Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

“I would have done,” John continued in that soft voice, “if you had not interrupted us.”

“Ah, then do go on with it.” Will made a careless gesture and walked over to the other part of the chamber, where he pretended to pour another goblet of wine.

When he turned back moments later, it was all he could do to keep his breath even. She had removed her gown and sat clothed only in her rippling hair. Now that it was dry, it didn’t cling to every curve like a second skin. A pink nipple peeked out from the golden red curtain, but other than two slender white arms, she was nearly as well covered as if she were wearing a cloak. Marian’s face had paled and settled into a tight mask and now she looked at him with loathing.

Of course she’d thought he’d save her from this eventuality . . . and so had the prince. Which was precisely why Will had not done so.

Yet, that sword was double-edged, for now he must also be confronted with what he’d touched and crushed and manipulated earlier this day. At that time, he’d allowed himself naught but blurred impressions and impersonal touch-although the feel of her soft skin, the smell of her body, ripe from the floral bath, the silk of her hair . . . all had been impressed on his memory.

Will drank from his wine and sauntered back over to the chess game. The flash of hatred in John’s eyes had indicated just how keen the man’s disappointment had been . . . and how deep his lust had burrowed.

’Twas time to tread most carefully and cleverly. A balance between reminding John of his agreement and not letting him feel his loss too deeply.

He came to stand behind Marian. She tensed perceptibly and her breathing changed, but she did not look at him nor acknowledge him. Good. John must believe, at the least for now, that she loathed Will.

And of course she did. After what he’d subjected her to earlier this day, and now, as she sat here naked, what was likely to come . . . how could a noblewoman like Marian not despise him?

And yet, though he knew it would only feed the fire of her resentment, he was unable to resist touching her . . . this time without haste or furtiveness.

He reached forward, brushing his fingers over the top of her warm head, noticing details that he’d been unwilling to allow himself to see before. The palm of his hand cupped the top of her skull, then slid down over thick waves made of infinite shades of gold, bronze, copper, auburn . . . even ruby and garnet. Truly, she had the most magnificent hair, miraculous in its fire. ’Twas no wonder John lusted for her.

And, in truth, John was not the only one.

Marian lifted her hand to make another poor move, and Will tightened his fingers slightly. She paused and Will felt John’s interested gaze lift briefly. Damn.

But before he could say or do anything to alleviate the prince’s suspicions, someone knocked on the door.

John looked over and bade entrance, while Marian gasped and reached for something with which to cover herself. Will looked away as she snatched up her cloak, the curve of a smooth hip and the roundness of a breast jolting teasingly from beneath her hair.

The prince greeted the newcomers, and Will felt his momentary relief at the interruption fade. ’Sblood. The arrival of these two men-Sir Louis Krench and Lord Ralf Stannoch-only made the situation worse, for they were two of John’s long-time confidants and companions. Will had appreciated their absence, for while they were gone, John was left to his own devices-which were not quite as extreme as what the three of them dreamed up together.

At the least, no one had died while Krench and Stannoch were gone.

“So you have at last returned,” said John. “I’d begun to fear you’d joined my brother’s camp.” He laughed heartily at what he obviously intended as a jest.

He invited his friends into the chamber, and Will was slightly mollified to see that they weren’t alone: three tittering women accompanied them. Whores, serfs, or freewomen, Will didn’t know, and he didn’t care who they were except for the fact that they were additional quims and breasts.

He moved now and pulled Marian firmly onto his lap as he settled into an armless chair in a shadowy corner. She settled there stiffly, warm and lush. As far as he was concerned, the chess game was over. To ensure this eventuality, as John was inspecting the new female arrivals, who were already being coaxed out of their clothing, Will swept his hand over the chess table and knocked the remaining pieces askew. Then he curled his arm around Marian’s belly to keep her in place, folding his fingers into a fist.

Marian stiffened even more in his lap, and hissed, “Now he shall blame Hilde for that and punish her further.” Her mouth was near enough for him to smell the wine on her breath, but she was not close enough to kiss.

Foolish woman. Will looked away from the soft, sweet-smelling body and tightened his fist as he struggled to keep from uncurling those fingers and touching her. “John will know ’twas I. ’Tis yourself for whom you ought worry,” he murmured into her ear. “Krench and Stannoch are no weak weasels. But at the least they’ve brought their own playthings.”

