The Princess Of Cleves 14

Sorry I've been bad about updating! I'm submitting the rest of Princess, and then another short story about a sexy encounter with a vampire.

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Rosalind had been depressed lately. The Marechal took advantage of the chaos of the impeding nuptials, stuffed a coach full of champagne and roses, and kidnapped her for the afternoon. She laughed until she wept when he shoved her into the carriage, much to the Marechal's chagrin. In the end though, he understood why she was laughing. The man who loved to be trammeled underfoot was carrying her away in a carriage full of flowers like the most maudlin of lovers.

He was taking her to his little cottage for the first time. All his toys were there, including a great quantity of silken rope. It was his desire to bind Rosalind and torment her. His favorite hobby was crafting whips, and he had made one with feathers, and one with mink tails, for his sweet lover. The carriage rumbled down the road, bouncing them against one another. They were holding hands, spilling champagne everywhere, occasionally yelping at a thorn. Laughing, they tumbled from the coach into his little house. There was a small room with a meal set out, two hot baths, all waiting for them, and not a servant in sight.

She wandered around, picking at the food, and smelling the bouquets of flowers. When she reached the Marechal's bedroom, with post beside the bed, she shook. He took her elbow and pressed his cheek against hers, trying to gauge her mood. For the life of him, he couldn't tell what was going on in her mind, so he waited.

He could feel her head moving as her eyes took in the array of toys on the bed, a variety of pretty things he had put out for her. She gasped, and he knew she had seen the purple leather boots with the dark green velvet ribbons.

"You always know how to cheer me up," she exclaimed, sitting down so she could change her shoes. "And what are these?" She picked up the feather and fur whips which he'd left carefully arranged across the pillows.

"I made them for you." Her face flushed brightly. "I want to bind you to that post, and torture you with them."

"You have a lively imagination."

The Marechal knelt in front of her and fastened the new boots onto her feet. "I thought you liked that about me." His fingers crept to her knees until she swatted him away.

"What if I tie you up instead."

Unable to hide his disappointment, the Marechal buried his face in her skirts.

"I wish more people disagreed with me as you do," Rosalind said, stroking his hair. "You can tie me up, and then I'd like a bath. You always tell me what a skilled attendant you are."

"Thank you my love."

The Marechal kissed her, and then threw several logs on the fire, stoking it, until she began to perspire. He stripped her down to her chemise, and made her kneel in front of the post on a little pillow, her back turned to the instrument. Crouching behind her, he bound her wrists to a pair of pegs close to her waist. The knots were loose enough that if she wanted, she could slip free from the ropes. The post was padded, and she was already leaning against it. With a smooth wooden bar, he tied an ankle to each end, forcing her to spread her knees wide.

This time when he kissed her, it was different. He thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, roughly pulling down her chemise to bare her bosom. She gasped as he tweaked one nipple then squeezed her breast hard. When he stood up, he saw Rosalind's eyes wide with surprise. She had seen the suave courtier, the timid lover who crept at her feet, and now she would see the man.

He choose the feather tipped whip first. Before he touched her, he tied a square of silk over her eyes. In his mind, she was blind, bound, and at his mercy. Fortunately for her, his most wicked desire was to carry her away and live like a dissolute Russian noble, spending weeks in bed, eating caviar, drinking vodka, and making love. As he trailed the feathers from her jaw down her throat and along her decolletage, goosebumps rose from her skin. He felt himself tighten in his breeches as her lips parted. Darting forward, he pressed her to the post, grabbing her ass and grinding his sex against her pubic mound. Her legs were wrenched at an awkward angle, her hips curled up towards him. He rubbed himself against her until he was close to climax, then delicately put her down.

Her body was pink and white, and everywhere that was touched by a blush he teased with the feathers. He saw her fidgeting with her ropes. "Do you want me to take them off, or do you want me to tie them tighter?"

"Tighter."

First, the Marechal took two little puffs of cotton and placed one in front of each eye before tightening the sash around her brow. A small sigh escaped her lips, and he saw she was smiling. He removed his breeches, and when he went to refasten her bonds, he pressed his sex between her breasts.

