine surprise -- and she hoped that she could skirt the talk of heirs with this particular line of questioning. “Does he know that you hide within the common ranks of knighthood?” The next question drew out genuine curiosity from the girl.

No matter how she had spoken of the dowager, she knew that the woman had lamented the death of her husband; it was the romance of such a devoted love that had kept the Lady Trynal from wedding again that struck a chord in Maira’s heart, for the Loremasters told stories of that union. It had never been about being alone and having to bear the weight of responsibility that was the ultimate end of that story that had appealed to her.

Looking up at the Prince now however, with the tears dried and him trying so intently, Maira finally cracked a grin and released a shuddering breath, the tension leaving her shoulders. Stepping away from him, she gave his hand a timid squeeze, then released him just in time for the servers to bring out their dinner for the two.

“Do not worry, Your Grace. You do not have to court me; your stance on such things has already been made known and I may be a romantic, not foolish. I am far too childish and a brat for there to be a great romance between us. So, we will have to settle on friendship.”

It calmed her, in a way, to know what this would be. After all - had she not wanted her independence? She had been prepared to be a spinster as it was. Moving away from him, she allowed one of the servants to ease her chair out for her before she dropped into it, her attention moving to the meal that was being laid out for them.


~~~​


Sienna’s pulse was doing somersaults inside her chest as desire warred with nerves, all the while her face continued its charade of playful imp. Boldly, her fingers wrapped around the girth of his shaft. He was hard in her grasp, but also hot; she could feel his own pulse underneath the clutch of her fingertips. Her breath tripped in her throat as she slid her closed palm down the length of his cock. Then, with an even more wicked quick to her smile, slid her palm back up with a more deliberate touch. Wanting to hear his moan again as she touched him.

Of course, then he asked his question. That faded her wicked little smile and stilled her hand on him. It was true that Sienna was petite - certainly, she was not so voluptuous as other women and rather than curves, she had developed muscles where other women had developed softness, but…

Her confidence faltered. He thought she was too young; not a woman. And the truth made her color with shame just the same. At twenty and two, she was old to still be a maid, especially for someone who was an irrelevant bastard and not meant to be married off like one of the court ladies.

“Old enough, Ser Ricard,” she replied, voice faltering from its normal banter. “How old do you think I am?” Then, with a sucked in breath, she raised her brows, waggled them. “How old are you since we are exchanging ages? Because I am twenty and two … an old maid, surely, to…” She trailed off, her hand releasing the rigid length in her hand to catch against his hip, fingers digging in as he surprised her with the brush of his mouth against her neck.

Her breath caught and her body went stiff against his right before it melted. Though her cheeks were suffused still with her own embarrassment at her own inexperience, she couldn’t stop the helpless moan that passed from her lips, vibrating against his mouth as he claimed them in a kiss.

Kissing she at least knew. Her free hand snaked fast around his neck, dragging herself against him as her head tilted, assisting in deepening the kiss, her tongue turning aggressive against his as it dueled with the invading muscle before trying its luck between his own lips, exploring his mouth.
 
Syrus felt like her question about King Locke were almost condescending, then realized that she might truly be asking out of curiosity, and any insult he thought he heard was only his own insecurities. He cleared his throat, bringing a lightly cupped first to his lips. “King Locked knows, and…he did the same thing at my age,” he added. “And he does know that I, ah,” he smiled a little self-consciously, “that I ‘hide within the common ranks of knighthood,’” he answered. “But he does not quite approve.”

And though he knew that his grandfather didn’t approve, he did seem to understand Syrus’ need to escape from his role as prince and figure out who he was. Thinking on it now, it was quite a risk the king was letting his grandson take. With Prince Victor out of the line of succession, the king was gambling with more than just Syrus’ life. He was potentially setting himself up for another lifetime of rule. Something that the prince had come to realize recently that King Locke did not desire. It was quite possible that Maira did not desire that as well; the Lady Trynal lost her husband. It was quite possible that Maira didn’t chose Ser Edwain because she did not want to marry someone she might lose…

His eyes sought hers as she stepped away, turning to allow the servers to set their table.

“Do not worry, Your Grace. You do not have to court me; your stance on such things has already been made known and I may be a romantic, not foolish. I am far too childish and a brat for there to be a great romance between us. So, we will have to settle on friendship.”

