Read Online The Lily and the Lion by Catherine A. Wilson, Catherine T Wilson - Free Book Online Page A

his neck were loosened, tiny dark curls visible beneath, and the sleek fit of his padded leather chausses brought an unexpected blush to my face.
    â€˜Another half hour and you could have inspected my braies as well. Do I pass your scrutiny, Demoiselle?’ His lip curled sardonically and he slammed his goblet down. ‘In God’s name, woman, what do you want? Do you not have somewhere else to be? Edward’s bed, mayhap? Go warm the sheets and leave me be.’
    â€˜How dare you!’
    My wine-induced courage fled beneath his demonic stare as he spun around and towered over me.
    â€˜Oh, I dare!’ His eyes fell to the jewels lacing my throat. ‘You should have told me at the palace that your whoring price was rubies. I could have brought you a fistful, and better than these.’
    â€˜You ale-swilling dung heap! Son of a pig farmer!’ My arm swung into the air with the intent of rendering punishment for his insolence, but the courier easily captured my wrist. Wincing at his savage grip, I beat at his chest and underneath his shirt I could feel his heart galloping like a wild beast. His eyes were cold and hard and, dropping my hand, he brushed away my other as if touching me disgusted him.
    â€˜You despicable creature!’ I hissed. ‘You are not fit to wipe my boots!’
    To my dismay he laughed, a horrible, bitter sound. He raised his cup in salute. ‘Lady, I would sooner wipe the arse of an elephant!’
    Stunned, I stumbled back a pace. ‘Do I know you, Sir, that you should smite me in such a contemptible manner? Have I done you some ill in a past life?’
    His cup crashed down upon the chest. ‘No, thank God!’ He spun to face me. ‘Those blood stones hanging off your neck speak for themselves.’ He took a menacing step. ‘As far as I was aware Armagnac decided against allying with England, let alone lying with them, so why, for Christ’s sake, are you bedding its royal son?’
    â€˜What are you talking about?’
    He raised one eyebrow. ‘Does Comte d’Armagnac know that his precious daughter is the latest conquest of the Prince of Wales?’
    Fed up with his taunting I stamped my foot and shrieked, ‘I am not …’ A thunderbolt from a clear sky could not have struck with more surprise. ‘The what?’ I gasped, my palm at my throat. ‘He said his name was Édouard Stock.’
    The courier snorted. ‘Were you standing with the donkeys when the good Lord blessed His creatures with intelligence? Maybe you could use a pair of ass’ ears, for then you would have heard his name correctly!’ His arm shot out, pointing towards the door. ‘Edward… of… Woodstock! The darling of Crécy, the hero of Poitiers, son of King Edward III of England! I have no doubt Armagnac wanted royalty for his “little Princess” but I do not believe he had The Black Prince in mind. Jesu , you must be laughing up your plaguey sleeve at Jean de Berri! But what really claws at my gut is the careless regard you have for your sister, for where else would Salisbury be but at his master’s side? ’Tis a wonder I did not see him suckling your other teat!’
    â€˜You whoreson!’ Blackness swirled before my eyes and I felt myself falling.
    â€˜ Oh, Christ .’
    I awoke to the feel of my cheeks being patted like bread dough and the cold metal of a goblet at my lips. The wine seared my throat and I sat up, coughing. I stared into eyes dark as jet. The blurred face around them shifted into focus, handsome, wholesome and angry.
    â€˜I would have used a burned feather,’ its owner quipped coldly, ‘but the only one I possess is my quill and forgive me if I prefer to keep it for a more useful purpose.’
    Staring around the room, vague shapes became clearer and memory drifted back. It was the courier’s room. And the courier’s bed!
    Scrambling upright, I hoped that