Free To Serve a King by Donna Russo Morin Page B

her soft laughter, enchanted by the small vignette performed as if for her amusement alone.
    “I have gone to heaven and glimpsed my first angel.”
    Geneviève twirled round. Raymond stood frozen, a goblet in each hand, a worshipful expression upon his handsome countenance.
    “You are magnificent when you smile.” He approached and handed her the cool chalice full of burgundy wine. “You should endeavor to wear one more often.”
    Geneviève accepted the refreshment, feeling the moist condensation forming upon it, smelling the ripeness of the fruity beverage within. She lowered her head bashfully to sip at the full-flavored liquid.
    “If tonight is any indication,” she said, summoning the courage to look at him over the rim, “I am quite sure there will be plenty of occasions to smile.”
    “My only hope, then, is to share them with you.” Raymond clinked his goblet upon hers, and gestured to the door. “Come, let us take a stroll. I’m in need of fresh air.”
    Geneviève followed, grateful as well to escape the warm, stuffy atmosphere of the great hall. Stepping through the glass and iron framework of the door, the coolness rushed to greet them, the brash sound of riotous reveling dying away, replaced with the season’s first cricket songs, the low hoot of an owl as accompaniment. He led her to the stone railing of the small patio abutting the building and overlooking the vast courtyard a few steps below.
    “Tell me, Geneviève, what do you think of king and court?” Raymond leaned over the balustrade, resting his forearms upon its hard surface. “It must be quite a change from the quiet life you’ve always known?”
    Geneviève rested her back against the railing, looking up at the palace looming into the star-studded night sky, stone behemoth pale in the twilight. “Indeed it is. It is everything I had ever imagined, and so much more than my aunt had told me,” she said, her excitement undeniable. It may have been François’s court, the man upon whom all her animosity fell, but it was a resplendent and glorious court, and her eagerness to be a part of it was genuine.
    “And the king, what think you of him?” Raymond rose, turned, and took a step closer. He stood no more than a few inches from her now, and she felt his thigh brush against the skirt of her gown, felt his intense scrutiny on her face, and smelled the wine-dipped sweetness of his breath.
    She stole a glimpse of him, strikingly beautiful in the diffused light of the torches scattered about the courtyard. Titillated by his nearness, a quiver stirring in her belly, she guarded her words and their meaning with utmost care. “Why, he is the very picture of generosity and munificence. Truly the greatest king the world has ever known.”
    Resting her hip against the railing, she dared to face him, a test of her resolve in her quest as well as in her womanhood. She smiled her small grin, tempered as it was with a morsel of courage.
    Raymond threw back his head and laughed, a spring breeze picking up his golden waves and sending them out behind him. With one hand, he grabbed his goblet and tossed it back, draining it of the remaining wine. The other he placed upon her waist and gently rubbed at the curve he found there.
    “You are a true courtier, Geneviève. You have been taught well.”
    His face lowered, filling her vision, blocking out all other sights. A sudden humming filled her ears. Her lips parted, surprised at his forward gesture, incited by more than a speck of desire. Geneviève wanted his kiss, had thought about one such as this through many a lonely night. It was her due; was not the mercenary allowed thespoils of war? Enveloped in the cool air, she felt the warmth rise up her body and blaze upon her cheeks.
    Raymond’s lips grew closer, full and moist, creeping toward her with agonizing slowness, until at last, mercifully, touching hers with the softness of the wafting breeze. Closing her eyes, Gene-viève languished in the