His smile was tight, but he acquiesced. Once the servants had completed their task and the two were once again alone, he took a moment to look at her across the table. “A marriage of friendship, then.” He agreed, picking up a glass of wine. “Tell me…if you cannot have a marriage built on romance and love, what do you hope ours could be? Do you have any requirements of me, as I have asked of you?”

He was grateful, at least, that she was pragmatic about this situation. Neither of them would need to worry about being matched with someone they found utterly distasteful, the kingdom could have their security assured in the future existence of another generation of royals, and Syrus could figure out how to harmonize the two aspects of himself. That would be the most difficult challenge in his view of all of this. He did not know how his men would take it. And Ricard most of all. They had been best friends through all this; would Ricard see Ser Edwain’s identity, and his subsequent engagement to Lady Maira, as a personal affront?

Syrus peered at the woman before him, and wondered how much he could trust her. In truth, she should be the one who didn’t trust him. He had lied to her, after all. He had lied to the entire kingdom.

“Maira, I know I am to blame for the way our relationship started. I was in the middle of a lie, and swept you along the middle of it.” He set his glass down. “I am truly sorry for that.” The next part hurt more than he expected it to. “I will not lie to you again.”


Sienna was a fast learner, quickly drawing groans of pleasure from Ser Ricard’s lips. He felt himself tighten with desire at her firm grip and remembered how deftly and confidently her hands had wrapped around every weapon they wielded. Clever, clever hands…

And when she asked him his age in return and then revealed she was twenty-two he grinned. “Not an old maid,” he growled into her skin, kissing her, holding her close, “perfect. I’m only four years older,” he said, almost moaned, as she stiffened at his kisses along her neck. She wasn’t too young. She was womanly and ripe for the picking, soft where she needed to be, and not an ounce more to her breasts than he desired. Oh…if only she was not injured, he would take her ripened peaches in his hands, swirl his warm tongue over her darkened blooms, and pull her moans from her lips with his kisses on each nipple.

But that would wait for another day. As he kissed him back, her hand wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, he met her desperate, passionate kiss with his own. His lingam imitated what his phallus longed to do, delving deeper into her mouth as they met desire with desire. His hands slid along the waist of her trousers and wiggled them off her hips, onto her thighs, then he paused as a roughened hand pushed them further down so she could kick them off with her feet if desired. Meanwhile his hand slid along the outer line of her hips before sliding along between her thighs until his fingers met the wet tuft at her body’s crossroads.

Ricard moaned into her kiss, slipping an experienced finger between her nether folds and gently lapping the delicate flesh within. So wet, so warm…he wanted to feel her body stretch around his girth, tight and hot and new. She’d never lain with a man, so he considered it his personal obligation to ensure that her first time was a good experience.
 
Maira had long since lost her appetite for the evening. Her entire world seemed as if it had been ripped apart and then sewn badly back together in the matter of a couple of days. Things that had been in place before were now out of place and her mind was a confused jumble on what was best to do.

Screaming was always an option. Laughter was too. In fact, laughter might have been on the tip of her thoughts, for her lips curled into a strange smile as she lifted her own goblet of line, her silent giggles lost to the cup as she pressed it to her lips and pretended to drink until she could contain her own insanity.

So, she was to wed a prince who was masquerading as a knight who found her about as fascinating as a spoiled child and who did not know how to have any fun at all. Who would not have found it all hysterical?

“I am hoping that I can now go to the carnival and enjoy my sweets and fireworks without being ushered back into my tent,” she joked, putting down her goblet and turning her attention down to the meal spread out in front of her. Picking up the sterling silver of her eating utensils, she prodded the quail that sat marinating in its own juices with her fork as she considered.

“Where will I stay when you are off gallivanting across the country? Do I have a choice in that, since I am assuming I will be left to my own devices for long periods of time? Will I be allowed to have something of my own, or will I be what my mother has become…. A woman whose only worry is to play with fabric and stitches and manage a household?”

She could not help herself. She made a face at the prospect of being cloistered inside a home that was not her own while her husband was just a ghost in the hallways.

“Or will my whereabouts even matter, so long as I present myself to you while you are present so that you may make your attempts at getting an heir on me?” She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice with the question. Brows furrowing, she focused even harder at poking the meat on her plate, before finally turning her attention to the greens that decorated her plate. Spearing a piece with her fork, she shoved the buttered greenery into her mouth and focused on that before anything else could tumble from her mouth.

