Page 7 of The Consolation Prize

“You’ve already had a taste!” Una replied shrilly, though her color rose. “You must proceed now to the next step!”

He glanced about them in confusion. “Step? S’not a staircase, love. S’a bedroom.”

“Sir Armand!” she said sharply. “You were a soldier were you not? In the late war?”

Sadly, this approach, which had worked well for Una in the past, did not seem at all efficacious with Sir Armand. “Shh,” he said. “Too pretty to talk about ugly things.”

This astonished Una so much that she was struck dumb for a moment. Of course, he was sotted, she reminded herself when she felt herself blush violently. Pretty?

He sighed gustily. “I’m drunk,” he said confidingly.

“Yes, you are,” she spluttered. He was honest, if nothing else. She bit her lip. “Are you incapable?” she asked forthrightly. He had not actually presented his … well, “manhood,” to her. She had felt brushes of something against her thigh. She had thought it must be that, but what did she know?

It was no good just lying here like some shrinking maiden, she thought. He was simply too sotted to take the lead. But from everything she had ever been taught, men were base creatures with essentially two drives ruling them. To fight, and the other. Steeling herself, she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and rolled him fully atop her. He grunted and stirred, and she opened her legs to anchor him against her.

“Sir Armand,” she panted, out of breath from the exertion, for he was a good deal larger and heavier than she had anticipated. She was tall for a woman and well-built, but he felt like a felled tree against her. If a tree were made of solid muscle. His eyes flickered open as she gripped his hips firmly between her thighs. Something was lying, heavy and hard against her stomach now, wedged between them.

“Mmm,” he grunted and moved against her.

Una felt her whole body grow hot. It was happening! Flushed with triumph, she felt a tremor of fear nonetheless, for his manhood felt even larger brushing against her intimately like this. She struggled a moment to think of the right encouragement. What did men like? She had no idea. He had not responded well to reminders of duty. “Please?” she ventured timorously.

His head lifted and his eyes focused on her a moment. “You want me, sweetheart?” he asked with a sleepy smile. Una felt a pang. Why did he have to be so good-looking?

“Yes,” she answered truthfully and saw a flicker of pleased surprise pass over his face. “I really do.”

He huffed out a breath. “That’s nice,” he said thickly, and Una caught her breath as one of his big hands caught her under her thigh, urging her to open wider to him, as he moved against her with a breathy sigh. She complied eagerly, suppressing a momentary wobble at how open and vulnerable she felt to him now. He breathed heavily as he bunched the thin material of her shift to her waist and palmed her buttock, as he stroked something against her most intimate parts.

Una felt a frisson of real panic as he pressed his large shaft between her legs, his eyes closed with concentration as the bulbous end of it nudged insistently against her. Her eyes widened. What had she been thinking? This wasn’t going to work. He pressed forward unrelentingly as she bit back the objections her lips started to form. The pressure built as his flesh pressed painfully into her own, until finally, as tears started from her eyes, she felt something give inside her. With a brutal thrust of his hips, he surged forward and he was lodged painfully deep inside her.

Then he startled her by giving a bone-deep groan of his own. “Ah, gods, that’s good,” he moaned.

“Ow!” The objection burst from her lips before she could stop it, not that he paid it any mind. To console herself she slapped a hand against his shoulder blade, sinking her nails into the tanned flesh there.

He grunted and thrust again. “So good,” he murmured huskily against her temple and she felt the brush of his lips there. Not for me, thought Una, with a wince. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remind herself that this was all for the best. After this painful act, no one could dispute that she was a married lady come morning. Lady Una de Bussell, she reminded herself. A princess no longer. She certainly had never felt less like a princess, than being swived by this lusty brute, she thought as he labored above her, his movements crude and vigorous. She held her breath and willed for it to be over soon. Even as she thought it, his movements slowed.

“Ugh!” he groaned and collapsed on top of her, breathing hard.

Una lay beneath him, catching her breath. Had he finished? Her cheeks burned. So too did the area between her legs. Her thighs were trembling from being held open so wide for the intrusion of his big, heavy body. Something was leaking out of her. Was it blood?

At last, he withdrew and shifted his weight to the one side of her, still caging her in with his big body. He was panting as though he had run one dozen staircases. To her surprise, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her on the mouth. Then he drew back his head, his face flushed and relaxed. Suddenly he gave an exclamation.

“What is it?” she asked, looking up at his expression of surprise.

“How did you make yourself beautiful?” he asked, then collapsed back against the pillows with a snore.

2

Armand woke suddenly, with a lurch of his stomach. He groaned and rolled onto his side. Gods, his head pounded. How much had he imbibed? Some urgent memory hovered at the edge of his consciousness, troubling him. Did he owe someone money? Squinting one eye open, he found the room dark and unfamiliar, but that was nothing new. He moved around a lot. More troubling was the way it was spinning. He liked a drink, but he didn’t usually drink to such excess as this. For some reason, last night he must have drunk himself into oblivion. He gave a hollow moan and shut his eye again. The sheets beside him rustled.

“Sir Armand?” inquired a voice. A cool hand landed on his shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”

He frowned. Too well-spoken for a tavern wench, though there was a faint accent running through it. Northern, he thought with surprise. You didn’t find many Northerners in Caer-Lyoness. His eyes opened wide and he tried to focus on the pale, oval face that now hovered over his with an expression of concern. Fuck. He didn’t remember her.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said and scrambled from the bed. Naked as a jaybird, he noticed with interest, despite his wretchedness. She was tall and well formed, with nice thick thighs, a neat waist, and a curtain of dark auburn hair that hung down to her waist and swished about her in a pleasing fashion. As she crossed the room, her bare feet padding across the floor, he admired her rounded backside, which had dimples on either side of the base of her spine.

Then something more pressing pushed to the forefront of his consciousness. “A basin,” he intoned hollowly. “I need a basin.” He grimaced, sitting up in alarm. He was going to spew his guts up. She hurried back and thrust a basin into his hands and he retched over it, bringing up a good deal of the strong, sweet wine he’d overindulged in. He would never drink it again, he vowed as his throat burned and a wave of misery and self-pity swept over him.

“Here,” said the obliging female, hesitating as he retched again, but there was nothing more for him to bring up. Then he spat and she wiped his mouth with a damp cloth. “You’ll feel better now,” she said briskly. “Here, let me take that.” The basin was removed from his grasp and Armand collapsed back against the pillows feeling sick as a dog. “I’m dying,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut again.