Annie Windsor - Redemption.pdf

(304 KB) Pobierz
74162455 UNPDF
Redemption
Annie Windsor
The Legacy of Prator 2 -
For Bridgette
I wrote this with your candle burning. Enjoy the wild man.
Prologue
Camelford
Late Fall, 470
Lygnel barely allowed herself a breath as she stood in the stone hall outside Davyd Krell’s bedchamber.
She heard sounds of coupling within—but a type of sex she had never known. Lovemaking with grunts of
animal need, cries of wild abandon.
Jealousy surged in her throat, bitter and hot, and yet in truth Lygnel had no claim on the man beyond the
wooden door. The stallion. Davyd had long ago captured her fancy. She had watched him from her
window, from discreet vantage points about the courtyard, and sometimes from hidden places in the
nearby woods.
Rough of manner but clearly soft of heart in the way he handled his training charges, Davyd’s paradoxes
first interested Lygnel, then attracted her. In a court of barbarians, he seemed the most barbaric of
all—and yet the most civilized. He was, without question, as raw and splendid as jewelstone hidden
between layers of unforgiving rock.
Her pulse quickened at the mere thought of Davyd’s hard, muscled frame and his feral azure eyes. How
those layered gems darkened when he sparred! And no doubt when he swept a woman into his arms.
Gods, but he was more handsome than any she had known in Avalon, and those men were half-ancient.
Almost gods. Since Lygnel’s forced arrival at Castle Dore, though, Davyd Krell had been her secret
religion.
Now, she intended to do more than worship from afar, her own sham wedding be damned to the
deepest of hells. Her body tingled as she considered her duplicity, her newfound boldness. This plan had
to work, for the sake of her newborn babe. For the sake of this man she had barely spoken to but
instinctively loved. If all went as she schemed, she would enjoy the steel of Davyd’s flesh one sweet time,
 
enough to last her forever, then see him safe away with her little girl.
Both her daughter and Davyd would be spared the fate of Castle Dore and its dark master Mordred.
Her hated husband’s treachery would bring doom to all who remained at Camelford. That much,
Lygnel’s weakened magik showed her with little variation.
Inside Davyd’s room, a woman screamed her release. Lygnel shivered with shameful excitement,
wondering how it would feel to make a sound of unbridled pleasure, of deep satisfaction. She couldn’t
help covering her mouth. The soft, wet feel of her own lips against her fingers made her shiver all the
more.
She had never known pure lust in her bed. Only cruelty with Mordred—and briefly, with Arthur, gentle
kindness—but never, ever passion. Such things seemed forbidden, to her above all others. Lygnel moved
her fingers from her lips and pressed them against Davyd’s door, relishing the rough feel of the wood.
All of that was about to change.
* * * * *
Davyd jumped up from the bed, then froze with shock.
Alla, his night’s conquest, had fled in terror before the woman who now stood in front of him. A woman
who had filled his senses, his dreams, each time he dared to think of her. But a woman like this, so
proper and well-bred, so intelligent and discerning—she couldn’t possibly want the likes of such a
scarred war dog, old before his time. He dropped his hands between his legs, a boy’s gesture, but this
woman’s unswerving gaze had the effect of stripping away his staunchest defense.
“I said do not be shy.” Lygnel used her diamond-blue eyes like a weapon. Sure as any sword, those
jewels.
He moved his hands away. As she stared at his hardening cock, he felt like a hostage.
This was no serving wench. This was his queen, though two years his junior at eighteen, she could barely
claim a woman’s age. Lygnel had become the Dark Prince’s unwilling bride two seasons ago. Rumor had
it the union had been ordered by Avalon at the same moment King Arthur’s wedding to Gwenhwyfar
took place. The workings of the fey—those were things best left unconsidered by mortal men.
And still, this situation could not be ignored.
Davyd knew a thousand painful deaths awaited any man who dared to look upon Lygnel of Dore in a
wanting way. She was known to be rigidly faithful but for that one instance—at her foul husband’s
undeniable command.
Yet there stood Queen Lygnel, just inside his chamber door, shocking Davyd with her sultry gaze.
“You have quite the reputation for endurance,” she murmured. “I have heard much about your skill.
From many sources.”
Davyd’s manhood betrayed him by springing up to confirm her statement. He tried to swallow, but could
 
not. His eyes fixed on the queen’s lips. Carved ruby, cold-sweet. They had been the downfall of many
lesser fools than Davyd, and he well knew it.
Every man in Camelford would have ripped out his hair to spend one hour—nay, one minute—with so
fine a woman. But what did the lady want, coming here like this?
Mordred had been away nigh on twenty days, but he was due back any hour, to celebrate the coming of
his first child. A babe, born a week ago to this woman-girl, who looked as if childbirth had taken no toll
on her. But then, the castle’s midwife was known for her healer’s skill.
Lygnel swept toward Davyd’s bed and stood beside him, moving free of burden or pain. Davyd
managed not to move as he drank in her heady scent of roses and light powder. Beneath her gown of red
and gold, her perfect curves threatened to slay all who might resist, and Davyd was not of a mind to
refuse a woman’s attention. Even this woman. Especially this woman.
Damn the peril.
Outside the castle’s great stone curtain, thunder tore the air.
Lygnel didn’t flinch. She kept her bright gaze on Davyd’s cock. He could fairly imagine her satin touch
on his burning skin. Or those lips, taking him inside her clean, soft mouth.
Four hells. I be a dead bastard come the morn. Aye, but a happy dead bastard.
“Heed me, good man.” Lygnel glanced up at Davyd, and he saw both resolve and passion in her eyes. “I
have a task, and only you to trust.”
In halting words, the queen explained what she wanted of her husband’s training master, and what she
would give in return. With each sentence, Davyd’s mouth opened a little more, until his chin touched his
chest.
After a few seconds of silence, Davyd hung his great head, barely conscious of his still-throbbing cock.
He could well imagine how he looked to Lygnel with his lion’s mane of flaxen hair nearly covering the
jagged scar on his left cheek. “Don’t ask this of me. I beg you, Milady. Even for your sweet favor—I
can’t risk Mordred’s wrath. No man could stand such a storm.”
Lygnel caught his manhood in her hand, choking his speech. Before he could react, she began a slow,
maddening stroke. “Serve me, and your reward…will not leave you wanting.”
At those honey-slick words, heat rose in Davyd’s face, spread through his chest, and crept down,
down, down, to where her fingers worked his swollen shaft.
Lygnel seemed to read his mind, leaning closer, allowing her full bosom to brush against him. She
pumped him like a well, faster and faster. Davyd grunted in spite of himself, mind spinning as his queen
pushed him toward an explosion of warrior’s proportions. Lygnel’s hair, famous and infamous for its
likeness to High Queen Gwenhwyfar’s, spilled like spun gold down her lightly freckled shoulders, and
Davyd more than appreciated her thin red and gold gown. As sheer as moonlight.
Her nipples made dark, full cherries against the fabric.
As Davyd’s grunts became groans, he could well understand how even the fabled King Arthur believed,
 
