King's Virgin

  http://www.AdrianaHunter.com

  The King’s Virgin

  Adriana Hunter

  Copyright © 2012 Adriana Hunter

  Published by Sweet Dreams Publishing

  Cordova jumped at the loud, insistent knock at her door, nearly dropping the brush she’d been running through her long curtain of black hair. Setting it carefully on the vanity, she rose from her chair. She thought briefly about taking a moment to tuck her hair underneath her cap, but she knew that if it were her employer she would be scolded for keeping her waiting so she dutifully rushed out.

  Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room and opened the door to see Lady Alice Grey, lady-in-waiting to King Lyon and her employer, waiting, flanked by two royal guards. Cordova’s eyes immediately jumped to the envelope fisted in the Lady’s skeletally thin hand, and her heart hammered against her chest.

  “How may I be of service, my Lady?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. She started to bow, but her head snapped back as Lady Grey’s free hand shot out, cracking against her face.

  “You stupid wench,” she snapped, black eyes cold in contrast to the spots of color in her bony cheeks. “Did you really think you could get away with this?”

  “I-I-I don’t know what you mean,” Cordova stammered, clutching her stinging cheek even as her eyes darted back to the envelope. She knew very well what the Lady meant, but that didn’t mean she was going to give in right away. Even if she couldn’t see a way out of this predicament.

  Lady Grey ripped the letter out of the envelope and waved it in front of her face. “One of my secretaries intercepted this letter yesterday. In it you write of unspeakable accusations against the King—outlandish tales of high taxes, poverty, unfair justice systems.”

  Cordova lifted her chin. “They are not outlandish tales. The King overtaxes his people, fattens the rich and starves the poor, and beheads or imprisons anyone who dares to question his command. He is nothing more than a barbarian and a tyrant.”

  One of the guards stepped up, a pair of heavy manacles hanging loosely in his hands. “Such accusations are treasonous, Miss Thomas, and will not be tolerated by King Lyon or the people of Margon. You’re going to have to come with us.”

  A tremor of fear rippled through her, and she felt her legs suddenly weaken, barely able to hold her up. “What are you going to do with me? Will you behead me like the others?” she accused even as she allowed the guard to secure the manacles around her wrists.

  The guard met her gaze steadily, and Cordova saw no mercy in his eyes. “That will be for the King to decide.”

  ****

  King Lyon tapped his fingers restlessly on the arm of his throne as he watched his latest subject be escorted from the throne room in heavy chains. His heart had long been hardened against his people’s pleas for mercy. They should know by now that he rarely had any to spare, and to stay out of trouble. If they dared to step over the lines that had been crossed for them, they knew the punishment he would swiftly mete out.

  In truth, he actually detested killing his own people, but he did not gain all that he had by ruling from the teat. A heavy hand would teach the people of Margon to refrain from questioning his rule. He had learned from his father that a King is better feared, than loved.

  “Send in the next accused,” he drawled, bored by the monotony. He understood the necessity of holding these courts—those who stepped over the line had to be punished, after all—but it was all so very tedious. He would much rather be in the war room with his strategists, or out in the fields engaging in sport. Or perhaps between the sheets with a willing woman. His lips curled at the thought. He desperately needed a new mistress. Someone who could entertain him, and give him some much-needed relief. He certainly had his share of women and even those who secretly opposed being bedded would never dare to deny him. Perhaps he would choose one this afternoon.

  The guards brought in a woman, and Lyon blinked, before sitting up straight to get a better look at her. She wore a shapeless gray dress that draped loosely on her thin frame, and her head hung forward so that her curtain of black hair concealed her face. As she was brought before the throne, Lyon noticed that her entire body was trembling, and couldn’t quite hide a disgusted sneer. So, they had brought him a mouse. Well, he would hear her crimes and then chew her up and spit her out like all the others.

