He grunted and thrust again. “So good,” he murmured huskily against her temple and she felt the brush of his lips there. Not for me, thought Una, with a wince. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remind herself that this was all for the best. After this painful act, no one could dispute that she was a married lady come morning. Lady Una de Bussell, she reminded herself. A princess no longer. She certainly had never felt less like a princess, than being swived by this lusty brute, she thought as he labored above her, his movements crude and vigorous. She held her breath and willed for it to be over soon. Even as she thought it, his movements slowed.
“Ugh!” he groaned and collapsed on top of her, breathing hard.
Una lay beneath him, catching her breath. Had he finished? Her cheeks burned. So too did the area between her legs. Her thighs were trembling from being held open so wide for the intrusion of his big, heavy body. Something was leaking out of her. Was it blood?
At last, he withdrew and shifted his weight to the one side of her, still caging her in with his big body. He was panting as though he had run one dozen staircases. To her surprise, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her on the mouth. Then he drew back his head, his face flushed and relaxed. Suddenly he gave an exclamation.
“What is it?” she asked, looking up at his expression of surprise.
“How did you make yourself beautiful?” he asked, then collapsed back against the pillows with a snore.
2
Armand woke suddenly, with a lurch of his stomach. He groaned and rolled onto his side. Gods, his head pounded. How much had he imbibed? Some urgent memory hovered at the edge of his consciousness, troubling him. Did he owe someone money? Squinting one eye open, he found the room dark and unfamiliar, but that was nothing new. He moved around a lot. More troubling was the way it was spinning. He liked a drink, but he didn’t usually drink to such excess as this. For some reason, last night he must have drunk himself into oblivion. He gave a hollow moan and shut his eye again. The sheets beside him rustled.
“Sir Armand?” inquired a voice. A cool hand landed on his shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”
He frowned. Too well-spoken for a tavern wench, though there was a faint accent running through it. Northern, he thought with surprise. You didn’t find many Northerners in Caer-Lyoness. His eyes opened wide and he tried to focus on the pale, oval face that now hovered over his with an expression of concern. Fuck. He didn’t remember her.
“I’ll get you some water,” she said and scrambled from the bed. Naked as a jaybird, he noticed with interest, despite his wretchedness. She was tall and well formed, with nice thick thighs, a neat waist, and a curtain of dark auburn hair that hung down to her waist and swished about her in a pleasing fashion. As she crossed the room, her bare feet padding across the floor, he admired her rounded backside, which had dimples on either side of the base of her spine.
Then something more pressing pushed to the forefront of his consciousness. “A basin,” he intoned hollowly. “I need a basin.” He grimaced, sitting up in alarm. He was going to spew his guts up. She hurried back and thrust a basin into his hands and he retched over it, bringing up a good deal of the strong, sweet wine he’d overindulged in. He would never drink it again, he vowed as his throat burned and a wave of misery and self-pity swept over him.
“Here,” said the obliging female, hesitating as he retched again, but there was nothing more for him to bring up. Then he spat and she wiped his mouth with a damp cloth. “You’ll feel better now,” she said briskly. “Here, let me take that.” The basin was removed from his grasp and Armand collapsed back against the pillows feeling sick as a dog. “I’m dying,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut again.
“Drink this water,” she said, holding a cup to his lips. Definitely not a tavern wench, who’d have been kicking him out of her bed at this point and cursing him soundly. Armand took a hasty swig of water and then pushed it away. He felt her hand smooth back his hair. Who the fuck was this ministering angel? Tentatively, he squinted up at her again. She had a faintly anxious look on her face. “You must go back to sleep now, Sir Armand,” she said politely. “Then wake upon the morrow feeling refreshed, yes?”
He eyed her doubtfully. He liked her optimism, but not the fact she looked so grave. She wasn’t his usual type. He liked them on the petite side and saucy, but he could see why he’d picked her alright. She had a sweet, full mouth and a nice round pair of tits with large nipples so dark they resembled autumn berries. He hoped he’d enjoyed her charms fully, because he knew he wasn’t going to remember a damn thing in the morning.
With a groan, he rolled toward her, grasping her about her waist and hauling her against him. She gave a faint gasp but did not struggle or pull away as he rested his brow against her soft, deep bosom. She made a damn fine pillow, he thought as his burning eyes drifted shut. After a moment, he felt one hand tentatively stroke his hair. Nice, he thought wistfully. He hoped he’d at least given her his mouth the night before, as he doubted he’d been able to stay hard for long considering the amount of liquor coursing through his veins.
*
When next he woke it was daybreak. Someone had thoughtfully kept the shutters closed, but he could see the light that was filtering into the room around the edges.
“Fuck,” he groaned, clasping hands to his head and rolling onto his back. “My head.” He cast about the room, his thoughts jumbled. Someone should be here with him, he was sure of that much, though the identity of his bedpartner for the moment eluded him.
Slowly, his senses returned to him. He had been competing in that damned fool competition the King had put on as part of the May Day festivities, though everyone knew it was really a ruse to get that ugly cousin of his off his hands. Armand remembered that he and Fulcher had determined he should lose in the very first round, in order to earn the fattest purse, for lately he had been performing well.
Then … His memory faltered. He had been dragged back into the ring and that damned fool jester had given some speech about the man in last place winning the princess. He blinked, and even that seemed to make him feel dizzy. He had won the princess as some sort of twisted consolation prize. They had been swiftly married in the King’s private chapel and after that, his memory grew hazy.
There had been a woman jumbled up in it somewhere, a woman with a sweet mouth and a nice pair of thighs, but she was not the princess. What the fuck had he done with the princess? He sat bolt upright and almost immediately wished he had not. His head swam alarmingly. At his groan, someone moved at the opposite end of the room.
“Sir Armand, are you well?”
He turned his head and saw the attractive piece he had spent the night with. She was bent over a basin of water, washing and clad in a scandalous scrap of a translucent fabric that would normally have his full attention, but right now he had more important things on his mind. Where the hells was the fright of a wife he’d just bound his lot to, he wondered with a stab of anxiety? He was no expert on wedded etiquette, but spending the wedding night with another woman did not sound like acceptable behavior from a groom.
The King would likely be after his hide for this. Looking about the room, the fact it was decked out like a flower bower was not lost on him, despite his blunted senses. He turned cold. Had he thrown the bride out of her own bedchamber for a more alluring prospect? What if the princess had gone running to the King to lodge a complaint against him?