if only for a short time, that Lygnel was his angelic wife.
On orders from her cruel husband, Lygnel had successfully passed herself off as Queen Gwenhwyfar for
nearly a month, sharing Arthur’s Camelot.
And his bed.
Davyd licked his lips.
Had the High King himself tasted that tempting mouth? Before Arthur realized that his true queen was
Mordred’s captive, had he known the pleasures of Lygnel’s wet folds?
By Arthur’s one God, she was as full as any fruit. No doubt juicy but without question, bittersweet.
Cursed.
That’s what the old ones said. The ones who remembered magik, and Merlyn, and the times before the
fair folke left Briton for less populated shores.
As his climax neared, Davyd grasped the False Gwenhwyfar’s free arm and pulled her to him. So soft,
that royal skin. The color of milk, firm but yielding beneath his eager fingers.
Abruptly, Lygnel stopped her massage.
Davyd’s back bowed, so great was his frustration. He started to protest, but his queen lifted her gown
and discarded it on the floor.
Candlelight played on her naked form as she lay down on the bed and spread her legs. His eyes
widened at her sun-colored triangle. At the full, red swell of her moist lower lips. So great was his
attention to her flesh that he scarce noticed the mark between her breasts. An interlocked sun, moon, and
star.
Something in the back of his brain stirred. Words of warning from his mother, his people about trusting
Avalon or the fey, even halflings—but he dismissed them and marveled at Lygnel.
How could she have given birth but days ago? Surely this was some spell. Old magik.
“You may touch me,” she whispered. “In fact, I command it.”
Davyd edged forward and stood over his queen, memorizing every line and swell, every shade and hue.
He lowered his fingers slowly, barely brushing the soft flesh of her belly. The contact made his blood boil.
“Sample the wares,” she insisted. “Touch me until I come. How else can you make your decision?”
Davyd’s heart nearly flew from his chest, but he didn’t need a second invitation. His trembling hand
covered Lygnel’s quim and pressed, drawing a sigh from her depths. Standing above her like this, he felt
like lord of the land, master of all he could see.
Woman’s musk filled his senses, and his cock throbbed until he thought he might spill himself before
completing his queen’s command. Sensing his urgency, Lygnel grabbed the base of his manhood and held
tight, forestalling his eruption. “Not until I have what I want. Everything I want.”
 
“Yes, Majesty.” Davyd’s voice was no more than a hoarse croak. Dizzy with the sight before him, he
thrust a finger into Lygnel’s damp hair.
She groaned as he parted her slick folds and found her swollen clit.
“Rub me,” she demanded. “Now. I tire of waiting.”
Davyd’s breath caught. He stroked his queen in gentle circles, picking up speed as if his life depended
on her pleasure.
Lygnel’s throaty moans spurred him onward. She kept her grip on the hilt of Davyd’s cock, and with her
other hand, she rubbed one cherry nipple. Were it not for her forceful grasp, Davyd would have
succumbed at that moment.
Instead, Lygnel thrashed beneath his fingers. Her orgasm shook her fair body, and Davyd gloried in her
satisfied woman’s smile.
As the tremors subsided, she once more pierced him with her sharp eyes. “Kiss me,” she said in her
undeniable queen’s tone.
Davyd obeyed her command, bending down to taste the forbidden fruit of her mouth.
Her lips were as sweet and soft as he imagined. More so.
Lygnel pulled him onto the bed, then urged him to give her his weight. In seconds, his pulsing cock
pressed inches from the hot welcome of her quim.
The queen shifted beneath him, opening her legs, inching up until the tip of his manhood slid against her
opening.
Davyd groaned.
Lygnel wrapped her hands in his long hair. “Is that what you want? To take me?”
“Aye. But I fear paining you. You gave birth—”
“Never mind that. The midwife did her work well. I have no pain, Davyd. Only questions. Now, answer
me—do you want to be inside me?”
Davyd ground his teeth, barely able to restrain himself. “Yes. I do.”
Once more, Lygnel shifted beneath him. He felt her wetness close over his sensitive head.
“How badly do you want me?”
Muscles tensed to the point of ripping, Davyd growled and bit his lip ‘til it bled. Queen or no queen, he
was close to rutting on her like a crazed hound. “Name your price, woman. Name it!”
Lygnel’s eyes blazed. “I have. I simply await your agreement.”
 

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika:

Zgłoś jeśli naruszono regulamin