Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Alfred

I have been knighted and gifted an estate to the east and closest to my homelands. The former lord pissed off Louie some years back, and the estate has been managed by a temporary steward since. Not only do I get a title and estate, but I must have a sword and armor, which means I am poked, prodded, and measured again.

I endure. The wedding is only a week away. After, we have leave to settle in the estate. I can finally escape the cursed green room.

Penelope is having a dress fitting this morning. At her insistence, I am not allowed to attend…. because it is a tradition. I do not like the fucking tradition that would keep me from my mate, for I desire only to be with her. I wouldn't even care that I need to sit in a fancy chair with too much padding. When Penelope is in the room, I am never bored.

But I sense that this is important to her. The dress is supposed to be a surprise. I am told that a servant will come for me when she is done.

So I head down to the barracks, where I go most days to train with the men. They seem to appreciate the sessions as much as I do, and our training often draws a crowd. Once there, I visit the blacksmith to check on the progress of my sword and armor. The sword is complete, and he is starting on the armor.

"It's not going to be unnecessarily bright, is it?" I ask, in all seriousness.

"Bright, Sir Alfred?" the blacksmith, who goes by the name of Dirk, asks me, scratching at his thick bushy beard.

"Yes, like the king's—unnecessarily bright. I realize everyone has opinions on armor, but I will blind myself afore I can land a single blow on my enemies should I need to wear anything that fucking highly polished."

He coughs to cover his laugh. "No, Sir Alfred. I can make it plain, should that be your preference."

"It is, and it is just Alfred."

He bows his fucking head, and I leave, bumping into Dick, Wendle, and Poach.

"We were heading over to the tavern," Dick says.

"Tavern?" My spirits lift immediately at the thought of drinking some decent ale. The only stuff I can find inside the castle is weak as piss and leaves a lot to be desired.

"Do you fancy coming?" Wendle asks. He is young enough to have fluff on his chin still, but he is a tough fighter, as I have learned during our sparring sessions.

"Penelope is having a dress fitting, which I am not allowed to attend. A beer sounds good."

Dick grins, brushing back his overly floppy hair. I have questioned how he can see to fight with it getting in the way all the time.

We leave the castle, taking narrow, cobbled streets dusted with snow until we come to a cheery tavern with a sign bearing a blue boar outside.

The Blue Boar.

"That is a ridiculous name for a tavern," I say.

"What is ridiculous about it?" Wendle asks, then flushes—he is still nervous around me, although he soon forgets it when we are sparring.

"When have you ever seen a blue boar?"

"The wenches are comely," Poach says, grinning. "I do not care what color they paint the fucking boar."

"He is sweet on a barmaid called Evie," Dick explains as we follow Poach into the tavern and are welcomed by a wall of heat and raucous merriment.

A fire is blazing on the right, and a long bar is on the left; the space between is crowded with patrons who either stand or sit at the tables.

"This is more like," I say, rubbing my hands together.

Evie turns out to be blonde and pretty. Her cheeks turn a fiery shade of red every time she comes over with a fresh round of ales.

The third time she drops off the ale, she slides Poach's across last. "I get a break in a bit… If you wanted to?—"

"No," Poach says bluntly. "I will not pleasure you again until you agree to wed me."

"But I have yet to pay my late father's debts," she stammers. Her pretty eyes glisten as she wrings her hands.

Dick, Wendle, and I poorly disguise our interest under the pretense of supping beer.

"I do not give a fuck about your debts, woman, which are not even your fault. I would pay them in a heartbeat."

"There is no need to be rude!" She lifts her pert nose in the air and squares her shoulders. "I am not a charity! I will pay my own debts, and if you stop being a whelp about pleasuring me, I will consider marrying you after that is done."

She flounces off.

Poach snatches up his beer, buries his nose, and gulps half of it down. "Stubborn woman," he mutters as he bangs the tankard against the table.

"She will come around," Wendle says. "But maybe you should pleasure her in the meantime. There are a lot of lusty patrons, and you don't want any of the other bastards to catch her eye. Evie being so pretty and all."

Poach growls and downs yet more beer.

"She has admirable spirit," Dick offers, patting Poach on the shoulder. He has a fancy way with words, and I have discovered he is the fourth son of a minor noble and joined the king's guard when he came of age. "What advice would you offer, Alfred?" He turns to me. "How do barbarians handle such delicate matters of a sweet but stubborn object of your love."