“Then let us leave.” She turned and her hair spilled differently over his arm, tickling him and raising fine bumps there.

Aye. They must leave.

But Will did not move. His body was frozen, and he feared if he allowed it to thaw, all would be lost.

“Nottingham.” The sound of John’s voice cut through Will’s haze of indecision, and Will looked over to find John looking at him. “You must join us.”

It was not a request.

CHAPTER 8

M arian had nowhere to look, so she closed her

eyes. But the sounds pervaded, the sounds and scents of coupling. Of cries and gasps and desperate begging, the sharp slap of braided leather on skin, the groan of satiation, the smells of spent seed and sweat and spilled wine.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that she was naked, bare but for the cloak she’d grabbed up at the knock at the door.

Will stood slightly behind her, leaning against the tall bedpost, arms crossed over his bare chest. He’d said naught to her, nothing to ease her fears or worries except the warning that she should have a care for herself. Even when John ordered them to join his other companions, Will had done nothing but acquiesce.

Now, acutely aware of the tableau before her, her nipples were drawn tight and the little hooded knot in her quim had begun to come alive, and she knew that she’d leave the chamber much less innocent this night than she had been before. She dared not open her eyes and look at Will for fear of what he might see in her eyes, and she was relieved to no longer be sitting bare-bottomed on his lap, held in place by a steely arm.

During the chess game, when he’d crawled out of the bed leaving two women in the shadows behind him, Marian’s tentative relief had been washed away by the sight of his half-clothed self. Though that strong body had trapped her against a wall, and been poised over her earlier today, she’d never seen the powerful slabs of muscle and the square angles of his shoulders. Harold’s pale, hair-covered torso and belly had looked nothing like the tanned, rippling one that emerged from the bed-curtains.

At first, as he’d crawled forth, he had reminded Marian of a lean cat, dark and sleek with rich black hair rumpled from whatever he’d been doing behind the curtains. Shadows gathered in the hollows of his collarbones and along the sweep of his muscled shoulders. His face was dusky and dark with stubble, his eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth set. Black hair grew in a wide patch over the upper part of his chest, but as he came into view, she saw that it narrowed into a slender line that ran down the center of his flat, ridged belly . . . and then disappeared into the shadow of his loose braies. Braies that hung low on lean hips, exposing their bones and a thick dark thatch of hair . . . and looked as though they might slip down with the slightest tug.

All this had been impressed upon Marian in an instant . . . and now she could not erase the image from her mind. She’d had no idea . . . no idea a man could look like that. Beautiful . . . and yet frightening, dark and smooth and lean . . . the beauty marred by white battle scars.

“Why so shy, my lady?” came a velvety voice in her ear. “Open your eyes.”

She didn’t. She kept them closed and though they did not touch, she felt the tension from Will, who stood like a powerful, impersonal tree trunk next to her chair.

The prince spoke again. “You’ll watch, my lady, or you’ll join them.”

Marian’s eyes flew open and John’s mellow chuckle fell heavily into her ears. “Very good. Now tell me which of these . . . arrangements . . . suits you the most.”

He settled in an armless seat next to hers, close enough to brush against her. She drew her cloak closer about her shoulders, but he noticed . . . and with a flick of his wrist whisked it away, sending it crumpling to the floor. “Do you not recall that you lost your cloak by fair play, my lady?”

Marian could do naught but huddle beneath her hair, grateful that it was so thick and heavy.

“My lady,” that mellow voice purred again, “which is it? Which scene has captured your attention?” John had leaned very close to her and she felt the warmth of his skin brush against her. He’d removed his tunic and now, like Will, wore only braies tied at the waist.

And yet the proximity of his bare chest and arms, darkly haired torso and belly, prompted a very different response from Marian. One closer to distaste than desire.

“Is it the woman there?” John persisted. “See how she takes them both at once?”

Marian could not help but see the woman, arranged on her hands and knees, naked, of course. One of John’s friends, the shorter one with sharp, weasel features, had loosened and dropped his hose so that it bunched around his ankles. He slammed into the woman from behind, his fingers grasping her hips so hard the skin was white where he gripped.

And in front of her stood the other late arrival, a man with pale skin and pale hair, and colorless gray eyes that had scanned Marian with bald lust. Dressed in only a tunic, he’d dispensed with his hose completely and his pale, spindly legs bowed slightly as he worked his erection in and out of the woman’s mouth.