If she could have seen the position he had to contort himself into to manage this feat, she would have laughed. Instead, all she felt was his silken phallus with its drops of dew moving against her skin. She shivered, waiting for him to touch her. He reached toward her breasts and saw her body tense; she was peeking underneath the gauze. Lifting up her skirt, he leaned his hips toward her, bringing his phallus close to the dark glossy curls of her sex. He wanted to know if she would let him inside her. Watching her closely, he could see by the gentle undulation of her hips that she wanted him, and he wanted her, but not yet. Flicking the feathers over her breasts, he made her nipples flush and wrinkle.

"You're cruel," she said, and she began to try and free herself.

The Marechal laughed. "No my love, I will not free you so you can satiate yourself. I will torment you, until you drip like a split open ripe peach." As he spoke, he used the smooth handle of the whip to part her nether lips. When she tried to rub her bud against it, he pulled it away. Lowering his body to be within her range of vision, he licked from the handle every drop of moisture she had left.

"I hate you."

He slapped her breast, and bit her nipple.

"Oh God, please..." she moaned.

His lips were working down her torso, his teeth nipping her waist.

"Why will you never make love to me? Is it because of the other men."

He paused at her hips. "In a way. I think every time you take another lover, it adds to your confusion. I wish I had the strength to simply be your friend, to fight my desires." He laved the crease between her thigh and hip with his tongue. "But you are so sweet, to yield to you is such a pleasure." Grasping her buttocks, he pulled her pelvis forward and began to suckle her bud.

"Then yield my love, yield," she murmured as she began to writhe.

He pressed his sex against hers. He pulled off her blindfold to look into her eyes. "I love you," he said, and thrust himself into her. It was not how he had planned it, he first wanted her to agree to leave with him, but she desired him, and he could not refuse her. He held her waist and slowly worked his phallus in and out of her. She was slick with lust, and her breath hot in his ear. "Rosalind," he growled as he shuddered and came.

"Well that didn't take long," she said. "Oh God I'm sorry."

The Marechal started laughing. "No, you're right, I was very quick. I have wanted you for a long time, but..."

"But?"

He was still inside of her, his sex pulsing. "I guess I am, in some perverted manner, a hopeless romantic," he mumbled. There was a trail of sweat at the nape of her neck that stung his lips. "I wanted our first time together to be special. I didn't want to rush in like the others. I guess I failed"

She started laughing.

A tear fell from his eye, and he clung to her. She laughed even harder. "Marechal, you are nothing like the others. Untie me now."

After the sharp prick of her mirth, her warm tone was like a soothing poultice. In a moment, her hands and wrists were free, and he was sweeping everything off the bed to lay her on it. He was again moving inside of her, and her hands were twined in his hair, drawing his lips down to her mouth. From this position, he was able to sink his full length inside her, and she pumped her hips against him. Her tongue curled inside of his mouth.

He had to push her away for a moment, feeling himself close to orgasm. Her sex twitched, and his sex answered.

"Tell me you love me, kiss me, my Marechal."

"Please, come away with me. You don't love the Prince or the Chevalier or the Duke."

He leaned down to kiss her, but she stopped him. "That's not telling me you love me."

"No, that's me telling you, Rosalind, that you love me." Her hand went limp, and he took her lower lip between his, pinching it with his teeth. He began to move again, trying to feel her mood through her body.

She was soft and tender, her hands moving up and down his back, her legs hooked around his waist. When she tried to pull away to speak, he stuck his fingers in her mouth. He started to shake, and he buried his face in her hair to hide his tears. Why did he have to say that?

Taking his hand from her mouth, she placed it over her heart. "You're right, I do love you."

The Marechal gave a harsh sob.

"You've always been my friend, you've always tried to help me. After I return from Spain, we will leave the court."

The Marechal was weeping in earnest now. "I will take you to Spain my love," he whispered.

"I do not wish to go to Spain, but to accompany my husband while he is made a Grandee. It is the least I can do."

The thought of the Prince dulled his ardor, but Rosalind reached back to stroke his anus. Slipping in a finger, she urged him on to a climax. She came with him, moaning.

