The Kingdom of Little Wounds by Susann Cokal Read Free Book Online Page A

haven’t even stuck a lady with a pin when attaching her ruff; I cannot explain it” — can’t blame Isabel for moving, can’t give any excuse but my own awkwardness —“but I assure you the injury was unintended . . .”
    I don’t mention the missing spectacles, which would make me look careless.
    He lifts a hand to stop me. “Women have been dismissed from royal service for less.”
    I let my eyes flick upward again. Are we talking only of dismissal? But then, losing my position might be worse than being put to death; my family would be shamed once again, and I would lose my hope of independence. Who would hire a seamstress who’s stabbed the Queen? Only the same nonexistent person who would marry a virgin who miscarried on the church
plads.
    I hear a ticking somewhere in the room; Nicolas Bullen must have a clock.
    “My lord.” I squeeze the words around the lump in my throat. “I promise you — I meant no betrayal. That is, I have always worked to the Queen’s trust. I have never —” I almost wish he would torture me; I think my body might take the assault better than my emotions.
    Nicolas Bullen’s hand silences me again. Long fingers for a man his size, I notice; they’d look even longer if he wore a smaller ring. I imagine that hand closing around my throat, squeezing the words back into my belly. I realize I am stretching my neck as if inviting him to do this. As if I deserve punishment.
    Lord Nicolas smiles. His sharp teeth shine. He, too, sees an invitation in my gesture; he thinks I’m trying to tempt him. In this age of ruffs and high collars, bare necks are tempting spots. Anyway, I would never refuse — it would be unwise . . . He has such
power.
    And so it is not surprising that I find myself on the floor of that little room, with Lord Nicolas’s courtly cloak spread around him to a pool of black velvet just beyond my russet skirts. Me on my knees, he on his haunches, and his fingers wormed in beneath my cap to my hair. The tines of his ring yank out a strand. We are kissing, after a fashion. His tongue licks at my tongue, and mine tries to respond without choking. Does he think this is pleasurable? Does he think I’ll melt at these brutal kisses? It feels as if he’s exploring me, trying to find the secret nooks inside my head. His perfume is so strong my nose burns. His fingertips plug my ears, so I hear nothing but the rush of my own heart, and I clench my ribs to make that tattling organ slow.
    Meanwhile his breath — both sulfurous and sweet, he’s been chewing something like coriander — passes down into my lungs and out again through my nose, my mouth, into his nose and mouth. We are breathing together. I close my eyes, and for a moment I tell myself that it is the embrace of which young girls dream. With a nobleman. Perhaps this is all he wants from me; perhaps I can give myself to save myself. Perhaps it is only the memory of Jacob that prevents me from succumbing willingly . . .
    Because I am myself and have learned fear from experience, the thought of salvation quickly turns to anxiety. Surely he expects more than a kiss. He is exacting a penance, after all; I am here because I pricked the Queen and made her bleed. No punishment stops with a kiss.
    Yes, I am right. He takes my hand. I think I know what he wants, and I touch his chest, the slick prickles of gold embroidery. He shifts, and the chest is out of reach.
    He stops the clumsy kissing to wrestle my hand inside his codpiece.
    For a moment I recoil at the heat, the coarse hair. But Lord Nicolas shifts, deftly trapping my hand before it can leave his breeches. He clears his throat and licks his wicked white teeth and stares at me with expectation.
    What I must do now is unmistakable. I will be lucky if this is all.
    I hold my breath to trap all my courage inside. Then I work my way deeper into the codpiece.
    I find that Lord Nicolas is considerably smaller than Jacob Lille, which seems strange; a lord should be grander