Page 8 of The Consolation Prize

“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?

“Gods,” he uttered in growing panic. “Where is she?”

His companion watched him in consternation. “Where is who?” she inquired, as he flung back the covers and lurched from the bed, peering into the adjoining dressing room and then a recessed cupboard. He even stooped to peer under the bed, until he felt his head reel alarmingly.

“Maybe you should lie down, Sir Armand?” the woman suggested, looking concerned.

He recognized her soothing voice too, from the previous night. “Can’t,” he gasped, raising a hand to his brow. “Got to think.”

“About what, pray?” she asked crossing the room to gently take his arm and steer him back toward the bed. “Just rest now, you’ve done everything you ought.”

“What did I do with her?” he asked in faint desperation. “I can’t remember.”

She bit her lip, a pucker appearing between her brows. “With whom may I ask?”

“The princess, of course!” he muttered in anguished tones.

She blinked at him, looking suddenly concerned. “You mean me?” she asked gently.

“You?” he stared at her. “What?”

“Am I the one you’re looking for?”

“You? But you’re not …”

“I am Una,” she said simply. “Your wife.”

Armand stared at her. “No,” he said uncertainly, then his eye fell on the mattress, where she drew back the covers and his face fell, noticing the telltale smear of blood on the sheets.

His eyes leaped to hers, and she colored faintly. “As I said, you did everything you ought,” she said in that reassuring manner of hers and gave his arm a small pat. “I will just change the sheets and you must get right back into bed. After a few hours, you’ll feel a good deal better. No one will expect us to raise before noon after the excesses of yesterday.”

Before he could respond, she stripped the bed in a very methodical, unhurried fashion. He stood like a useless clod while she redressed it and then pulled the top covers back and patted it invitingly. “Come and take your ease now, Sir Armand.”

His brains felt too addled to do anything but obey her. He hesitated a moment after sliding under the cool silky sheets. “Come and join me,” he said, holding back the covers and moving into the middle of the bed. He watched the surprise flit over her face before she acquiesced. He hoped like hell he had been considerate of her last night, he thought, watching her climb in beside him.

She showed no fear of him, which was something, but he did not trust he had shown the deference or tenderness she would have expected from a bridegroom. Even sober, he knew nothing of bedding virgins, and inebriated, the gods alone knew how he had treated her. He could only wince at the thought of the clumsy coupling she must suffered.