He lay on top of her, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her neck. "You'll have to tell me again later, that you've agreed to leave the court with me, that you love me. It is, more, than I could have hoped for."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulder. "I love you, and I will leave with you. I'd like my bath now, please."

"Follow me my love," the Marechal said, taking her hand. She melted into the hot water, and he washed her hair, lazily scrubbing her scalp. Afterward he worked a light rose oil over her skin while she drowsed on a couch. He coaxed her into having a cup of chocolate, and he took her back to court. Every move she made, he watched with an unnerving intensity, looking for those things, a lighter step, and small smile, that betrayed a private happiness.

By the time they reached court, he was no longer concerned with her sincerity, but instead worried that she would give them away. They agreed to keep their walks to public places, and correspond by letter.

* * * *

When the shields for the tourney were hung, there was much puzzlement over the colors. The King always wore black and white for his mistress, Diana, who was a widow. The Duke had chosen yellow and black, for reasons no one understood except Rosalind. She recalled telling the Duke that she always lamented that she could not wear her favorite shade of yellow with her complexion.

There was even more conversation about the Marechal's garish combination of purple and green. The Princess was careful to conceal her purple boots from the public, lest someone discern they matched the streamers that fluttered from the Marechal's helm. The Chevalier had chosen pink and white, colors that made the Prince blush. He had always praised the Prince's skin for being carnation and cream.

The crowd became raucous when the men took to the lists. Every time the Marechal appeared, Rosalind held her breath, at a loss to conceal her relief when he ran the lists unscathed. When the Chevalier was struck she reached for her husband's hand, only to have him push her away. His lips were moving as he chewed on them, his hands clenched into fists. He was so cold, even his lover, the Chevalier, had changed toward her. The Chevalier still visited her, but it would seem he lost his passion. They would discuss mundane matters, and she was grateful for even that little bit of attention.

The Duke was mounted on a black stallion. His armor was chased with gold, the mane and tail of his horse braided with yellow and gold ribbons. Every one sighed as he ran and triumphed. Even Rosalind felt her heart lift as he ran in that buttercup shade he had chosen for her. Her excitement died when she saw how the Prince was frowning.

By the end of the day, she was falling asleep in her chair. The King was being stubborn: if he didn't break another lance, he would fall behind his champions. He called for the Count de Montgomery to joust, who at first refused, and then offered a plethora of excuses. When the King again summoned him, this time angry, the Count came. It was then the Queen who implored him to return home as he had already made a fine showing. Henry II replied coldly that it was for her sake that he ran the lists again, and then smiled at Diana. The Duke d'Alva was sent out to tug at the King's bridle, but he was rebuffed.

They ran; the lances broke in a shock of splinters. A sliver of the Count de Montgomery's lance pierced the King's eye and he fell. The entire court rushed to the King, astonished to see him laying stunned on the ground.

Prone on the stretcher he took the Count de Montgomery's hand, and assured that noble man he forgave him. Smiling, he told the court it was only a slight wound. He was carried to bed. The Duke d'Alva sent his physician, and that wise man judged the King a dead man.

Rosalind hid from a court embroiled in intrigue. Although she feigned illness and saw no one, she knew every move that was made. The Chevalier often crept into her room to whisper to her about the plans for Diana's disgrace and the rise of the House of Guise.

Rosalind wanted to confide in him her own plans, but she couldn't. Her and the Marechal only saw one another for a few minutes a week. They spoke very little, but instead spent the time holding one another and kissing. He said they would make love again under a more auspicious occasion. She had the sensation that things were being quietly sent to the country. The Marechal had been having good luck at the card tables and was buying jewelry.

Her husband still ignored her, and she had a lot time of to herself to think. That pang of emotion she had felt for the Duke upon seeing him mastering the lists troubled her, and she sought to harden her heart against him. She'd believed him different from the other men at the court, then he starts spreading fantastic rumors.

What better way to secure his reputation at the court's greatest gallant than to make Rosalind's love for him known? Capturing her heart was a feat believed to be beyond any man. There was still a flutter in her breast at the thought of him, and she held her breath, willing it to be gone.

