Chapter 31
Chapter
Thirty-One
“How are you this morning?” Duke áine asks when he arrives at my quarters a week later to fetch me for his final portrait sitting. “Has your muse returned?”
I’ve “had trouble finding my inspiration” this week; have canceled a few of our sessions. It was a strategic move on my part, the results of which have been two-fold.
First, and exactly as I’d planned, Torvil’s radiating a restless intensity as he walks us down to the grand salon. He’s perfectly in step with me, gripping my hand like he’s afraid I might slip away again. The perfect state from which to pluck his clue.
And second, it’s given me ample opportunity to indulge myself with Lachlan.
Like on Tuesday afternoon, when he positioned me face-up at the edge of the bed, hugged my legs against his chest and sucked my toes while he fucked me. I came more times than I ever thought possible. Who knew toes were such powerful erogenous zones?
Or Thursday, when I straddled him on his sofa and made him keep his glasses on. “Really?” he asked, confused but pleased as he pulled my panties aside and guided me down onto his cock.
“You look quite distinguished in them.”
I gasped as he entered me in a single upward thrust, one hand on my hip and the other cupping the base of my skull.
“Distinguished?” He licked up my throat and forced his fingers past my teeth. “I thought you liked me dirty.”
I wanted to tell him that I liked him both ways. All ways, really. But couldn’t find the courage for such a confession. And he kept my mouth quite busy that day, anyway.
Or yesterday at the Eyrie, up against the wall in a hidden corner of the barn after self-defense class. We were both fully clothed as he moved inside me, his warm, rough palm over my mouth to silence my screams. Apparently I can be loud with the right motivation.
It takes all my willpower not to glance back to where he’s keeping pace with Sir Quinn.
“I do believe my muse has been restored, Your Grace,” I answer. “So kind of you to inquire. I feel I’ve gained an entirely new perspective these past few days.”
A soft chuckle tickles my mind, and for one reckless second, I imagine slipping the duke and Sir Quinn and dragging Lachlan to a cave somewhere.
A private place where I can hide him away from the world, hoard him like the precious treasure he is.
Maybe after a year or seven, I’d finally have my fill of him. Unlikely, but what fun I’d have trying.
We’ve still not spent the full night together.
It’s too dangerous for a number of reasons, not the least of which is possible discovery by Aowen or Vesper.
The latter has taken to waking me in the morning by burrowing beneath my blankets and nipping my heels.
I cannot tell if she’s being playful or if she’s figuring out which spices to use when she finally succumbs to her violent pixie instincts and makes a meal out of me.
The other reasons, well … I do not want to get used to something I cannot keep. There’s a big difference between letting Lachlan fuck me, use my body however he pleases, and waking up in his arms.
In any case, the end of … whatever this is between us is inevitable. When I make Desmond king, Lachlan is leaving his service. Desmond knows this. If I requested Lachlan stay on, that would look rather suspicious, no? I do not get the impression that Desmond would be open to sharing me.
No, it’s best to appreciate this for what it is. Sex, pure and simple.
Well, maybe not entirely pure.
I dare a peek over my shoulder to find Lachlan staring at me with an amused sort of intensity.
He looks impossibly handsome today—no different than any other day, really—in his white metal armour, with his auburn hair neatly braided back and the sunlight reflecting off his piercings. I swear, I can still feel his lip ring crawling over my flesh and—
Eyes on your duke, little queen. Before he can discern where your depraved mind has strayed.
I swivel forward. You know exactly where it’s strayed. Right to thoughts of your teeth on my breast.
Metal clanks as Lachlan’s steps falter, and I bury a soft laugh into my bodice.
When we arrive at the salon, Torvil strides to the mantel while Lachlan and Sir Quinn post themselves on either side of the arched entrance.
I uncover the canvas; today I’ll be working on the final highlights that will bring the piece to life.
Despite my distaste for its subject, I am quite proud of the painting.
It’s perhaps the most skillful I’ve ever created.
