Untouched Queen By Royal Command. Kelly Hunter
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Meanwhile, he had a…courtesan…at his disposal. Whatever that meant. Maybe they could renegotiate her job description.
‘All right.’ There was nothing else for it. ‘I’ll talk to her.’
* * *
It took until mid-afternoon before Augustus made his way to the round room in search of the elusive Sera of the High Reaches. Ignoring her presence and hoping she’d miraculously go away wasn’t working for him. Answers on how best to get rid of her were not forthcoming. Moriana thought she might be of use to him and he trusted his sister’s judgement in most things. Sera’s CV would make any power broker salivate. To have those kind of contacts at his disposal…
And yet he wasn’t the type to share power and he didn’t trust her motivations one little bit.
So here he was, foul of temper and distinctly lacking in patience as he stood at the closed doors to the round room and eyed the profusion of damask roses and soft greenery with distaste, even as the scent of them conjured memories of cloistered gardens and all things feminine. His mother had enjoyed overseeing the floral arrangements throughout the palace, but she’d not have allowed this flat-out challenge to grim austerity. This tease to stop and sniff and feast the eyes on such unrepentantly fleeting beauty.
With one last scathing glare, Augustus stood firm against the temptation to lean forward and let the scent of the roses envelop him. Instead, he pulled the dangling cord that would announce his arrival at the doors. He heard the faint chime of bells and then nothing. Ten seconds later, he reached for the cord again, and then the door opened and the roses were forgotten.
Never mind the creamy skin and the perfection of her lips, the delicate curve of her cheekbones, the raven-black hair that fell in a thick plait to her waist or those eyes that glistened dove-grey. Today his courtesan wore low-slung loose trousers and a cropped fitted top that clung to her curves like a greedy lover’s hand. She was lean and lithe in all the right places, and generously voluptuous in others.
It was a body designed to bring a man to his knees and keep him there for eternity.
She stepped back and dropped her gaze demurely, even as she opened the door wider and sank to the floor in a curtsey, and he might have felt a heel for causing such an action except that she moved like a dancer, fluid and graceful, and he wanted to watch her do it all over again.
‘Don’t do that.’ It was a curt reminder, mostly to himself, that she shouldn’t be on her knees in front of him. It gave him too many ideas, all of them sexual.
‘My mistake.’ She rose as gracefully as she’d gone down in the first place. ‘Welcome, Your Majesty. Please forgive my appearance. I wasn’t expecting company.’
‘What were you doing?’ Her skin glowed with a faint sheen of exertion.
‘Forms,’ she said. ‘Martial arts patterns.’
‘Don’t stop on my account.’
‘I can do them any time,’ she murmured. ‘I’d rather have company.’
He looked around, taking in the now spotless round room, its stone walls and floors covered in tapestries and carpets, oil paintings and silver-edged mirrors. A huge round sofa had been placed in the centre of the room, beneath the domed glass ceiling. The seats faced inwards and there were openings at all four points of the compass. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘The tradespeople and artisans have gone and the Lady Lianthe with them. My guards are currently in a meeting with your guards about how best to utilise their services, given that standing outside a door that no one ever knocks on is a waste of their time and expertise. The maids have been and gone. There is only me.’
Holding her own in a round room built for hundreds to gather in and bedrooms enough for fifty. ‘It’s you I’ve come to see.’
She turned her back on him and led him towards the sofa at the centre of the room. It was leather and studded and looked comfortably soft with age. Pillows and throws had been placed on it at intervals, and the circular floor tapestry framed by the sofa had a stained-glass quality about it, with different scenes to look at depending on where a person sat. ‘What is that?’
‘On the floor?’
He nodded.
‘It’s a communication device. Each scene depicts an action: a need or desire, if you will. In older times a visitor to this place—or even another courtesan—would approach this area and in choosing where to sit would telegraph their needs. Those needs would be seen to.’
‘Just like that?’
‘So they say.’
‘And is that the way it’s going to work for me?’
‘Why don’t you sit somewhere and see?’
‘Maybe I will.’ Maybe he wouldn’t. Better all round if he didn’t engage, no matter how fascinating the history she brought with her. ‘I’ve been trying to get rid of you.’
‘I know that, Your Majesty.’ She glanced towards the tapestry. ‘Take your time looking at it. Even if you don’t plan to use it as directed it’s an amazing piece of artistry. I’ll make tea.’
He watched as she walked away from him, tracking every curve as if it would somehow allow him to see inside her skin. Only once she had withdrawn from sight did he turn his attention back to the mood-gauging tapestry on the floor in front of him. He’d never seen such a thing.
Some of the panels were easy enough to figure out. There was an orgy scene, with bodies entwined in the throes of ecstasy. A gentler scene in which a man reclined while a woman read to him. Another scene depicted people eating from a table covered in delicacies. A bathing scene. A sword-fighting scene. Another showing a reclining man being entertained by dancers holding fans. A dozen men and women stood around a table, deep in sombre discussion. A sleeping couple filled another panel. With every step another mood or need satisfied. A man lashed to a wooden X, his back a mass of welts as he writhed beneath the whip. A beautiful woman holding that whip, her expression one of complete control and focus. Punishment delivered, but not in anger, and the man on the cross looked…grateful.
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