Instead, she thought of the Marechal, the stories he had told her of a walled garden, a pond with ducks and fish, and a picturesque little manor. He was having roses planted for her and a bower of wisteria constructed.

Rosalind locked her door, and curled up in bed, her hands between her legs. Thinking about the Marechal made her slick. She rubbed her hidden bud with one hand while she teased her anus with the other. That afternoon with him was the last time someone had touched her.

In a few minutes her groin was twitching, her small mouth stretched open over a moist spot on her pillow. She came with a small grunt, and felt terribly lonely. Even though it was early afternoon, she cried herself to sleep. That night, she refused to eat, staying locked in her room. There was a knock on her window, and waiting for her on the sill was a small bouquet of flowers. Tucked inside was a note from the Marechal:

My Dearest R--,

I hope this note finds you well. The preparations are coming along. My gardener assures me that you will be delighted with the grounds. I have purchased the most lovely horses and a smart equipage. I cannot wait to escape with you.

All my Love,

M--

She crumpled the note in her fist and fell asleep with it beneath her cheek. The next morning her cheek was stained with ink. It was an excuse to not stir from her room, the difficulty she had in removing this smear. Unfortunately, tomorrow she would have guests, a few ladies. She would stare at them as they prattled on, dreaming of carriage rides with the Marechal.

* * * *

The Duke had again fallen into a state of despair. There was no doubt in his mind that it was his idle tongue which has lost him the love of Rosalind. Even worse, he was haunted by his last meeting with her. Her confusion, her anger, there was nothing he could do to mitigate these emotions of hers, for she never allowed herself to be seen by him. Before the tourney, he'd seen her carrying Princess Mary's train during the procession behind the Duke d'Alva.

Now, in the disarray that followed the King's mortal injury, she hid entirely, and he thought of nothing but seeking her out, to say what though? That he knew she loved him, because he spied on her? That he betrayed her secret to the Viscount de Chartes and he was awfully sorry? How could his passion spurn her to love when she abhored the sight of him? It seemed so fantastic to him. He was grateful the court was in mourning, as his melancholy went unnoticed.

When he was barely clinging to life, the King had Madame Elisa married to the Duke d'Alva. The Duke was summoned as a witness to the hasty nuptials. It was a very sad ending for an affair that had begun so joyously. They had gone from a shining company of courtiers, glittering in cloth of gold, to kneeling around a deathbed at midnight in the dim light of candles.

It was 3 that night when the King expired. The Louvre was seized by a low moaning wail as people were woken and informed of the King's death.

The upheavals began the next day, with different cabals battling for control of the now widowed Queen and her son. The Queen quickly united with the House de Guise. Messengers were dispatched, rallying troops to oppose the Guises, but they were too slow. The courtiers who remained standing against the Queen were dispatched with Madame Elisa to Spain. This was a mortifying blow to the Prince, the intended recipient of this honor. There was no recourse for him. Only a fool would start squawking about decorum in the middle of coup.

The Duke took great joy in this, for the journey would have carried his love far away from him. Now Lignerol was preparing his clothes for a journey to Chambort to see the new King crowned. He was determined to try and have a private audience with Rosalind. He waited until the end of the day. Luck was with him, and two women were just exiting her apartments when he arrived. His hopes were dashed when he was told Rosalind was ill. The women were more careful with him now, standing in front of the door they guarded. He begged, he bribed, and in the end went away in tears.

The Prince was at the Louvre when he overheard the Duke had left to visit his wife. His heart grew thick with bile at the thought of the Duke whispering to Rosalind while she giggled. It was jealousy: that bitter taste in his mouth, a passion which seized him with the same ferocity as his love. All the sincere feelings that he'd once had for his wife changed to a burning fever of paranoia. Without any thought of what he wished to do, to surprise the pair together, to satisfy himself of either his wife's guilt of innocence, he ran home.

He rushed into his wife's chambers, and in her disorder found signs of her sin. Pacing around her bed, he spoke to her of unimportant matters while his eyes darted in every corner, seeing traces of the Duke in the shadows. Finally, he asked her what plagued his mind. "So, tell me, how did you spend your day?"