The Gilded Mirror Read online

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  THE CARMAN CHRONICLES, BOOK II:

  THE GILDED MIRROR

  by

  PENNY DAWN

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

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  The Gilded Mirror

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  http://www.amberheat.com

  http://www.amber-allure.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2007 by Penny Dawn Steffen

  ISBN 978-1-60272-130-2

  Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber

  Layout and Formatting

  Provided by: Elemental Alchemy

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by Penny Dawn

  Ancient History

  Apple Pie

  Blue Silver: Making Noise

  The Carman Chronicles, Book I: The Satin Slippers

  Frenchin'

  Go For Miles

  Measuring Up

  Rolling In Clover

  Salute

  Sound Off

  Wake-Up Call

  Dedication

  For Lainey...again

  Chapter 1

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  Pink sofas, pink chairs. Pink taffeta skirts swaying over pretty, pink legs...

  The Palace of Carman abounded with all things the color of a summertime rose, and the French Ambassador Sebastian Vuitton knew very well Lady Morgana's pussy was just as pink as the rest of the place.

  He'd been contemplating Carman, strewn with women of incomparable wit and beauty, relentlessly for days. During infrequent visits to the Olympian society, he'd taken up with women of all social standings, from peasant to royalty, and each knew how to treat a man. His rod hardened with the thought of a soft and waiting secret place, nestled wet and deep between a lady's thighs, and before he managed to censor himself, his desirous groan echoed throughout the conference hall.

  The Swiss agent seated on his right elbowed him and raised his bushy, gray brows, as if warning a classmate to pay attention to the lecture.

  For how many hours would this assembly of ambassadors exhaust itself in debating the next fuel source? Recycled fuel was clearly the only plan to pursue, but the old fogies harbored old ideas, even if those notions fixated on new-is-better.

  Under the discerning glare of Old Man Swiss, Sebastian straightened, but so did the pole in his pants. In an attempt to draw his attention from the growing need to see--actually, feel--a woman in the flesh, he fingered his golden cufflinks, engraved with the embassy's filigree symbol, standard issue upon appointment. Alone, they would have deterred a greater man from accepting Lady Morgana's advances during his last stay in Carman. But there was something ethereal about it all, something beyond his control.

  He felt foolish when he contemplated the voice inside his head, the voice that had first beckoned him to Carman. He hadn't planned on landing in Morgana's embrace during that visit, but he surely hadn't minded. However, a strange sense of guilt overtook him from time to time, a sense that he'd bowed to a desire, in lieu of a purpose. He'd missed something the last time he'd stayed there, and now the voice was calling him back.

  His fingers swept over the cool metal of his cuff links. A token in which all ambassadors took great pride, his needed polishing.

  So did his cock.

  Pink dildos, pink feathers, strawberry-flavored lubricant...

  Although they'd certainly made the most of every second, his and Morgana's coupling had been brief, as well as forbidden by the code of the embassy. An ambassador could not remain unbiased after such intimate consorting, but rules were made be broken. Besides, Sebastian rationalized, the sex they'd shared had been neither political nor personal. While he'd acquired a soft spot for the lady's softest parts, he'd known only her body. So unlike any other maiden he'd deflowered, she'd insisted on that.

  Additionally, the Corps for the Olympian Societies, a group of diplomats within the Assembly of Foreign Embassies, may as well have been disbanded a decade ago, as its most pressing deed since God-knew-when involved attending Queen Olivia's funeral.

  Heat crept into the ambassador's cheeks, and he felt a grin spread, wide and wicked, he'd bet. Ravaging the Lady Morgana merely weeks after pall bearers whisked away her mother's casket might've been viewed as a rather predatory act, but no code of ethics was match for his desire--or hers. She'd used him to tunnel her grief right out of her system, and who was he to complain?

  Slender ivory wrists bound with pink silk scarves.

  He'd tied her while he worked at her perky, rosy nipples, not nearly as sensitive as they should've been. Those nipples had challenged him beyond belief. After much sucking, he hadn't evoked a single sigh. Rather, by hooking a leg around his head, Morgana had urged him downward. That girl was all about penetration...thus the vibrators and such.

  His cock twitched uncomfortably against his fly. As soon as this assembly came to a close, he'd take care of that pesky affliction. Hopefully, he'd escape without assignment, so he could hop a flight to the Carman Empire without delay. With any luck, Morgana would make time for him again. He'd warm her up with some friction-activated, heated lubricant. Work a thick rod into her, the nine-incher to start, get her ready for his hard, waiting--

  "And now for the final item on our agenda," came the translation in his earpiece.

  Thank heavens. Sebastian shifted. Not long now.

  "The Bismallian threat against Carman in Olympia."

  Pardon? Instantly alert, he reached for a pen and pressed on the earpiece to ensure he heard every word.

  "Most are viewing this threat as a lover's quarrel, as the Lady Morgana of Carman and the Duke Preston of Bismalle are betrothed."

