If I allow my thoughts to continue in that direction, I’ll be too stiff to walk. Fortunately for me, the uniform’s jacket is cut to conceal a cockstand. Probably because so many of the guards spend their days following around ladies of the court, trying not to be tempted by their tits displayed like ripe fruits on a platter.
At least I get a castle for my service to the crown. Those poor sods get a meager paycheck and board. Nothing more.
When I arrive at the dressmaker’s workshop, I’m told to wait near the door. The princess takes her sweet time. There’s nothing to do except stand there and wait, unless I prefer to sit and browse through fabric samples. I stand ramrod straight with my back to the door.
Feminine titters from behind the screen. Whispers. I swear I hear the women giggling about the white leather on my boots, gloves, and hat. My ears burn. They must not know how keen my hearing is, because if they did, they wouldn’t be talking about me that way.
Women can be even filthier than your average solider. I never fall for the innocent flower routine. They’re as horny as we are, if not more so. They simply have more reasons to conceal it.
“We need a man’s opinion,” one seamstress announces. Briar demurs.
“Everyone in the kingdom is going to see you anyway. What’s one preview—” her voice lowers, but I can still hear every syllable “—to the handsomest man in Belterre?”
“He’s arresting, not handsome,” another protests.
If my ears weren’t burning before, they certainly are now. I hate being talked about as if I’m no more sentient than a wooden post.
A flurry of rustling silk obscures whatever they’re whispering, except the giggles.
“Sir Ironheart,” says the first seamstress. “Would you be so kind as to offer your sincere opinion upon the princess’ gown?”
“I have nothing to offer on the subject of women’s fashion.”
“I told you he would refuse on principle,” Briar says.
“But we need a man’s opinion,” the seamstress insists. “You happen to be the only one available. Please?”
“No.”
Words always get me into trouble. I keep my opinions to myself.
“Fine. But we need to use the long mirror, so you’ll have to endure looking at the princess anyway.”
Endure. She’s not wrong.
I’d relaxed fractionally, a posture which could be forgiven in light of my recent illness. Briar shuffles out from behind an elaborate curtain.
She was glorious before, in that hideously overdone gown Alistair stuffed her into for her presentation ceremony.
In the confection of a wedding gown they’ve created for her, she’s breathtaking. A vise tightens around my ribs. I’m back on that horrible bed in the inn, dreaming. Hallucinating a goddess again.
Her hair tumbles down her back, a golden fall of waves past the indentation of her waist, the soft waves dangling above the swell of her hips. The skirt bells out from there. My fingertips twitch with the need to clutch her gorgeous ass. Rip away the silk. Find her center and plunge deep with my tongue, my fingers, my cock.
I flex my hands inside the white leather gloves, feeling the pull of still-healing skin.
Then, Briar turns around, and my control snaps.
14
Briar
Ihold my breath, bracing for Killian’s reaction. His flinty stare bores into me.
Good. He might despise me for reasons I don’t entirely understand, but he isn’t immune to me.
It didn’t take much prodding to coax the seamstresses into playing their parts. Castle life hasn’t changed much in the past century. A little casual gossip, a few leading questions, and they were happy to stop using me as a human pincushion and start giggling about Sir Ironheart.
All I had to do was tamp down my envy and wait for him to show up. Now comes the part where I throw down a metaphorical glove and see if he snatches up the challenge.