  “Your Majesty,” his attendant greeted him, belly jiggling most unbecomingly as he turned to face the King. “The accused is Miss Cordova Thomas, companion to Lady Alice Grey. She comes before you accused of high treason—a letter she wrote to her family was intercepted, and contained slander and blasphemous things written about your Majesty.”

  “I see.” Lyon turned his attention to the woman, curious rather than infuriated, as he ought to be. “And what say you to these accusations, Miss Thomas?”

  The woman tossed her hair out of her face, raising a pointed chin so she could glare daggers at him with her garnet eyes. “If speaking the truth…if warning my family not to come here in order to spare them your tyranny, is considered to be high treason, then yes, I am guilty.”

  Lyon arched a brow, sucking in a sharp breath as the exquisite beauty of her features hit him, full force. Her heart-shaped face was pale but for the spots of color on her cheeks, her black eyebrows were drawn tightly over piercing eyes that sparkled with fury, and her lips, the color of ripe strawberries, were compressed into a tight, thin line. She looked like a war goddess, or perhaps a Valkyrie, ready to rise up and strike him down with a vengeance should she be given the chance. He knew instinctively that the body beneath that gown would be just as exquisite, and was struck by an overwhelming desire to whip the offending cloth away so he could see for himself.

  Cordova stood her ground, holding her head high as she proudly defied the King, but inside she was confused in a wash of unyielding emotion. Rather than flying into a rage and ordering her immediate beheading as she’d rather expected, he simply stared, his eyes roving over her face, his blue eyes scalding her with a hunger she didn’t understand. Her body reacted, chills running down her spine, nipples stiffening, which only confused her more. She couldn’t help but notice that he was an attractive man—his powerfully built body shown off by the embroidered doublet and hose he wore over his linen shirt. His reddish-blond hair curled thickly atop his head, his handsome face framed with a square jaw dusted with a day’s growth of beard. His lips were firm, sensual, and curved into… a smile? She shivered. What sort of hideous punishment could he be thinking of for him to smile like that?

  “How dare you speak to the King that way!” the advisor sputtered after a long silence in which his beady eyes darted back and forth between the two. “You should show more respect to the King who so graciously allows you to live at his court!”

  Cordova sneered at him, recklessly bold—there was no going back after all; she was doomed regardless of whether or not she remained silent. “Don’t patronize me. I doubt the good King even knew I existed before you brought me to his attention.”

  “You have an unusually sharp tongue,” the King remarked before his clearly affronted advisor could respond. “You do know that with every traitorous word you speak, I can add to your punishment? That rather than order a simple beheading, I could have you tortured for days, weeks, months? That I could have you begging for your life…or perhaps, your death?”

  Cordova felt the blood leech from her face at the thought of prolonged torture. Still, she refused to back down. “I won’t beg you for anything,” she vowed, nearly spitting out the words.

  His eyes gleamed, the challenge accepted. “Oh, I think you will,” he said silkily—oh, did he want her to beg, he thought as he watched the rapid rise and fall of her bosom. Not for death, but for
him—his touch, his mouth, his shaft as it pumped deep inside of her. “I admire your spirit, woman. Not many men have dared to challenge me in this way, and certainly never a woman.”

  He turned to his advisor. “Leave us. I want everyone from this room gone except for my personal guard.”

  The advisor frowned. “Your majesty?”

  “Did you not hear me?” Lyon arched a brow.

  The man blanched. “Yes, your Majesty…as you wish.” He scrambled down from the dais and ushered the nobles from the room, leaving reluctantly, a flurry of whispers exchanged behind the hands raised to their mouths. Let them speculate, Lyon thought.

  His lips curved as Cordova watched him warily. “Don’t think I will not punish you, Miss Thomas,” he warned, and she stiffened. “You will serve me in repentance for your crimes—in my bed.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Cordova whispered, faintly.

  Lyon’s grin widened at her distress. “Don’t sound so upset, Ms. Thomas. Being a King’s mistress is considered an honor. Be grateful.”

  ****

  Be grateful!

