Read Online The Black Prince: Part I by P. J. Fox - Free Book Online Page A

miniature indoor ponds, even the most expensive personal bathtub was essentially a half barrel in which one could sit half covered. Not lounge, in water up to one’s neck, like Hart.
    Isla had dismissed her new maidservant, Greta, who under normal circumstances helped her to bathe: by massaging cleanser into her scalp, and then using ewers of hot water to wash it clean. By massaging a conditioning agent in next, entertaining Isla with the gossip of the castle as she did so. By passing Isla her bathrobe and then, once she’d dried herself off, applying sugar paste to remove her mistress’ unwanted hair. All useful services. All, usually, welcomed.
    But this afternoon, Isla wanted to be alone.
    Behind her, the fire crackled. She always took her bath in the same place, directing Greta and her assistants to place the tub as near to the hearth as was practicable. The air was chill enough when one wasn’t wet. And these days, Isla was cold all the time.
    She slid the sponge up over her knee, toward the inside of her thigh. The church preached that touching one’s own body, even like this, led to damnation. The flesh, she mused, was that alluring. Even one’s own hand, in sensitive and secret places, led one to thinking of…other things. Of other hands in those places. Of lips, parted just slightly. Of tongues.
    She let her eyes drift closed and leaned back, luxuriating in the twin sensations of the bath and her hands on herself. She slid the sponge up, water trickling down over her erect nipple. The ring that was now part of her pulsed on her finger, like a living thing.
    She still wore her other ring, the blood-red stone winking in the firelight.
    She could feel Tristan stirring inside her. Sometimes, she didn’t know which thoughts were his and which were hers. Sometimes, she didn’t care. But sometimes, she did know. And this time, she’d decided to tease him. Taunt him. He was in the small reception hall, listening to a presentation from two of Barghast’s burghers about the necessity of stricter licensing for colliers. Those souls who made and sold charcoal. Isla didn’t know how she knew this; she just knew. The same as she just knew that Tristan was both bored and irritated. The burgher leading the charge was, himself, a seller of fuels.
    And there had been endless meetings and councils before that, Tristan ignoring Isla as he went about his business. He was present in her mind but not, his own mind on other matters. As was hers, at times, although she could never quite escape the feeling of invasion. She’d grown used to it, forcing herself to accept it, to breathe and to relax as the sensation flowed through her rather than fight it. Fight it, and grow sick again. Tristan told her that true acceptance would come in time; that eventually, there would be no division between them at all.
    An idea that both terrified and enticed her.
    Now she was enticing him. She opened her legs ever so slightly, one hand toying with her nipple. Pinching it, twisting it back and forth. She thought about his lips on her, about him inside her. Stretching her open. Claiming her.
    Her own arousal mixed with his was heady. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. Her arousal fed his and his fed hers, to the point where it was all she could do to keep from bursting. She knew that he felt her hands on herself as if they were on him, as if these were his hands exploring her most secret folds. She thought about taking him into her mouth, smiling at the thought of how pleasant it would be to torment him.
    The door banged open.



TEN
    T ristan lifted her bodily out of the bath, heedless of her surprised screech and heedless too of the mess he created. Water flew everywhere as, turning on his heel, he marched her across the room to the bed. He dropped her unceremoniously on the covers.
    His eyes, gazing down at her wet body, were hard.
    “I was in a meeting.”
    There was scarce need to verbalize the thought, connected as they were.
    “An