Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A boon?”

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

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

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

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

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

At last he released her, pulling a long strand of hair free from her braid, and she sat back shakily. The back of her head pounded from his grip, her mouth felt raw and swollen, and her heart slammed rapidly in her chest. He must have fully loosened her braid, for a long, two-finger-thick coil of her hair fell down over her shoulder and curled in her lap.

“That was lovely,” John said, reaching for one of his pawns-black of course. “I look forward to the spoils of my win.” He moved and then lifted his goblet to drink, watching her over its rim.

Marian blinked, trying to clear her mind. She was a passable chess player, and this was the most important game she’d ever played. She’d need every bit of concentration she could muster.

They’d each made two moves when, without a word, John stood. Marian caught her breath as he unlaced his braies and began to move toward her. A wild protest caught in her throat, but before she could utter it, he stopped at the rear end of the chess table.

Grasping the woman’s hips, he knelt behind her and exposed a long, turgid cock. As she watched, he spit down onto its length and used his hand to rub the spittle over his erection. It glistened with the simple lubricant, and before Marian could look away, he slid it inside the waiting quim from behind. The woman barely moved, and made only a squeak.

John gave a quiet, satisfied groan and reached toward the woman’s neck, and at first Marian thought he was about to strangle her. But instead, he coiled a thick mass of hair around his fist, using it to raise the woman’s head as if she were a horse and he held the reins.

Marian watched as John pumped her steadily, easily, from behind, and noticed that the woman’s arms strained with the effort of keeping herself still so that the chess pieces did not fall.

What would happen to her if they did?

But they were short and wide pieces, obviously made for this purpose, and John was not rough. The pieces slipped only a bit.

The woman’s breasts swayed from side to side, and John moved one hand to close over and pinch the nipple of one while the other maintained its hold on her hair. Marian was surprised to see through the heavy hair that obscured much of her face that the woman’s eyes were closed and her mouth parted slightly, her breath rising audibly. She even gave a quiet groan of her own that almost sounded like an expression of pleasure. Was it possible she was enjoying this? How could that be?

For a moment, Marian was caught by the rhythm, the sounds, even the rising scent of woman. Her lips felt dry and she wanted to lick them, and she was aware of a quiet tingling beginning between her own legs, deep inside her.

Ashamed that a woman’s degradation should cause even the slightest excitement in her, Marian looked away and found herself captured by John’s dark gaze. It glittered with lust and depravation, and a clear message that she did not want to see. She tore her eyes away and heard his low gasp of laughter.

Where was Will?

Why wasn’t he here to protect her?

At that moment, John gave a heartfelt groan and eased inside his chess table one last time. Hilde released her own breath in a low sigh. Marian saw her lick her lips and then as John released the hank of hair, she lowered her head so that it hung down once again.

Not one chess piece had fallen.

John picked up a cloth, wiped his cock, and settled back in his seat. “Now, then,” he said, refilling his goblet and renewing Marian’s hopes he would drink himself into a stupor. “Whose move?”

Marian applied herself to the game, and only pretended to drink when John urged her. She did get her cloak back, but only for a few moments. And then she lost it, as well as her braided leather girdle and then, to her rising concern, her long overgown. This left her clothed in only the tightly laced bliaud, and while that garment covered her from neck to floor, it left her feeling quite exposed with its close sleeves and formfitting fashion. She moved a rook, trying to concentrate on the game.

John’s eyes gleamed as he moved to take her knight, and he raised his face to look at her. “This time, you must remove your braid and allow your hair to fall loosely.”

Relieved that she had a reprieve before removing her undergown, which would leave her clothed in naught but her hair, Marian took her time unbraiding the rest of her hair. John watched in fascination as she pulled it over her shoulders, partly on each side, and allowed it to fall so that it nearly brushed the floor. When she leaned forward to make her next move, some of the shorter strands in front slipped against the bare skin of the chess table’s torso and the woman shuddered.

Marian saw the little rise of bumps on Hilde’s skin, and felt her own flesh pebble beneath her clothes. There was something about seeing her hair touching another’s skin so intimately. . . .

She looked up and found John watching her, again that knowing look in his eyes. She swallowed and just as she reached for a piece on the chessboard-any piece, anything to break away from that look-she heard a shifting and a groan behind her.

A male groan, from the sound of it. It seemed like rustling and shifting, movement . . . from the bed behind her.

John looked up over her shoulder, and she thought she caught a glimpse of annoyance flash over his face. But then the shush of movement stopped and there was silence again.