“Would you enjoy that, my lady?” John murmured in her ear. “Two sleek cocks sliding in and out, one at each end?”

As before, once she began to look, she found herself unable to turn away . . . to block out the sounds and images. The long, shiny lengths pumping the woman from either side . . . her cheeks hollow and her eyes wide as one man held her face steady, lifting her chin to make her throat a long, easy curve, her breasts hanging free, jolting with every movement . . . and at the rear, the slip and slide of another red cock, in and out in a smooth, sticky rhythm, faster and faster . . .

Marian swallowed, her breath rising faster as the pounding became harder and the two men lost their synchronized rhythm, slamming into the woman haphazardly so that she could barely keep her balance, breasts bouncing and swaying. Marian felt it as if it were inside her, the rise, the tension, the urgency. . . . The hot tingling in her stomach swirled lower, almost painful in its intensity, tightening at the center of her quim.

She didn’t realize she’d given a soft gasp until she felt John’s mouth near her ear.

“Ahh, so you do like that,” he said. “Drink, my lady.” He lifted a cup to her mouth.

Drink if he offers, Will had said. She opened her mouth and gulped the heavy, sweet wine and felt it flush warmly through her.

She drank more, and John’s tongue thrust through the curtain of her hair, into the depth of her ear in a parody of the activity before them. She shuddered at the invasion, even as her body began to warm, loosen. He leaned closer, and his hand slid up over her belly, her skin trembling and lurching from his touch as she tried to pull her eyes away from the scene ahead, knowing vaguely that she wanted to get away from him.

But he was the prince . . . and even though her mind was dull and murky, she knew she could not offend him.

Will, protect me.

“Nay, don’t close your eyes,” he said. “Watch as they come, watch them spew their seed and see how she takes it . . . how . . . oh.” He stopped with his own sudden low groan as the pale man whipped his cock from the woman’s mouth, and gave it two hard jerks, spurting his seed over the woman’s head.

The man behind lunged forward hard, and the woman bent her arms, resting her head on the floor as he pummeled her from behind. Her bottom rose higher now than her shoulders, her sighs and grunts filling the air with erotic sounds. Marian saw the glistening red of her quim as the cock slid in and out . . . and knew that her own was as swollen and wet, that her breathing was caught up in the same rising rhythm.

John had turned, straddling the edge of the chair, pressing against her. His fingers filtered through her hair, his breath rasping hard, low, and harsh in her ear. She could not mistake the bulge of his cock against her hip.

“More,” he ordered, lifting the goblet to her mouth again . . . and she gulped down more, the sweet wine sinking more easily into her this time.

After she swallowed half the libation, he found her hand, drawing it from where she’d clasped it against her belly, and forced it down over him . . . into the depth of his braies, where it was hot and damp and a pulsing erection raged like a smithy’s iron.

“There,” he sighed, a half command, half groan. He forced her fingers around its width, closing his hand tightly over hers, pushing his body up closer. “Now . . . mmph . . .” His command lurched to a halt as the weasel-faced man arched his back with a last violent thrust, calling out the pleasure of his orgasm with a loud moan.

Marian could not look away. The man appeared to be in agony, his face stretched and dark and pained . . . but something primal gouged her; watching him find his pleasure made something tug deep inside, leaving her skittish and out of breath . . . her heart slamming as if it had been she on the floor . . . she accepting the slick length of a cock.

John’s fingers closed tighter, and he showed her the stroke, the rhythm, and then he murmured, “And what of her?” He directed her attention to another side of the room. Though his breathing was heavy and raspy, the cadence of his voice remained smooth. “Should I bind you like so?” He lifted the wine to her lips again.

She turned to see what John was looking at and then didn’t know which was worse . . . the feel of his hot, hard erection, its skin sliding beneath her fingers . . . or the sight of the dark-haired woman splayed against the wall. Head tipped back, nude, her hands held high so that they raised her breasts, and her feet spread wide and bound in place. Another woman with short dark hair stood nearby with a whip that had clearly already left marks on her companion’s belly.

Marian swallowed, tried to catch her breath. . . . She felt the chamber walls pushing closer, warmer, redder on her until there was naught to see but the woman against the wall.

The pale man moved to take the whip, pausing to fondle the breast of the woman he’d taken it from.