  Cordova fumed, pacing back and forth in the drawing room as she had done for the past four hours, waiting for him. The guards had taken her to a private suite of rooms connected to the King’s quarters by a secret tunnel and told her that she had free reign of the space, and could do anything she wished as long as she didn’t leave. Since the only way out was through the tunnel and a twenty-four hour guard had been posted there, escape was highly unlikely. There wasn’t even a single window for her to look out of. She felt suffocated, closed in.

  She couldn’t believe this was happening. Why, oh why hadn’t she just kept her thoughts to herself? How could she have been so stupid as to think her letters wouldn’t be intercepted? She was not of royal blood, after all, and the King was always on the lookout for spies.

  You’re lucky you weren’t tortured and beheaded, like he’d suggested would be appropriate for your behavior.

  Sighing, she lowered herself onto the settee, pushing aside the pale pink cushions so she could stretch out and think. He was right to tell her that she should be grateful—at least for sparing her life. But she was still furious. Even though he was enshrouding her in secrecy, that no one aside from a select number of guards would know about what she would be forced to do, she would still know on the inside that she was ruined. Once she returned home, she would never be able to marry a man, for she could not deceive one, and who would want to marry a King’s mistress, spoiled and used? It didn’t matter that she would spread her legs between silk sheets instead of a crumbling doorway. She would still be nothing more than a whore.

  Her eyes drifted closed, then opened as she heard the faint sounds of a man’s footfalls against soft carpet. Turning her head, she watched King Lyon enter the drawing room, still dressed in the same clothing he’d worn at her ‘trial’. He caught sight of her and paused, standing in the middle of the room, dominating it with his powerful, imposing frame. She swallowed hard, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. Why did he make her blood heat so? He was a pompous, arrogant tyrant.

  Frowning, his eyes raked her form. “You did not choose one of the dresses in the wardrobe provided for you?”

  Cordova’s cheeks colored as she rose. “I see no need to subject myself to the garish fashions of court any moment sooner than I have to. Unlike the ladies of your court who think nothing of baring their bosoms to get what they want, I am a modest woman.”

  King Lyon laughed. “You are provided with a King’s ransom of clothing that the women of my court would swoon over, and you call them garish?”

  Cordova bit her lower lip, unsure if she had upset him or not. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, your Majesty,” she amended, trying for a less petulant approach. It wouldn’t do to make her life more difficult than it was already going to be. “But I simply can’t bring myself to wear those fashions.”

  The King lifted an eyebrow. “They are what you have been provided with, and until you have earned the right to ask for more, you will wear them. Either that, or you can go naked.”

  Cordova gasped, her cheeks coloring. “I beg your pardon?”

  King Lyon grinned. “Now that I think of it, I may just order you to forgo clothes completely. After all, you are all alone down here, so no one other than I will be able to see you. And it would be so much more convenient for me.”

  Cordova’s flush deepened, rage joining her mortification. “I refuse.”

  “Suit yourself.” Lyon stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and Cordova felt her skin tingle in anticipation. “In any case, your garments offend me. It’s time we take them off.”

  “W-what?” Now?

  Lyon’s eyes sparked hungrily, and her entire body heated. “I’m not the type of man who is content with tossing up a woman’s skirts and taking his pleasure. I want to see your body. All of it.”

  “Yes,” she breathed, her cheeks heating again. It sounded as though she were agreeing with him rather than simply acknowledging him. Her fingers trembled as she lifted them to the row of buttons trailing down her front, and she fumbled, trying to loosen them.

  “I…” her breathing hitched. “I cannot.” She’d never stripped in front of a man before, and King Lyon’s hot gaze made it impossible for her to concentrate.

  Lyon softened at the panic in her eyes and the stiffness in her spine. “Let me help you,” he murmured huskily, brushing her hands away so he could undo the buttons himself. He could practically feel the innocence rolling off her in waves. It had been awhile since had last taken a virgin. He was going to have to be gentle, this first time.

