The Gilded Mirror Read online

  The mirror now zeroed in on the foreigner's face. His skin rivaled the color of a late harvest sunset--nearly cocoa in color, yet still sharp in contrast to hair as black as Carman onyx. Thick, dark lashes framed his heavy-lidded amber eyes.

  Although she'd never seen those eyes, she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, they smoldered before sex and positively sizzled during. And as for after--

  "He comes." She'd soon learn what those eyes looked like the moment he spilled his seed into her. She knew it as if it were already written in the history books.

  * * * *

  Sebastian should have taken rest at the ambassadors' campus before calling at the Palace of Carman, but with the prospect of hooking up with an Olympian lady, and thus releasing the building tension in his balls, he persevered through his fatigue and found himself knocking at the outer gate, eager to secure an early appointment with the queen.

  The large, weathered copper knocker bore the face of an angry lion, and he couldn't help wondering if Morgana would greet him with a similar snarl, if their paths happened to cross. It had been quite some time since he'd attempted to reach her, and the few telegrams he'd sent had borne less than honorable contents. The latest had gone unanswered. She'd taken what she'd wanted from him...perhaps she wanted no more.

  Que sera, sera.

  "Yes, sir." A footman peered through the small, diamond-shaped window in the door.

  "I'm an ambassador from France with the assembly of foreign embassies." He cleared his throat and offered his credentials to the footman. "I'm here to discuss the science of Olympian politics with the queen."

  "Yes, the guards at the Carman borders alerted me hours ago. It will be some time before the queen is available, sir, but come with me."

  The gate creaked open, and Sebastian followed the broad-shouldered footman--too large to be a mere guard--across a courtyard of granite and flagstone. Several hundred feet across an emerald moat, the palace, constructed of quartzite and limestone, sparkled in the morning sunlight.

  Sebastian, amused with the archaic methods of defense still employed in Olympia, nodded at the still body of water. "How many crocs does the family Carman keep?"

  "If you're afraid of crocodiles, you needn't worry, sir. While there are kingdoms in Olympia still stocking their moats with large reptiles, Carman isn't one of them."

  All for show. It figured.

  "Hippos, on the other hand, are far more brutal with intruders than a crocodile could ever be." The footman grinned and keyed in a code to lower the drawbridge. "The hippopotamus can destroy a person in two or three bites. It works especially well with men who have dishonorable intentions toward our ladies."

  Sebastian swallowed hard, lest the word had spread his intentions were among the not-so-honorable.

  The copper-and-iron drawbridge reached the ground with a thud. The resonating sound may as well have been Sebastian's heart dropping to his feet.

  "Two or three bites," the footman said. "It's uglier than a stoning."

  "If you mean to intimidate me--"

  "No, sir." The smirk on the guard's face relayed he was no ordinary guard, but perhaps a knight, sent as an extra safety measure, given the Bismallian threat of war.

  But why wouldn't Carman view the foreign embassies as allies?

  The metal bridge clanged with every footfall as they crossed the moat. Sebastian glanced over the water and caught a glimpse of a purplish snout. "How many hippos?"

  "Who knows? Those beasts multiply faster than jackrabbits."

  "What is that horrible buzzing?" It grew louder and louder as they neared the castle. "Is that the hippos' cries?"

  A corner of the guard's mouth turned upward. "Have you no cicadas in France?"

  Sebastian shrugged, growing tired of the attempted belittling. "I haven't been to France in years. An ambassador's duties do not allow me the luxury of meditation at home."

  Now across the drawbridge, the two men stood toe to toe. The guard, several inches taller, stared down at the ambassador and employed a smaller version of the lion-head knocker on the main door. "Rather, your duties take you on regular holiday? To this land and that, to taste local flavors?"

  "The Academy of the Embassy is not a charm school, and an ambassador's existence is not all fun and games."

  "I believe fun and games are a matter of relativity."

  Before Sebastian answered, a servant of standard size ushered him indoors. The intimidator disappeared into the morning, but not before giving him one final, discerning look of warning.

