Royal Sentence (Steamy Historical)

Chapter 11: No Matter How Hard

Roland stood and held a hand out for Sabine, kneeling on a cushion beside him. She rose, wide eyes glued to the monstrosity facing her, a four poster bed with dark red drapes, freshly blessed by the priest. Every hair on her body bristled at the prospect of approaching it.

She had once owned a similar piece of furniture. Sheets tainted with her blood.

Sabine blinked, overwhelmed by a sensation of déjà vu. This couldn't be. Her senses HAD to be deceiving her.

Air reeking with the stench of sweat and feet and leather and grime.

Rough voices jeering and hooting.

This was in the past. The brutes were gone. She had survived. Healed.

Her free hand crushed the damask of her robe as her sanity threatened to crumble. She was awake, living her worst nightmare.

Her groom's fingers tightened their grip, anchoring her in the present. The howling ghosts retreated beyond the thin line, where she could control them. She wasn't alone, and these men weren't assaulting her. Yet.

Roland quickly assessed the situation. His wife, frozen, a doe that caught the hunters' scent. Her gaze, darting at the door. Her posture, tensed and ready to bolt. Time to intervene.

Locking an arm around her waist, he firmly guided her to her side of the mattress, whispering in her ear in what could pass for an affectionate gesture. "Don't even consider it, ma belle. Running would cost your life. Wait for them to leave and we will talk. Now get in."

Closing any space for argument, he gallantly turned over the sheet and helped her remove her outer garment.

His ears burned in anger at the sight of the tenuous scrap of silk and lace that was Sabine's chemise. The translucent slip would have been suitable for an illicit encounter with one's paramour, or a courtesan in her trade. On his bride, it was a blatant insult, branding her as a woman of loose morals.

"Who the hell dressed you into this?" he hissed, urging her under the covers.

"The Baron's wife, she said I would put this on or go naked. I thought you had ordered it." She was mortified. The courtier's valet had entered the room as she was in her bath and chatted with the lady of the house. Sabine had assumed they were following her husband's instructions.

"You are my wife. I would never humiliate you so, especially not in public. I will have a word with this wicked witch before our departure."

Roland would have said more, had his ranting not risked dragging on this ridiculous ceremony. Instead, he kissed her fingers, stripped to his shirt, and lay beside her.

They didn't have to endure the ritual innuendos and heavy jokes for long. The King soon tired of waiting and dismissed his entourage. Taking place in an armchair, strategically placed to offer him an unobstructed view of the room, Louis signaled Bassompierre to use the low stool beside him.

At his signal, Roland's valet blew all unnecessary candles. As the corners shrouded in shadows, the lit bed and fireplace stood out as the scene of a theater, with Roland and Sabine as reluctant actors.

"Why are they staying?" Sabine asked under her breath, peering into the darkness. In this lighting, the room felt wrong, oppressive; she could swear the walls were moving close.

"They are here to ascertain consummation and the validity of our marriage. Bassompierre will also ensure His Majesty's safety, and answer any query he might have."

"What queries? And witnesses? Is it not enough that I am forced to do this? Do you have to make a mockery of it? I can't, I must, I must..." Sabine's head was spinning. She had to get out of this bed, this room, this house. She needed to be outside, in the fresh air...