“ ’ Tis your turn, my lady,” the prince said.

Marian replaced the piece she’d lifted, realizing if she made a bad move and lost another piece, she would be as exposed as Hilde. Her hand moved above the pieces and she tried to pull her scattered thoughts together.

She hovered over her bishop and there was a low cough from behind her, drawing John’s attention once more. Marian looked again at the board and this time saw the trap she’d been led into-a trap that a movement of the bishop could foil; it would save her from not only losing her undergown but also checkmate.

She made the placement and looked up to find John once again watching her. Yet he said naught of her spoiling his plan and, after a brief consultation of the pieces, moved again.

Marian stared at the game, realizing her breathing had become rushed again and knowing that she had no way to win this battle. He was obviously a much better player than she was on a good day, but with all the other distractions she had to contend with, Marian knew she was playing miserably.

She looked desperately at the board, curling her hands in her lap and around and through the hair that amassed there. It took a moment before she realized that John was not watching the game, but was eyeing the way her fingers slid in and around, playing with her hair as she tried to keep her desperation at bay. His breathing had changed, and when she closed her fingers around a piece of end curl and began to idly stroke it, the prince appeared fixated.

Marian drew in a deep breath and leaned forward, allowing a wide swath of hair to brush over Hilde’s round hip like a coppery curtain. As she hovered over her queen, two things happened. John gave a quiet moan and his lips parted, and she heard another movement behind her, another faint groan, almost like a heavy breath, that . . . stopped as she moved toward the rook.

She moved her hand back over the queen and there came a renewed shifting from the bed, and then when she picked up the knight, it stopped.

As she fingered her hair more seductively, Marian looked at the queen again and realized her move . . . and with a burst of relief, she understood. He was helping her. From the bed.

Whether ’twas Will she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

She made her move with the queen and looked up at John, taking care to hide the triumph in her eyes. “Check,” she said.

He pulled his eyes from her fingers, which were busily making a little braid in her lap, and looked down at the game. Then he looked up at her again. “A fascinating move, my lady,” he said. “But not good enough.”

And he reached swiftly forward and captured her queen.

Holy Mary, Will silently groaned.

She’d moved the right piece . . . but to the wrong place. If she hadn’t placed the prince in check, she would have been safe. Safer.

Pah. She wasn’t safe at all. Even when he was here with her.

Will understood the prince’s game. He’d realized it at the evening meal, when John had become overly solicitous about keeping Will’s wine goblet filled, and urging him to enjoy the fine vintage from Aquitaine.

Fortunately Will’s squire, Tristan, stood with the prince’s pages and helped to serve. A quick whisper to Tristan resulted in the squire’s keeping his master’s goblet filled, but with much more water than wine.

When John had invited him, as he always did, to his chamber, Will had been careful to stumble and slur as he made his way to the solar along with the prince, taking care to litter his words with profanities about Marian.

John had promised him pleasure to take his mind off the problem, as well as even more wine. As planned, Will was easily able to pretend to slip off into oblivion once he climbed into the half-curtained bed with two of John’s naked consorts-and none too soon, for they’d divested him of all but his braies by the time they realized he was no longer with them.

Will’s diligence was rewarded when he heard John order one of the pages to go and fetch Marian to the solar. So he waited as the girls fell asleep next to him, likely just as eager for a bit of rest as he was.

And now, as he lay sprawled in the bed, he could see Marian facing John across the prince’s own special chessboard. She stood slowly and lifted her heavy hair, brushing it back over her shoulders. Reluctance showed in every movement and Will knew he could wait no longer.

With a loud groan, he shifted and pulled the bed-curtains to the side.

John looked up at him, and Will was shocked to see the unbridled venom in the prince’s expression . . . and then it was gone. Marian dropped the hem of her gown, which she’d begun to raise, and turned toward the bed.

Will looked away and gave one of the naked rumps next to him a sound slap. Its owner shrieked and bolted awake, and so did the other, and the moment of tension was broken.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Will said, making a show of rubbing his eyes. He gave a nearby breast a fond little jiggle as he made his way off the bed. “I must have dozed off. Too much wine anight.”

He didn’t look at Marian, but he was fully aware that her attention was focused steadily on him.

“You’ve interrupted our chess game,” John said in a velvety voice.

“Indeed?” Will said, standing beside the bed now. “It appears by the state of your clothing . . . and my lady’s . . . that my lord is on the verge of claiming victory.”