~~~​

What Ricard did not know about Sienna was that she was already feeling better, her body knitting itself back together at an accelerated rate that shocked even her. It had always been that way. She remembered once when she was a girl still that she had taken a nasty tumble down the side of a steep hill, breaking an arm in the process. It had been healed the next day, despite the physician telling her that it would be months before she would be fully healed.

Not that Sienna should be surprised. Any fool with even half a mind could look at Locke Tyrven and see that he was not wholly a human man and she had come from his blood. Gods only knew where her father had come from and she knew of her mother’s own gifts.

Thoughts for another time.

All Sienna could think on now was the taste of him on her tongue, the way his kisses made her dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with her earlier blow to the head. She groaned against his mouth, deepening the stroke of her tongue, only to draw back with tantalizing wickedness to nip at his lower lip, following it up with a slow stroke her soft lips against his firmer pair, only to dive back into a deeper kiss with her lips slanting against his and her breath quickening as as a result.

Her free hand would not stay idle, either. While her body was an electric hum of anticipation, heart fluttering with excitement at having this man naked and close, her fingers burrowed an inquisitive line through the dark curls of his hair, plucking it through her fingers before dragging down across the plains of his face to stroke along his jaw before cupping the side of his face, holding him hostage to the torments that her mouth could devise against his.

She only paused, breath hitching, as his own hands pushed down her trousers so that fresh air kissed her heated skin. Dragging her mouth away from his, she gasped in the space against his shoulder and helped in kicking the garment from her feet, leaving her still in her tunic. Curious green eyes slid up to meet his eyes as his hand tracked down, causing her skin to jerk under his touch.

She fought the shyness that she felt when his calloused fingers brushed her inner thigh, the muscles trembling. Then lower, sliding between the apex of her legs to brush against the reminder that before he had invited himself back into her tent, he had been on her mind. Lust had welled again, creating molten heat that slicked his finger that drew a shocked moan from between her lips as he slid the finger between the slit of her nether lips. Moaning again, she bucked her hips once against the digit, instinct taking over anything her mind could turn over.

That time, she stifled the noise against his lips again, then dragged her mouth down the side of his neck, tasting the salt from his sweat, taste of his skin. Her hand followed, tumbling down to stroke the fuzz along his chest, tracing the finesse of his warrior’s form underneath her hand.

Not to forget the hand that grasped his length still. She caught herself simply holding him as distraction from his own wandering hand blanked her mind to anything but the swelter of lust. Her fingers trembled around him, then tightened again as her palm wrapped around his heat. He was hard, rigid, but his skin was soft, making the upwards stroke of her hand as it curved around the blunted head smooth before she dragged her hand back down to the very root of him. Exploring. She even went so far as to brush her fingers lower, teasing the twin pair of balls that hung heavy below. She cupped them and turned her face, grinning against his neck, then gripped his shaft again, stroking up. Down again. Feeling the movements of his body in her grasp.
 
