Entreat Me

by Grace Draven

Her bedchamber smelled like a battlefield after the slaughter was done and the crows picked their way among the fallen. The indefinable odor of death hung in the air, thickened by the suffocating heat billowing from the hearth’s fire.

More than a few would-be suitors had come away bloodied from an encounter with her, figuratively and once in a while literally.

“Gods, Lou, you’re like a dog with a bone.” He was lucky he was her father, or she would have bitten through instead of just gnawing on him.

At least they’d exiled him with the ale and wine.

The girl had a sister. Ballard wondered idly if the siblings resembled each other. He pitied their father if such were true. One child with the face of a goddess would be hard enough to defend; two, a nightmare of constant vigilance.

but Louvaen didn’t believe in ghosts and haints. She did believe in people carrying candles up and down stairs.

“I knew no such thing! What we know of Gavin de Lovet is only what he’s told us.” She gestured at the hall. “Wealthy or not, and I’m wagering on the ‘not,’

“That is a bitter life, my love. Something you’ll never suffer while I live.”

“You can’t be my savior knight forever, Lou.” “Watch me.”

“Gods, when did you become so stubborn?” “When I stopped being ten years old and understood that while you’re my older sister, you aren’t my mother.”

“The magician,” he agreed and held out a bejeweled hand. Unsure if he expected her to kiss one of his rings—for which he’d stand there waiting until he rotted—Louvaen

The art of negotiation favored not the one with the better odds but the one who could convince his opponents that his were the best odds.

“Those are impressive black eyes.”

Ballard could only guess how her husband must have worked himself into an early grave trying to remain master of his household with such a wife.

Louvaen Duenda had an answer for most things and an argument for everything else. She didn’t debate; she went to war.

Sometimes you gained on your back what you couldn’t through birthright or circumstance.

Magda, never reserved, spouted opinions on everything from horse saddles to dress hems and caressed Ambrose’s shins with her toes under the table. Louvaen had discovered their play once when she bent to retrieve a dropped napkin. She almost banged her head on the table’s edge straightening up too quickly and spent the rest of supper trying not to giggle at the discovery that the housekeeper and the sorcerer were lovers.

“Keep your thanks,” he told her. “And an eye on your ale. I’m brewing something that turns shrews into toads.”

mooon-eyed

This may not have been one of her better ideas.

Where was I? Oh yes, nowhere yet.”

He loved to eat, drink, laugh and bed his prickly-tempered wife.

Strength without cruelty, pride without arrogance and an iron perseverance.

They laughed together, and Louvaen promised herself she’d be less harsh with the person she loved best in the world.

“Your body tells many tales.” Dip your hand a little lower, he thought, and you’ll feel the tale it wants to tell right now.

“I deny nothing.” She held his gaze. “I’m not in the habit of bedding men on a whim, de Sauveterre. Were I to lay with you now, I won’t do so to bargain an accord. You’d have more of me than my body. I don’t know if I’m ready to give that to another man.”

Then again, there were worse things than dying with your head resting between a beautiful woman’s thighs.

“I’m also more pleasant-natured than most people think.” The hand stroking her back paused, and he snorted.

“De Lovet, why don’t you escort my sister to her room.” Two sets of eyebrows shot up. “Just to the threshold, mind. I’ll be there in a moment. I have something to discuss with his lordship.” The words had barely left her mouth before the two bolted.

“I’m not interested in your knickers, only what they cover.” His nostrils twitched at the scents of wine and lavender soap. “You smell of summer.”

“And me, Louvaen?” he asked softly. “When do I get what I want?”

No blushing maiden here; no worldly harlot either, just a woman comfortable with intimacy and willing to express her wants and preferences to him.

“You can spout honeyed lies better than any court minstrel.” Her small smile faded when he lifted a hand to cup her cheek. “No false words, Louvaen. All you have to do is breathe, and you seduce me.”

What she did to him pleased her as well. He heard it in her soft murmurs, felt it in the way her hand slid over his ribs to rub and press as if she enjoyed the texture of his scarred flesh beneath her caress. She made love to him with her mouth, leisurely savoring him.

“Am I doing something wrong?” Her question held more challenge than concern, as if she dared him to answer in the affirmative. Ballard managed a thin laugh. “No, my beauty. What you’re doing goes beyond right. Too right.” He ran trembling fingers over her hot cheek. “If you don’t stop soon, you’ll be catching the mettle in your mouth.” The wry look she leveled on him suggested he was a trifle lack-witted. “Foolish creature,” she admonished and lowered her head to nip at the inside of his thigh. He jumped. “That’s the best part.”

Louvaen slowly pulled away, pausing to kiss the flushed head of his softening cock. Her lips, swollen with her efforts, curved up into a small, satisfied smile.

“And what look is that? The cat who’s stolen the cream?”