Free The Honor Due a King by N. Gemini Sasson Page A

Light fingers wound deep in the tangle of my hair.
    I explored her mouth, my tongue flicking in and out in a yearning rhythm. Caressing her back, my hands slipped gradually lower. In response, her body molded against mine so that I felt every curve and hollow, every angle and the suppleness of her. I drew her more firmly against me. She stiffened slightly, feeling that part of me which desired her most. But as our kiss lengthened, I felt her soften, then yield, then wanting more. There was still much of the little girl in her – untouched and pure and bursting with the joy of life – and I would take nothing from her that was not given freely.
    Between breaths that I fought to control, I drew back slightly to lean my forehead against hers. “Or would you rather I simply told you that I loved you?”
    “Say no more, James, my love. Only hold me. Kiss me.”
    I pressed my mouth down upon hers. Low in her throat, she moaned. I kissed her cheeks and chin, trailing my way wetly down her neck and onto the white slope of her shoulders. Gently, I slipped my fingers beneath the collar of her garment and shifted it aside, so that her one shoulder lay entirely bare. Her head lolled invitingly as I kissed her more, from shoulder to neck, to the base of her throat, damp with perspiration, to the ridge of her collarbone.
    “Then I will tell you that I love you, whenever I am near.” I slipped my hand beneath the collar of her gown and brushed fingers over the peak of her breast, my palm curving beneath the tight cloth to cup its fullness. “And if I cannot say it with words, only look at me ... and know. Somehow, we –”
    Light knuckles rapped upon the chapel door. Marjorie spun from my hold and bumped into the altar. The candles struggled to keep their light, then fed by a draft of air as the door creaked slowly open, they sprang to life again. Hurriedly, she straightened the neckline of her gown.
    “Who is there?” came an old, frail voice. Gnarled fingers wrapped around the edge of the door and nudged it open. Bishop Wishart stood in the doorway, one gnarled hand on the door for support and the other clutching a walking staff. He squinted and turned his head from side to side, more to keen his ears than anything, for he could no longer see except for faint light. “Please, who is there?”
    Marjorie motioned me toward the wall, then readjusted her garment so that it hung properly. She swallowed and said, “Marjorie, your grace.”
    Wishart smiled and hobbled forward, leaning on his stick with each footfall. He tottered momentarily, then steadied himself and put out a hand. Marjorie took it and led him to the altar, looking back nervously at the doorway. I crept to it, then shook my head to let her know there was no one else there.
    Wheezing, the bishop leaned against her. “I thought I heard voices. When I lost my sight altogether I felt no loss, because at the time I could still hear quite well. But now even my ears begin to fail me. I cannot hear what is said to me and I hear what is not there.”
    “I was saying prayers for my father’s lost brothers.”
    “Fine lads. Thomas had gifts that would have made a fine knight of him. And Alexander – ah, what brightness he shed upon the world. A genius and yet ever so humble and gracious. Nigel spoke to me once of joining the church. It would have been good to have one of Robert’s brothers take my place one day.”
    Robert’s three younger brothers had each died as a consequence of Scotland’s war with England. Nigel had been captured at Kildrummy Castle and was later hanged and beheaded at Berwick. Thomas and Alexander, ambushed in Galloway, met a similar fate at Carlisle.
    “Let me close the door, your grace,” Marjorie said. “Perhaps you can say a prayer on my behalf? These are complicated times and I have need of guidance.”
    “Of course, of course. If you would but place my hand upon the wall or some furnishing, to keep me upright?”
    Carefully, she led him