Syrus’ countenance grew grim when she mentioned the carnival and fireworks. It hadn’t been her company that he had disliked, or even her delight in the festivities. It was the sound of the fireworks that had been the hardest to bear; too much like the explosions that had taken out a portion of his squad when he was but a squire. Even now, he flashed to images of other soldiers, ripped apart by the blast. Smoke, screaming, and the sight of Sir Alan Windlark heralding his men to rally to his side the only thing that the young squire could focus on to not lose himself in the insanity of battle. But it was insane, and when the fireworks in the carnival went off and people screamed their excitement it sounded eerily like the screams of the wounded.

How could he explain that to her? His eyes moved to look at hers as Maira sat and prodded her quail, her attention on her meal.

Then her question turned more personal. Their living arrangements, her ability to choose and then…whether she would be only required to be present with it came to ‘getting an heir on’ her. He felt his face flush with the insinuation that he would only want to see her for reasons of begetting children.

Syrus saw her frustration with her quail. She seemed to not know what to do with the little thing, then resorted to eating her greenery.

“You know, I like quail, but it’s hard to eat with a knife and fork,” he said, pushing his sleeves up slightly. He smiled at her lightly as he used his fingers to hold the small form down as he pulled off a leg. Why the cooks would serve such a thing at a formal meal was beyond him. They could have deboned the thing first. He took a bite, enjoying the juices and spices that had been infused in the meat. As he chewed he considered her question.

“You know, it’s not like you have to stay in the city while I’m off ‘gallivanting across the country,’” he began. “We have a small contingent of medics, cooks, and others who travel with us when it’s a large company. True, when it’s just a few knights and their squires we travel lightly, but when it’s a larger event…” his eyes met hers. “If you had any desire to study healing, or travel, this is one way you could accomplish that.”

He took another bite, watching her as he spoke. Once he swallowed, he extended another alternative. “Or you could remain here under your parents’ care until we are married. Until then, I will set time aside for us to spend together as we get to know one another.” He set the meat-stripped bone on the edge of his plate and wiped his fingers before picking up his wine glass for another sip. “How we manage our marriage will be both our decisions, Lady Maira. I don’t wish to have a wife who I only see when it is time to begat an heir. Nor do I want to be married to a stranger. You and I have roles in the kingdom that were assigned to us at birth. We should make the most of it, and if it means that I need to try to enjoy the carnival and sweets and…fireworks, then so be it.”

Syrus had detected a hint of sadness when she described her mother’s existence. Was that what Lady Williams experienced when her husband was off protecting the realm? Staying home and managing a household, never knowing if her man would return astride a horse or in a box? Was it because she had seen her own mother’s sorrow every time her father left, that Maira had chosen a castle-bound prince instead of a knight? This new thought drew his attention as he used a knife and fork to separate the quail’s breast from its bones. If Maira had chosen Prince Syrus over Ser Edwain, and that was her reason, then there was a chance that she had liked him. She had mentioned that she lost the flower he had given her, hadn’t she?

He frowned as he split the breast meat in two pieces and slid the fork under the smaller of the two. Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t like him. Losing him, if it came to that, would not hurt her. He had to think this through. Like any negotiation or treaty, the way they addressed their marriage could have far-reaching implications, and he did not want to rush things that could stand to wait.


Ricard felt the return of her kiss into his, her eager lips and tongue and the impatient buck of her hips as his finger slid between her warm folds. He felt himself harden painfully at the explorative slide of her small hands along his length, and the teasing cupping of his fleshy sacs drew a guttural moan from his throat. There was something about exploring her that was beyond sensual, and as his finger slid along that gliding path he moved his lips to kiss her neck, inhaling the soft scent of her mixed with the intoxicating scents of war: horse, metal, leather, blood and grit.

Nothing had ever enticed him like she did. His first digit was joined by a second, sliding along the sides of her sensitive nub, rolling over and around it, then down towards her silken entry as he allowed his kisses to travel over her delicate neck. He felt her body responding to him. His own body seeped a glistening drop of anticipation upon its mushroom head. Too much foreplay might leave her raw, her moist eagerness spent; too little and there would be more pain than necessary.