I scratch my beard and consider my approach with Penelope. "I tossed Penelope over my shoulder. But she was a brat in need of taming and had left a dozen of my men bloody. Don't know if it works with every lass. And even so, it is accepted there should be some wooing."

"What is wooing?" Wendle asks, leaning forward in the seat like he doesn't want to miss anything over the rowdy din in the tavern. "Like flowers?"

"Flowers, gifts." —I grin— "Pleasuring them until they cannot even remember any other bastards. Being attentive to what they favor so you can do more of that. My mother was partial to redberries, so my father planted a bush in her garden so she would always have some when in season. That kind of thing."

A loud slap cuts through the air. Our heads swing to the right.

"Oh! Get your filthy hands off!" Evie is struggling with a greasy hair lout who has her on his lap and is pawing her.

Poach roars and charges, knocking over our table and sending a nearby patron flying.

"So sorry!" Wendle helps the man to his feet as Dick and I follow after Poach lest he need any backup.

Evie is liberated from the ruffian's lap and now clings to another barmaid. A cheer goes up as Poach thumps the handsy bastard.

His companion leaps to help, punching Poach in the kidneys from behind.

"Fuck that," Dick cries in his posh voice—it is the first time I have heard him swear.

What follows is nothing short of a melee. Fists fly, furniture smashes—the handsy bastard's nose breaks under Poach's fist. The tavern proprietor wades, assisted by his two barmen.

By the time Poach has delivered a beating to his satisfaction, the tavern patrons are roaring approval, and the four men who accompanied the handsy fucker have likewise been bloodied.

"Get the bastard out of my tavern," the proprietor calls to his men. "You're barred, the lot of you. No man touches my barmaids unless it is by their choice!"

A cheer goes up. Evie is well-liked here, by all accounts.

The furniture is righted. There are calls for more ale.

I swipe under my bloody nose with the back of my hand and grin from ear to ear. My knuckles are split. While I have taken a few hits, I have landed considerably more. Wendle stands to my right. He has a thick lip and a rapidly blackening eye. Dick is to my left and has a bruised cheek, his floppy hair in disarray.

Poach, who can barely open one eye and has blood trickling from his temple, is inspecting his Evie for damage. "Are you alright, lass? Did he hurt you? I will thump the fucker again!"

"Oh, please don't, Poach!" She cups his face, bringing his frantic inspection to a stop. "You did not need to do that. I can handle a stupid lout too deep into his ale. That was very brave of you! And there were five of them. You could have been hurt!"

Dick turns to me, his lips twitching with humor. "Would this be considered wooing where you hail from, Alfred?"

I grin and nod at the couple, who are oblivious to the crowded tavern and only have eyes for each other. "Aye. The best kind of wooing."

We leave Poach and Evie to reconcile, returning to the castle and parting ways at the barracks.

"Oh, what has happened to you?" Penelope demands as I join her in her fancy day room.

"Nothing," I say, trying to sound casual and wishing I had thought to wash up.

"It is not nothing. You are covered in blood, and your nose is very puffy!" She walks me back until my legs butt against the seat of her chaise longue. I sit.

She rings a bell on the nearby table—a maid appears.

"Margot! Fetch some water and cloths!"

The maid scurries off.

"It is—ah—naught."

"You smell of beer!" Her eyes are narrow as she leans in to brush my hair back from my forehead.

"I had a couple of pints at The Blue Boar with Dick, Wendle and Poach."

"The Blue Boar? That is a ridiculous name for a tavern."

"Aye," I agree. Her tits are in my face, and it is having a predictable effect.

The door opens to admit the maid, who places down a bowl of water and some cloths on a nearby table before curtseying and leaving again.

Penelope bristles with agitation as she dips the cloth in the water and wrings it out. "Did you get into a fight?"

I feel like this is a trick question. "Yes."

"Why?" She dabs under my nose.

I want to tell her it will clean up a lot quicker if I just dunk my head in the bowl.

"Poach is sweet on a tavern lass there. Some bastard put his hand on her. Poach put a thumping on him. The bastard's companions decided to wade in." I shrug. "It was not a fair fight. We waded in, too."