  Sebastian rolled his eyes at the word. No man would ever own Morgana of Carman, no matter the size of the ring he offered...or other things of masculine charm. She owned herself.

  "Although this threat comes only months after the alleged kidnapping of the duke by Carman officials, who, of course, deny the allegations, Bismallian officials cite the fuel crisis as their purpose."

  Ah, so that's why the assembly is interested.

  "This shan't require an entire team at this point, but given Olympia's reported reserves of natural fuel, we must send a representative to solidify her peace. Our aim is to ensure Bismalle of the duke's safety so they may lift the threat, fuel crisis or none."

  The last time the French Ambassador Sebastian Vuitton traveled cobblestone lanes toward the remotest of Olympian lands, he'd won more than he'd bargained for, and with the annual masquerade ball on the horizon... He imagined screwing a masked lady inside a coat closet, and his hand climbed into the air.

  "Let the record show Ambassador Vuitton of France will be handling the matter."

  I'll handle a bit more. He licked his lips to prevent his drooling, as the masquerade scene played on in his mind.

  Shapely legs wrapped around his waist, with layers of taffeta rumpled between their bodies...

  A hot abyss of pleasure stroking his shaft, when he'd yet to look upon her without the mask...

  With hair like gold-spun satin and eyes deep blue like midnight on an ocean c
oast, Lady Morgana was the eldest of four Carman princesses, whose path to the throne had been thwarted by Queen Olivia's untimely death. It was their aunt who resided at the top of the food chain now, as their father had been known for many things, but never for his ability to rule. So be it. The lord had done the world a grand service four times over when he'd sired his beautiful offspring.

  Thoughts of buoyant breasts left him salivating, to say nothing of a tight cunt and muffled cries of pleasure brought about with implements of all lengths and girths. Good God, how he needed it!

  "This assembly of the foreign embassies has now come to a close. We reconvene in four weeks. If the ambassador is still detained in Olympia, he will kindly send a prepared report."

  Sebastian nodded, as he scribbled a list of items to pack. Pink garter stockings. Masquerade. Edible body paint.

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  By the midnight hour, Lady Caroline of Carman had yet to sleep a wink. Since the seventeen-year-locusts had hatched, her nights had become increasingly longer, as the insects' murmuring never stopped.

  Her quarters overlooked the butterfly garden. Under normal circumstances, it provided a fabulous view, yet tonight, it proved Caroline's misfortune extended beyond being the second of four daughters borne to a noble society anticipating sons. Apparently, the butterfly garden had been densely populated with cicadas during her third year. Tonight their buzzing reached a crescendo so unbearable in volume she wondered if her ears would ever stop ringing.

  "Shut up!" She sprang from her four-poster bed and hissed toward her windows, "Shut up, shut up, shut up! If you have nothing important to say, shut up!"

  "He comes."

  Caroline flinched at the whispered words. With a hand at her heart, she drew in a long breath and trod softly across the limestone floor to where a pair of windows flanked her dressing table. She flattened her palms against the tabletop and listened, but heard only the locusts' song.

  Her reflection challenged her to a staring contest, and she accepted with verve and a sly smirk. Surely the noise would soon drive her to madness, if it hadn't already. "Ridiculous," she said to the locusts. "Burrow in, lay your eggs, and die already. Leave me to peace."

  In response, the humming grew even louder.

  She pinched her eyes shut.

  "He comes."

  As the chilling whisper danced up her spine, her eyes snapped open, and she sank to the vanity bench.

  "He comes."

  "Who comes?" Her inquiry was more a depiction of breathless fear than an interrogation. A pair of midnight blue eyes, her own, wide with fright, stared back at her from the gilded mirror. When no answer came, she demanded, "Who?"

  She'd been looking into the mirror so long the items in her peripheral vision had turned fuzzy. The dark greenish-black of her quarters swirled in from the outside corners of her eyes, threatening to encroach on even her reflection. "He comes." In the moment of her next blink, the darkness crept over her, like a hood slowly draping about her face. She closed her eyes, as if choosing blindness was a better option than its devouring her.

  "Help me." Her cry of distress was no more than a rasp, despite the digging of her fingernails into the walnut dressing table. "Help, please! Someone."

  No knight came to her aid. No sister or cousin, either.

  "Ohhhhhh."

  The whisper was laced with a satisfied feminine gasp, and after a moment, she realized it had sounded in her own voice. Her eyes peeled open.

  An early summer breeze caressed her damp skin, and blew long, golden ringlets off her face and neck. Nothing more than her imagination and the night had frightened her. She inhaled the scent of lilac and other blossoms, carried on fresh air, and began to stand. "You are mad."

  "Ohhhhhh!"

  The sound arrested her and, before another breath passed between her lips, she sat. Her gaze darted back to the mirror, where her hazy reflection zoomed out, as if captured by a telephoto lens. She pressed her fingers to her temples, but the image in the looking glass remained. A woman in a muslin dressing gown cinched at the bosom with a petal pink ribbon tossed one leg over the arm of a chair and slung the other across the muscled back of a dark-haired stranger, whose face was buried between her thighs.