He extended the path of his finger, lingering over her entry, testing its resolve with the probing end of one digit. As he did, he brought his mouth to the front of Sienna’s neck to kiss along her collarbone before trailing his tongue and lips along her midline to her mouth, and capturing her in another slow, probing kiss. His finger mimicked the path of his tongue, probing in as his lingam entered her mouth, then circling the soft edge of her entry, and then sliding in once again, all the while the gentle rocking of his hips against her hand projected what he wanted from her touch.
 
There were things that Maira had freedoms to do that other ladies had not had. Things that her parents indulged her in, but did not have much of a clue the true extent of it. These were her fears, along with being in a marriage of convenience, that frightened her the most about her parents’ societal obligations to marry her off. Perhaps they were even ashamed of themselves for allowing her everything that she already had.

So while she played with her food and Prince Syrus who was also Ser Edwain attempted to make small talk, she was mentally debating how much she should tell her future husband about her extracurricular activities.

Because surely they were not ladylike in the least.

“My father enjoys ...game meat, like quail and such,” she offered, almost absently, before she herself plucked up the small bird in her fingers and tore off a strip of meat, popping it in her mouth as her attention turned back to the man seated across from her, lips twitching in interest as he made his insinuations and offered for her to travel with him.

“I am not fond of sleeping in tents and roughing it in the middle of a battlefield,” she admitted. “I ...have more of an interest in science, numbers. I like to make things” she offered haltingly. “And I do not mean cross stitch or basket weaving,” she added smartly, snorting at the mental image she had of herself sitting dainty by the fire knitting.

But perhaps she should have let him believe that was all she did.

Maira popped another piece of the bird in her mouth and looked down again, as if her plate were suddenly of interest to her again. From what little she knew of this man, he seemed to be a traditional sort.

“Traveling is something that interests me, though, but my father and mother both agree that without an escort, it would be out of the question…” She trailed off, something lighting up in her face. She raised her face back up and grinned suddenly. “Unless they thought that I was traveling with you, when indeed I would not be. You would be traveling with your men and horses and swords, staying in tents -- and I would be traveling elsewhere. We could make it seem that we were traveling together -- as I am sure that my father is unaware that the crown prince is masquerading as a humble knight -- and meet once you are done with your knightly duties at my family’s country estate. Or… wherever.”


~~~​


Sienna could not help the little flutters of excitement that reminded her of just who she was sharing her bedroll with. It accompanied the raw desire of lust, with her own self-conscious anxieties added to the top of the mix like a garnish. She knew that she was not so experienced as other women that he had bedded, but she reminded herself that she had been raised in a household where the knowledge of these things were not kept from women like they were precious.

In fact, it was not even forbidden for women to enjoy carnal lusts outside of wedlock, no matter their stature. Sienna just had not had many … opportunities. Another thing she preferred to keep from this man.

“Ricard…” she gasped on her next sharp inhale, her pulse jumping to meet the trail of his lips as he kissed his way down the side of his neck, encouraging her to tilt her head, push herself closer. Just as her back arched and her hips flexed again as his fingers slid around the aching bundle of nerves that she had been stroking herself earlier. She moaned, pushing against the slide of his fingers eagerly, only for his fingers to slide between the slick slit of her nether lips, probing past their barrier.

She wanted more. She even growled for it as his lips caught hers again, her teeth plucking at his lower lip as she wiggled her pelvis forward, sinking his probing digit deeper than what his teasing, circling finger had managed. She felt herself stretch around him with just that small encouragement, a deeper ache clawing at her from her womb.

“I want you,” she gasped, tearing her mouth from his. The hand that had been cradling his face slid away, seeking his freer hand and grasped it, only to drag it up underneath her tunic to settle on her breast. “I am feeling better,” she promised, leaning back in to capture his mouth in another kiss, while her other hand continued its motions up and down the length of his cock.
 
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