  "As is the Carman custom," the house servant said, "a family representative will arrive shortly to assess your needs."

  Sebastian smiled. "Send a lady, will you? I don't have much luck with men."

  The servant gave an impatient sigh, illustrating Sebastian's point. "There aren't but two noble men in the castle, sir. Odds are in your favor."

  Now sequestered in a front parlor, he could barely keep his eyes open, despite the droning hum of the locusts outside, which doubtless kept everyone awake in the dead of night. He whiled away his time counting the grotesque insects daring to mar the leaded glass windows by landing on their caming. So far, he'd reached one hundred sixty-seven. How he hated the waiting game.

  The sooner Morgana denied him, the sooner he'd feel free to pursue another prospect. He chuckled at his warped rationalization. To think she'd be put off if he didn't offer her the right of first refusal was ridiculous. Likely, she'd forgotten him long ago.

  Yet still, she should've arrived by now. He rested his head against a brilliant white, oversized pillow of silk shantung. Maybe he'd compromised her chaste reputation in his not-so-subtle request for a visit, for surely she'd realize he'd specifically asked for her, even if he hadn't directly said so. The reality was she might not come at all.

  He allowed his eyes to close, but only for a moment, and when he opened them, a creature of beauty and intrigue stole his breath away. Morgana stood before him, made up for an evening ball. He wondered why she'd bothered with it all, when he'd seen her in nothing but her oh-so-soft skin. "M'lady." He straightened on the divan and smoothed his hair with a steady hand.

  "Sir." Her golden waves of hair, longer than when he'd last seen her, hung nearly to her hips, upon which she perched her dainty hands. Her eyes seemed a deeper blue than he remembered, if such a thing were possible. She wore a satin gown of indigo, and sapphires adorned her slippers. "To what do we owe the grace of your presence at this ungodly hour?"

  Her pink lips drew up into a bow he desperately needed to untie, and her breasts...good God. They nearly overflowed her bodice. Was it possible for an already voluptuous woman to become even curvier with age? He was staring. He knew it, but couldn't take his eyes from the white mounds. Oh, to bury his face and force those nipples to submit to the pleasure--his, if not her own!

  "M'lady, you're more beautiful than I remember." He forced his gaze back to her eyes. "And I remember you being nothing less than gorgeous."

  "I'd thank you, if you made any sense." Her fingertips drummed against her flat abdomen. "I'm sure you can imagine, ambassador, my aunt, the queen, has precious few moments for discussion. She would've sent my father, but he's yet to rise. What can Carman do for the foreign embassy that could not have waited until after breakfast?"

  "With all due respect, m'lady." He rose from his position and offered his hand.

  After a moment of hesitation, she took it.

  "This." He drew her body tight to his and lowered his mouth to hers. He expected a bit of anxiety, given the promise of her hand to the duke, as well as the years and miles stretching between them, but anxiety could be good. Anxiety was physical, and that's what he'd come for, the only thing she'd wanted from him.

  She didn't disappoint; he could feel her heart beating like mad. She trembled in his embrace, but parted her lips and swept her tongue against his. He trailed a hand from the small of her back to a hip, which he gently squeezed, then up her side.

  When he da
red to massage the side of her breast with a thumb, she tensed and began to pull away. But he held her fast and soon flattened his palm over the generous tit. Fuller. Denser. Or perhaps her breasts surpassed any and all he'd entertained, and he'd merely forgotten they wouldn't feel as all others had felt.

  But this woman was a prize unparalleled, and while he'd known every inch of her body, he now felt as if he were looking upon her, touching her for the first time. Addictive? Hell, yes. More so than smoke and drink, and his body responded in kind.

  If he thought his hard-on at the assembly was unbearable, this one was unthinkable! He pressed against her; she should know she was doing to him what even she had never done before. Hard as stone after a single kiss!

  She flinched. "Ohhh." He guessed she'd noticed his erection.

  "What you do to me, m'lady." His thumb brushed the vertical line of her cleavage. Her nipple budded against his palm, when he slipped into the bodice. Although she'd turned to butter at first contact, she quickly stiffened.