  Caroline forfeited good posture, allowing her shoulders to go lax, and glanced toward her dressing closet, where the very chair sat, unoccupied. She fingered the pink ribbon on her nightdress. "I must be dreaming."

  But the picture was more than real for, at once, she felt a stranger's intimate kisses in places deep and stimulating...places no man had ventured during a cocktail party, and rarely in a bedroom, for that matter. Sounds of passion drowned the vexing hum of the locusts outside. Her nipples hardened with excitement, and desire pulsed between her legs. Involuntarily, her hips rocked on the bench she now straddled, and every nudge intensified the urge in her depths.

  The mysterious tongue painted her inner walls with delicate, yet precise strokes, reaching the deepest parts of her canal, while lips puckered and worked her hard, sensitive nub externally. When her thighs quivered, the sensation was coupled with the feeling of soft, black hair entwined in her fingers.

  She didn't dare take her eyes from the mirror, where her reflection pushed her pelvis up against the foreigner's mouth. The tangible she cupped a hand over a mound and friskily rubbed her nipple with a thumb, as pleasure built down below. Her reflection's fire intensified her own; they fed off one another's energy, like knights in a jousting contest.

  "Mmmmm," she hummed along with her reflection and bucked faster and faster against the tongue that flattened and curled inside her--the tongue which existed only in the looking glass, but gave her very real, unparalleled pleasure.

  Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and sweat broke on her forehead.

  Lips chewed at her labia, and a coaxing tongue lapped in rhythm.

  Her savage rutting became staccato thrusts.

  "Ohhhhhh, Sebastian!" she cried as her orgasm broke, her juices erupting.

  On the downward spiral, her head spun, and she closed her eyes to keep the dizziness at bay. "Sebastian."

  Her tongue swept over her bottom lip. "Sebastian."

  Save a heaving chest, she remained still, reveling in the aftermath of climax. Her fingers tingled, as did her toes, and her slick cunt twitched with satisfaction.

  Oh, how good it had felt. She massaged the breast she still held. If only she might feel that way again, in the company of--

  The locusts' shrill jolted her from her reverie.

  She opened her eyes. Her reflection stared back. Gone was the fervent scene on her dressing room chair. Gone was the man for whom she'd called out. She glanced toward the chair and again found it empty, toward the mirror but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  But how could it be? Had she imagined it all?

  Her hands traveled south to where her panties were soaked with evidence to the contrary.

  She rose from her seat. Every pace along the cool, limestone floor stimulated the swollen folds between her legs. "Sebastian." The name felt familiar on her lips, and she was certain other parts of him would feel the same.

  It wasn't possible. She didn't know him.

  Oh, she'd known a few men, and had known their penises quite well, too. Even if she hadn't allowed them to take her virginity, she'd lain with them. On one occasion, she'd allowed a man's concubine to eat her, while he'd watched from across the room, masturbating. But this man... no man by the name of Sebastian was among the few with whom she'd traded oral favors.

  Then how do you know what he tastes like?

  She spun toward the ornate mirror, which hung innocently on the wall, as if it had no recollection of spurring Caroline's most intense orgasm to date. Then again...

  Her body wouldn't have reached the peak without her mind's participation. Confusion replaced what might've been fear. Had she made it happen?

  Stranger things had transpired in the Palace of Carman. Not long ago, her sister had employed a pai
r of magical satin slippers as a means to renege on her promise to marry the duke. Morgana had taken quite a risk in venturing outdoors in the black of night, and that had been before the threat of war had come. Now, the very jugular of her empire was exposed. She'd be foolish to be seduced by an implement, however magical, however orgasmic it was. Suppose Bismallian officials had somehow replaced her mirror with this one!

  Still, what if it were placed in her quarters to warn her? To protect her from harm, the way the slippers had done for Morgana? She'd be a fool not to use it, in that case.

  Caroline crossed her arms over her still-stimulated breasts and tapped her toes. When she closed her eyes, the moments of passion re-played on her eyelids. Her lips ached for a kiss. Her body, for much more. Surely she owed it to herself, to her kingdom, to learn of the mirror's intent.

  "Show me Sebastian," she whispered, opening her eyes again.

  "He comes."

  The mirrored glass swirled and clouded over, but soon a scene bled into view. She recognized the roads winding through the foothills of the Carman Empire, and even the small, pale green taxi rolling along them. Often, foreign diplomats traveled by automobile throughout Olympia, whereas natives most often preferred the back of a horse to any sort of vehicle. On horseback, one could slip through tunnels and utilize shortcuts across bridges cars would surely destroy.

  Traveling by taxi, he wouldn't reach the palace until early morning. An intelligent man, he might turn up his nose at the Olympian societies' failure to modernize the road system, but given one glance at Carman's mineral mines, he'd refute his initial insults. Cutting roads meant cutting into mountains, and, in turn, destroying mines. Caroline, active on the Committee to Preserve Olympia's Natural Resources, would speak to the man about his unnecessary taxi once he arrived.