The Queen's Tale. Grace D'Otare

      “Shall we have a story?” Devlin suggested, as another enormous clap of thunder rattled the rooftop. He traced the curve of his wife’s bare shoulder with the tip of his finger. “A bedtime story. Something distracting. Something to keep us warm on a wicked night.”

      “What sort of a story?” Maeve turned her head, hiding her eyes but not her smile. His wife knew exactly what he had in mind.

      “Oh, an erotic story, to be certain.” Dev’s finger traced her collarbone to the hollow in her throat. And then down. A thousand and one times he’d touched her, and still he felt the heat. “Those are the ones that warm and distract me best.”

      It was a challenge. It was a game—a game he and his lovely Maeve had played before. Never quite the same, but always exciting.

      Maeve plumped the pillow behind her and sat up. The candlelight caught the twinkle of her glass, half-full of sherry. Dev watched her take a long swallow and lick her lips. The storm whistled outside. She made a point of snuggling deeper under the bedclothes, tucking the sheet around her.

      “Tonight I’m Scheherazade?”

      “And I’m your king.” He tugged at the sheet, until it spilled around her waist. “Entertain me, madam, or suffer the consequences.”

      “Well, let me think…”

      Queen Philomena waited.

      Not patiently, and not without anxiety. As she came to the end of the rug, she turned on her heel, flipped her skirts behind her, and began to pace the opposite direction. She had chosen to wear a simple gown so that once the time came, it would not be necessary to summon an abigail for assistance.

      “A who?” Dev whispered, his hand creeping under the sheet.

      “A maid,” she explained. “Stop that.”

      “Stop that, your highness.”

      “Oh!” She caught her breath. “Your highness, that sort of thing will make it very hard to concentrate.”

      “‘Very hard’ seems fair to me. Go on then.”

      Queen Philomena waited… and wondered.

      Perhaps the gentleman would consider it an insult? He might think she did not value his…service, if she did not wear something appropriate to her status.

      She would have to address the situation directly. Frank discussion and a thoroughly negotiated agreement was her best hope of resolving any delicate issues that might arise.

      Or so the king, may he rest in peace, always said. Philomena touched her wedding band as she thought of him. It slipped easily around her finger; nerves always left her hands cold and dry.

      “Your Majesty,” her handmaid called. “They are here.”

      “Show him—them—in.” Philomena smoothed the front of her gown and assumed the face of the queen.

      Three soldiers entered the room.

      She suffered a moment of panic. What was she to do with three of them? Was she supposed to choose?

      One of the men seemed familiar—a freckled young man who’d served on the court guard the last year or two. The second man was very large, tanned and weathered, the sort whose military career had been served in the rough. His face was plain, but his eyes were kind and full of good humor.

      The third man was a shock.

      He was fair, in all manner of the word. Sunny hair and sky-blue eyes. Almost pretty, Philomena thought, except there was too much intelligence in the candor of his gaze. He was scant inches taller than she. Not quite as large in height or frame as either of the other two men, but somehow Philomena felt his presence more forcefully. He was certainly the soldier in charge.

      “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, as the queen ought.

      All of them bowed respectfully.

      “Thank you for…attending me,” Philomena began. “Has my lord chamberlain spoken with you?”

      The third man answered. “Yes, your Highness. May I introduce Joseph, my sergeant major.” He waved a hand at the rough-hewn man. “And you may already know Thomas, of your own house guard? The Lord Chamberlain suggested a small, personal guard might be best this evening. All others have been dismissed.”

      There was no smile on his lips, but Philomena saw it in his eyes and heard it in the tone of his voice. She turned to hide the coloring of her cheeks, and fiddled with the contents of her open lap desk.

      This would not do. She must be committed. She must hold to her resolve, or she would begin her next life with regrets.

      “Yes. That seems wise.” Closing the portfolio of documents she had vacantly reviewed for the last hour, she called, “Thank you all, gentlemen, for your discretion in this matter. That will be all.”

      She heard heels click, boots crossing the marble floor, and the thunk of the heavy oak door as it closed.

      Philomena peeked over her shoulder.

      This time, the smile teased the corner of his mouth. “Did you expect me to take my leave, also? Wouldn’t that have been counterproductive to Your Majesty’s desires?”

      Desires.

      The word slipped like steel from a scabbard. Philomena’s heart raced; her throat tightened.

      “Indeed.” Philomena inclined her head. “Your name, sir?”

      “I am Dante.”

      “Dante. Welcome. Before we begin…our business, I would like to come to an understanding on certain things.” She smoothed her gown and sat, very upright, on the chaise near the fire. The door between the sitting room and the boudoir was partway open and the sight of the bed made it hard to think. Waving him to a slipper chair across the rug, she managed, “Please. Be comfortable.”

      He sketched a bow, recognizing the honor of being asked to sit in the queen’s presence, and settled himself on the silk chair, legs wide, black boots gleaming all the way to the knee. Normally, she kept her gaze firmly fixed at eye level. What was normal about this situation? She stared. His thigh flexed. Her hands burned to feel that muscle flex and tighten again.

      In a soft voice, Dante repeated her words. “An understanding?”

      “Yes, yes. Forgive me. What was I saying?” She folded her hands in her lap. “I believe my lord chamberlain has explained the requirements of the situation?”

      “Your Majesty is to be married tomorrow and—” he paused to remove a speck of lint from his trousers “—seeks amusement before her vows are spoken.”

      Philomena coughed. “Amusement? Is that how he…no. No. That is not the message I asked to be relayed. I…well, let me see if I can…explain.”

      She rose and began to pace the length of the carpet, yellow silk slippers peeking out as she kicked her hem. This was no time for words. It was time for action. Reaching into her hair, she removed first one pin and then a second. A curl of dark hair fell over her shoulder.

      “I am to be married tomorrow, that much is true. For my country’s good, I will be married to King—” She wiggled her fingertips and tried to recall the man’s name.

      “Benvenuto?”

      “Yes! That’s him.” Philomena shook her head, her hair loosening. It felt…good. Free. Normally, she braided it again for sleep and went directly to bed. Tonight, would be different. Tonight, she would remove every restraint.

      “How