  "Ambassador." Her lips teased his with her spoken words, even if the whisper escaped her with a hint of fear.

  "Your skin, m'lady, is so soft I should like to sleep in it." When he opened his eyes, he found fire in hers.

  A moment later, an open palm slashed across his cheek.

  He stepped back, rubbing his stinging flesh. "For a little thing you sure can--"

  "Who do you think you are?"

  "I know you're betrothed--"

  "I am not."

  "So you've married him already? Good God, Morgana!" His fist met his opposite palm, and he gave his head a sharp shake. "It sure didn't take long for someone to tame this shrew!"

  She batted her lashes, as if annoyed with his disappointment, and slowly stepped backward toward the door. "I suppose my question ought to have been 'Who do you think I am'?" With that, she pivoted and scurried out the door so fast she was a blue streak in an otherwise pink room.

  If dozens of knights wouldn't have shackled him on the spot, he might've run after her, if only to learn what had gotten into her. Upon their first meeting, she'd stroked his shaft before saying hello, and had left him nude and entwined with silk sheets without saying goodbye! Who was she to slap him after a copped feel and an indecent proposal? Who was she to set boundaries only to change them without warning?

  Who was she indeed?

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  All hell was breaking loose in Carman.

  The glow of Carman topaz, when one stone was paired with another, provided energy strong enough to draw water up from cisterns, light lanterns, and power trinkets. Before Carman topaz aged to its crystalline form, it was vaporous. Vapors captured in the mines were the kingdom's most affordable energy source, and when aged to crystalline fuel, were capable of powering even large machines. Now topaz had failed to draw battery power for the tenth day in a row. Historically, the occurrence was nothing new, but in this day and age, it was rare.

  Other stones like sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds provided energy as well. However, the maturing process took at least four times longer and, as those gems brought larger prices in foreign markets, they were usually reserved for sale.

  The Olympian societies had begun to demand an explanation for the rise in fuel prices over the past few days, but the one person instilled with the authority to expound had fallen ill.

  The queen had issued a do-not-disturb order two weeks previously. No one but her manservant had seen her in the flesh since, even when Bismallian officials threatened war over the energy crisis.

  Thus, the peace and harmony of Carman lay in the hands of a select group of knights--the Brigade of the Secret Service--to which Sir Beauregard had been appointed upon rescuing Lady Morgana from certain death at the hands of her would-be father-in-law, the senior duke of Bismalle. Thus far, Beau had been able to ward off the pressing public, but he spent his days praying the next crop would prove fruitful.

  To top it all off, an ambassador had arrived to speak with the detained queen. Not just any ambassador--the one with whom, in the past, Lady Morgana had taken certain sexual liberties.

  A terrible day, and it's only six in the morning.

  The former Duke Preston of Bismalle dwelled with his manservant-slash-lover, Jade, in the west tower suite. Beau's gut tightened when he considered how close his beloved Morgana had been to being swallowed by the drama of it all. Betrothed to a man who preferred the sexual favors of men, she'd have lost her dignity before losing her life, had she married Preston.

  Beau rapped on the former duke's door. Beside him, a house servant stood straight, his arms laden with a platter of fresh fruit, pastries, and cheeses.

  After several moments, Jade cracked the door and squinted when the light from the corridor shone into his eyes. "We haven't called for breakfast."

  "I need to speak with the former duke."

  "It isn't a good time."

  Beau shouldered his way past the narrow-bodied Jade, who clung to a sheet wrapped around his lower half. The knight held a breath and refused to think about what he'd interrupted, for he'd interrupted it a few times before. "I apologize." Darkness encapsulated the usually airy quarters, now dank with the scent of passion, morning dew, and a beeswax candle, which burned--for effect, probably--in a jar in the center of the tea table just inside the vestibule. "It's important."

  "Might you call first in the future?" Jade's sigh was impatient.

  Beau kept his composure and chose not to remind the man of his place. Rather, he stepped aside so the servant with him could deliver the oversized breakfast tray.

  "It isn't a good time." Jade clenched the sheet.

