Sunday's Child(33)
“I think my maid suspected this might happen when she sent me here,” she said after a few moments of contented silence.
Doranis grinned and tilted his head so he could kiss her fingertip. “Who is this maid so that I may reward her wisdom and elevate her to grand lady?”
Castil chortled and pressed herself against him, luxuriating in such an indulgence. “That would set the tongues wagging in your court.”
One muscular shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I am king. Whom I choose to raise in status is my prerogative.”
“Being monarch certainly has its rewards,” she teased.
“And its punishments.” He cupped her buttocks to nestle her even closer, and his features sobered. “You will come to my bed, and there will be no sleep for either of us this night.”
She traced the thin bridge of his nose. “Are you asking or commanding, Sire?”
Doranis’s eyes narrowed. “Which will bring you most readily to my chambers?”
“What do you think?” Castil was confident in his answer. He was neither tyrannical nor stupid.
His eyes drifted shut for a moment. When he opened them again, she swore she saw eternity in their depths. “Will you share my bed, Castil il Veras?”
“Yes,” she said and captured his mouth in a brief kiss. “I will. This night and all nights that you will welcome me there.”
4
Early morning darkness still blanketed his bedroom when Doranis woke the first time from a deep sleep. He rolled onto his side, reaching for the sleek, warm body of his lover. His eyes snapped open when his hands found empty space, and he peered into the shadows of his room, trying to locate Castil. Shuffling noises from his bathing room reassured him that she had left his bed only to answer nature’s call. He dragged her pillow close and pressed his face into its softness, content simply to inhale her scent while he waited for her return.
Some might say he was obsessed, consumed by a craving for a plain, unremarkable woman who didn’t compare with the stunning beauties of the Helenese court, or even the foreign infantas who vied for the position of second wife and royal consort. Doranis paid no attention to their puzzled conjectures. Castil il Veras was the summer sun to him—warm, beautiful, sometimes painfully intense.
He jealously guarded the brief, private hours he reserved for her during the day in the library, and all soon learned that to disturb him during those moments incited an icy, formidable anger. She was good company, lighthearted and quick to laugh when he told her a humorous tale or offered some caustic, witty comment that sometimes made her gasp or choke on a giggle. She handled herself with confidence among the nobility of his own court, as much at home there as she had been among the Caskadanian boyars.
After their heated interlude by the spring, their relationship took a decided turn. There was no returning to the guarded, simmering longing that always lurked beneath the surface when they dealt with each other. Doranis knew of her continued visits to the burial vault, the shadow of guilt that sometimes lurked in her gray eyes, but it didn’t stop her from embracing him with the same insatiable hunger he felt for her.
In the weeks that followed their first coupling, he took her numerous times, introducing her to the many joys of lovemaking. Long days of craving her were punctuated by even longer nights of loving her. As the winter days lengthened with the approach of spring, his need for her remained sharp, lingering. It went beyond the realm of the physical, for he thrived in her presence, was cheered by the simple pleasure of her sitting next to him in the library, reading through a scroll. And there was no doubting that she loved Joris, as much for the fact that he was a sweet child as that he was Kareena’s son.
Doranis drifted off to sleep again, waiting for her to return, and it was much later that he awakened, the sun having risen at least two hours earlier. Castil was not beside him, but he shrugged off the uneasy feeling that began to blossom. It was likely that she’d returned to her rooms.
His disquiet only increased as the hours passed and he caught no glimpse of her in his daily routine. And when she didn’t appear for their usual meeting in the library, his disquiet became full-blown alarm. He strode out of the room and headed for the burial vaults, praying he’d find her there. It was silent as always, no living soul to keep the dead monarchs company on that day. The two nursemaids jumped in unison when he burst into Joris’s nursery, his eyes bright with rage.
“Have you seen Madam il Veras?” he snapped and they stared at him in confusion and no little fear.
One, a woman named Ursa, placed the baby gently in his bed and turned back to the angered king, her expression bewildered. “I thought you knew, Sire. She stopped here this morning to say goodbye to the babe before joining the caravan leaving for the docks.”
Doranis turned abruptly on his heel, closing the door quietly behind him so as not to frighten his son.
The servants weren’t spared. They flattened themselves against the walls as he passed them, frightened by the savage anger on the king’s pallid features.
The caravans! He wanted to bellow his rage, slam his fist into the nearest door, or blister the ears of the woman who suddenly decided this morning to rip his heart out of his chest and carry it off with her.
A servant, suffering from unfortunate timing, crossed his path as he strode to his chambers.
“You,” Doranis snarled, and the man blanched in terror. “Get to the stables and have them ready Peresil.” He didn’t bother to watch the man sprint down the corridor as if demons snapped at his heels.