She leans back, and her eyes search mine. "Is the young miss okay?"

"Aye. I reckon they will be wedded before the end of the week."

She shakes her head, but her lips curl in amusement as she cups my cheek. "I love you, Alfred."

Her words poleaxe me. It is the first time she has said them, and I feel my chest puff up with pride.

She continues to tend my minor wounds, and I let her, for the attention feels nice. But the fight, her declaration of love, and her lush body so close is a fucking test. My eyes bounce between her concerned eyes and her pretty tits quivering as she leans over me to tend to my cuts.

She stops. I realize I have been caught ogling her.

She sighs heavily. "How can you be thinking of rutting at a time like this?" She plants her palm dramatically against her forehead. "I just called it rutting. Goddess, help me! You are infecting me with your barbarian words."

"I have just been in a brawl. Gave some deserving bastard a good thumping. It is a very positive thing and leads a man toward thoughts of rutting. Also, these fucking dresses make me think about rutting, the way your tits are all pushed up like an offering… the way the skirts hide the nakedness of your naughty pussy."

There is no fucking hope for it. I take the cloth from her, toss it aside, rise, and put her where I was sitting.

Penelope

My father's many years of coaching have failed on every front to persuade me to wear a dress, yet this gruff barbarian on his knees, overcome with lust, sweeps through my resistance with a scythe. I will get the best silk gowns in every color of the rainbow for the magic he performs with the aid of his wicked tongue.

In light of my earlier dress fitting, I put panties on. They now lay in tatters.

"Goddess, yes! Right there."

My fingers tighten on his hair, pushing him where I need him.

He grumbles a complaint, even as he continues to lavish my clit with his tongue.

Then he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, and I arch up, gasping, body rigid as a climax tears through me.

There is something perfect about the debauchery of his moment. Finally, I am the lady my father wanted, only I am a wanton version, spread out on a chaise longue with my silk skirts rucked up and a wicked barbarian king on his knees, his dark head between my legs. He fucks me anywhere and everywhere. The servants are in a perpetual state of alarm and caution lest they find my barbarian overcome with lust for me.

I shudder as his lapping becomes too much, and tug on his hair.

He lifts his head and plucks my fingers away, scowling. I feel one ought to be more concerned when such a barbaric male, who is assuredly all alpha, fixes me with a glare, but all I can summon is a sleepy, satisfied smirk.

"Do not fucking interrupt a man when he is eating, lass."

He swipes his thumb across his lips and sucks it into his mouth, groaning as he savors my taste. I'm sure a civilized man would be appalled to taste me in this way. Certainly, none of my lovers have shown an inclination toward this act, although they have all been eager for my lips around their cocks.

I go to lower my skirts. He smacks my right thigh and pushes them back.

He stares at my pussy like he's thinking of going at it again, and, Goddess have mercy, my inner walls clench with interest. I swear I have never been this needy before. It's like he has broken every rational thought in my mind and made me his slave, one who can think of little beyond getting my hands on him and his cock… and his cock inside me… And the attention of his mouth anywhere is bliss.

To my surprise, he surges to his feet, fists my hair, and tumbles me off the chaise longue onto my knees.

I ought to take exception to this. With my years of training, I could have him on his back with one of my many knives against his throat. Only I don't, because my eyes are locked on his huge bulge straining his leather pants.

"Take my cock out like a good girl, and put it in your hot, naughty mouth."

I groan and reach for his buckle before I can second-guess myself, cooing with glee as I free his pants enough to get my fingers inside and capture the hot flesh.

His chuckle is dark and sinful. "That's my lusty princess, eager for her mate's cock. Pretty gown all rumpled from my rough hands, silk panties all torn, and pussy wet from where you have come. Such a filthy girl for me and only me. Go ahead and have a taste. You know you need my cum in your belly."

His pants finally yield to my tugging and catch at his thighs. Wrapping both hands around his thick girth, I lower the head to my lips and suck, humming as I get the first taste.

He uses me roughly, plowing to the back of my throat, and I love everything about it. So noble in ways and yet barbarian to the core, Alfred is all alpha and all mine.

"I'm going to come. You are going to swallow every drop."

As if there is any doubt? I dig my nails into his ass. He growls—my mate loves to feel their sting—and his seed floods my mouth.