  Popping the last button, he released his hands and let the dress pool around her ankles, then sucked in a breath as he studied her. Clad only in a thin chemise, her curves were exposed to his gaze, and they were even lusher than he’d expected. Her breasts were ripe melons, the nipples straining against the thin, white material. Her waist was tiny, her hips flared—a body made for childbearing. Her calves looked silky, her ankles dainty and graceful.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely, running his large, callused palms up and down her bare arms.

  Cordova shivered, leaning into the King’s warm hands—not that she was cold. Far from it. She was sure that if she looked down her entire skin would be pink from the heat coursing through her body. But her eyes were riveted to King Lyon’s gaze—dark, hungry, commanding.

  “Why are you doing this?” she murmured, trembling all over from the chills his touch incited. “Why do you choose to spare me?”

  “Because I can,” he retorted harshly, yanking her against his big, hard body. His lips crashed down to claim hers, and Cordova moaned—she couldn’t help it. Her body loved the proximity between them, craved it, wanted more. Her nipples tingled as they scraped against his doublet, and moisture pooled between her thighs.

  Lyon plundered her mouth with his tongue, dominating her utterly as he reveled in her sweetness. He loved the little sound she made when he’d pulled her against him—soft and passionate, just like her body felt against him. Without breaking the kiss he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, where he set her upon the large bed that dominated the room.

  Stepping back, he took a moment to study her again, admiring the way her chemise contrasted against the gilt and garnet coverlet. Her green eyes were smoky with desire, her cheeks flushed, her heavy bosom heaving, nipples straining against the material of her undergarment.

  “Your Majesty?” she asked hesitantly, unsure as to what he wanted from her. From the stories she heard, men tended to fall on their mistresses like slavering dogs, taking their pleasure and then moving on with their business. But the King spent an awfully long time just simply looking at her, as though she were a feast he was about to savor.

  “This needs to come off,” he growled, tugging her shoulders so that she rose up. His fingers curled around the straps of her chemise, and then it was pulled ov
er her head and tossed aside, to flutter to the floor like a butterfly wing.

  “Oh, yes,” he murmured, drinking in her creamy, naked flesh with his eyes. Her ran his hands down her sides, enjoying the feel of her smooth, unmarred skin, and the way her curves fit so perfectly into his palms. She arched into his touch, offering her dusky rose nipples to him, and he took greedily, cupping her breasts before leaning down and suckling gently on her right one.

  “Oh!” A cry flew from Cordova’s lips, filled with surprise and pleasure. Exquisite sensation rippled through her with each suck, each tug, as he pleasured her nipples with his mouth and hands. His teeth nipped, his tongue licked, his fingers pinched and rolled, until she was wrapping her legs around his waist and rubbing her core shamelessly against his erection, mindlessly seeking relief.

  Lyon groaned at the feel of Cordova’s warm center rubbing along the length of his shaft—the pleasure was incredible, and he hadn’t even removed his clothes yet. How much more pleasurable would it be to rub himself against her bare flesh? To sink his shaft deep inside her?

  Impatient, he pulled back and yanked at the buttons of his doublet. In short order it joined the chemise on the floor along with the linen shirt he wore underneath. Cordova caught her breath as she watched him stand—his chest muscles rippled in the candlelight, dusted lightly with curls the same color as the hair atop his head. He kicked off his boots, and then tore off his hose, freeing his shaft, and she gasped.

  Lyon chuckled at the shock in his new mistress’s eyes. “Have you never seen one before?” he asked, boldly curling his fingers around the hard length.

  Cordova gulped as her pulse kicked up a notch—she should have found such an action lewd, but instead she wanted to knock his hand aside and replace it with her fingers. “I… you’re just so large.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lyon assured her as he returned to the bed. “I will fit.” Crouching before her, he slid his hands underneath the backs of her thighs and drew her knees up before spreading her legs. “Beautiful,” he murmured again, staring at the glistening pink folds between her legs, crowned with a thatch of silky black curls. He ran his fingers through them, then down her nether lips, coating them in her moisture. She was wet already, so wet.