Is it because of the fine materials I’ve been given to work with?
Or has my muse been sufficiently nourished by all the orgasms?
“So,” I begin, once the duke has settled into position, “this will be our last session. I only have a few finishing touches.” Over the top of the canvas, I find disappointment glazing his violet eyes. Is he going to miss this? “Do you have any idea where you might want to place it?”
He sniffs, picking at his shirt cuff. “I thought I might send it on a tour throughout Tír na Lune. My people deserve to bask in any representation of their duke. After its debut at the Harvest Ball, of course.”
“Oh?” I feign delight. “I am honored by your faith in me, Your Grace. Would you like to come check my progress?”
He comes up behind me and peers over my shoulder. “Remarkable. I must say, Miss Fitzroy, I had no idea you were so talented. I don’t believe any artist has ever so perfectly captured my likeness.”
I bite back a snort. I’ve broadened his shoulders. Lengthened his legs. Filled out his chest and squared off his chin. He’s still recognizably Duke áine, but he appears much more regal than the vain prat breathing down my neck.
“Would that you could do all my portraits,” he murmurs.
I turn, emboldened. “And why shouldn’t I?
If you claim me during the Wild Hunt, if I am fortunate enough to become your queen, I could record all your achievements.
Together, we could tell the great history of King Torvil áine through art.
Every home in the celestial kingdom would demand a replica to display in your honor. ”
He nods, his smile swelling.
“Of course,” I say, “such an outcome feels terribly out of reach.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, forgive my candor, but you have not yet shared your clue. How am I to retrieve your Bannrhorn fragment without it? I fear the Wild Hunt may not occur.”
He steps closer, places a hand on my upper arm. His touch is cold, his grip limp. Worlds away from that of the knight observing us. Lachlan’s almost inscrutable, but I catch his eyes darting our way every few seconds.
“Would such a thing upset you, Miss Fitzroy?” Torvil whispers.
I go in for the kill.
“You would make a great king. Your Majesty.”
His gaze is glued to my mouth as he leans down. “I would, wouldn’t I?”
Oh god, I faked too hard. He’s going to kiss me.
I slide my lids closed, bracing for impact. As distasteful as it is, I’ll bear his kiss if it means acquiring the clue.
His breath ghosts over my face, but before his lips make contact, another celestial knight clangs into the salon.
“What is it?” Torvil snaps, jerking upright.
“Apologies, Your Grace.” The man bows. “You’re needed in the hold.”
Torvil rolls his eyes, releasing an annoyed groan. “Have Sir Quinn handle it. What good are my knights if they can’t carry out justice in my name?”
The knight’s eyes stray to me, then back to the duke. “It’s Stafford, Your Grace. The prisoner you specifically—”
“Oh, yes.” Torvil straightens. “I’ll be down presently.” He turns to me. “I’m afraid I must handle this, Charlotte. Perhaps we can finish the portrait tomorrow?”
“Stafford?” I ask, my spirits leaping, even as panic jostles my bones. The duke cannot leave yet; I need that damned clue. “Is he being released today?”
He sweeps a thumb down my cheek and I fight an urge to step back. “I told you I’d handle it, didn’t I?”
“You are too good to me. But before you go, I wonder if you might consider—”
“The clue.” He smiles. “It’s taken quite some time for you to pique my interest, but I do believe you’ve finally earned it.”
Relief sweeps away my annoyance at his phrasing.
His eyes go glassy, and his voice deepens. “The bell tolls, though none but the reaper will utter its true name.”
I commit it to memory as he comes back to himself and releases me. “Tomorrow, then?”
“I am at your disposal, Your Grace.” I curtsy.
“Please,” he whispers. “Call me Torvil. And see you that retrieve the fragment.”
Says the man who’s waited until the last possible moment to provide his clue. Still, it’s another battle won, even if I have no desire to win him in this war.
I celebrate by peppering Lachlan with kisses the moment we return to our quarters. Where I change into my traveling clothes and we head for the abandoned church.