  When the duke emerged from the bedroom, bare-chested and tugging on the drawstring at his waist, Jade closed his mouth and shrank into the shadow behind the door.

  "Sir Beauregard." The former Duke Preston of Bismalle acknowledged him with a curt nod and took a stoic seat at the table.

  "Preston, good morning."

  "Have a seat." Preston held up a bronze hand. "How is the lovely Morgana?"

  "I didn't come to discuss my private recreations." Beau refused to sit and glanced into the shadows, to where Jade had slipped, then looked back to Preston. "Or yours. I must interview you in private. Jade, if you will kindly step outside, you'll be accompanied to the kitchen. Your breakfast shan't be enjoyed in your quarters this morning."

  Preston nodded his consent, and after securing a robe, the servant did as he was told.

  "An ambassador arrived at dawn." The heels of Beau's boots sounded an even tempo against the floor as he paced about the vestibule. "He comes to secure peace between Carman and Bismalle, and will likely request an interview with you."

  "All of this you may mention in Jade's company." Preston dipped a dull knife into a pastry-encrusted roundel of brie. "He's loyal to me, not to our former kingdom."

  "The man shot me with a bow and arrow--"

  "Only in the name of protecting me, sir."

  "And he intended to kill Lady Morgana."

  "On orders from my father. You don't kill, if the queen orders it?"

  "I don't trust him any further than I may drop kick him out the window."

  "He aches to earn your trust."

  "You mustn't tell him the details of our meetings. Might I remind you my team has these quarters tapped? We see everything you do, hear everything you say. Everything. Your father has banished you for treason, and as I understand it, he isn't crazy about your private behavior either. You have nowhere else to go."

  "None of this is news, Sir Beauregard."

  "In exchange for your cooperation in arresting the Bismallians responsible for the attempt to secure Carman mines, the queen has offered you amnesty and protection. It is your regal duty to accept it."

  "And I have." Preston's large fist pounded against the table. "Sir, I have told you all I can. I fled Bismalle the moment I smelled foul play, and perhaps it was too soon to gather pieces of the puzzle you're now trying
to fit together. But your lady is alive and well, and judging by your usual grins, she's treating you like the royalty you're not."

  Most knights in his position would use belligerent tactics as a means to an end, especially when thus provoked, but Beau pressed his lips into a thin line and swallowed his aggression. "You and I will accompany the ambassador to the Olympian Hunt Club for an afternoon of sport. During this outing, you are to assure him, beyond a doubt, you are free to come and go as you please. Your quarantine here is for your own protection, and he mustn't leave this kingdom until he understands that."

  "Depending on the ambassador's preconceived notions, this might take more than an afternoon." Preston spread the brie onto a large cracker and consumed it in one bite. "Which ambassador did they send?"

  "I posed as a footman to gauge him upon arrival." Beau's heart picked up speed when he pondered what liberties his lovely Morgana had allowed this particular ambassador in the past. "A mouthy bastard. Vuitton of France."

  "Ah, the young Vuitton--sharp, but unfocused. They didn't send someone more practiced, when it comes to the threat of war?"

  "You'd think they might've, but no. Disturbing, isn't it?"

  "Vuitton specializes in social engagements. He's a pretty boy, popular with ladies of status. With the masquerade ball approaching, I'd not be surprised if he volunteered for a stay in Olympia, but he's never written or overseen a treaty." Preston stared at a brick in the wall.

  Neither man said a word for long minutes, leaving the shrill of cicadas to fill the emptiness.

  When Beau finally spoke, it was in a whisper. "The question becomes then, does the assembly of foreign embassies have plans for Olympia? Plans already set in motion, requiring our societies to disengage from our private harmony? Is the assembly the reason for Bismalle's secession?" He braced his palms atop the table and stared down the voluntary prisoner. "They've sent a billboard, in lieu of a peace pipe."

  "Sir Beauregard..." Preston swallowed hard and met his gaze. "I fear the foreign embassy doesn't wish to resolve the matter cooking between your nation and Bismalle. I believe it is their wish to see the societies of Olympia in havoc."