“Mmmm,” he murmured. “A splendid idea.” He leaned her back in his arms, smothering her neck and shoulders with passionate kisses. “And I have another idea,” he growled, easing the neckline of her gown down over her shoulders as he ravished her breasts with greedy lips.
Morag rose from his lap, unlaced her corset seductively before him and dropped her gown to the floor. She saunteredacross the room, swaying her slender nude hips, as Donnchadh quickly threw off his royal tunic, breeches and boots and followed the bewitching temptress, a moth drawn to the flame.
****
Several weeks later, King Donnchadh departed with his Marshal and Seneschal to finalize plans for the construction of additional lodging for the hundreds of knights that the Morholt insisted were necessary to bolster Ireland’s military might. Queen Morag had been patiently waiting for this planned excursion. And now, with the king gone for at least a fortnight, she planned to take full advantage of his absence.
As she proceeded into her antechamber to await the arrival of the Morholt, whom she’d summoned, the queen did not notice Brangien, who was seated in the adjacent servants’ room, embroidering under the opened window in a quiet corner.
Queen Morag dismissed her attendants as the burly Viking entered her antechamber. The Black Knight was not clad in his usual intricately detailed armor, having donned instead a more casual tunic and breeches for today’s private, intimate meeting. But his magnificent sword gleamed at his hip, ever ready to defend his beloved queen.
“My queen,” he said, his voice deep and rich, as he knelt to kiss her extended hand.
She gazed down upon his thick, russet hair. He smelled of leather, horses, and pine. Her body stirred in response.
The Morholt rose to his feet to await her command. Morag turned, wandering over to the open window where the drapes fluttered in the morning sunlight and the fragrant pine scent of the lush forest wafted in upon the summer breeze.
She gazed out across the grassy plains which led to the thick, dense woods surrounding the castle. The very, very, dense woods.
“I have given our plan careful consideration. There is one outcome I had not considered.”
She turned to face him. To her delight, his bold eyes were piqued with interest. And lust.
“If Donnchadh and I marry the Princess Issylte to King Marke of Tintagel, she could very well bear him a son. The heir to the throne of Cornwall.” She locked her eyes upon his. “As you well know, I have not been able to conceive a child. In the two long years since my marriage, despite the futile amorous attempts of my hapless husband.”
Morag floated across the room, her dreamy dress a soft blue like the endless sky.
She ran her white hands up the front of his massive chest, her slender fingers stroking the thick, dark hair at the base of his throat. “Or the ardent, frequent lovemaking of my lusty, virile knight.” She kissed his neck, tracing a circle with her dainty tongue. She smiled contentedly at his guttural moan.
“Although I have no desire whatsoever to bear a bawling brat, it would be disastrous if Issylte were to produce an heir. For if I remain childless, her son would inherit not only the throne of King Marke of Cornwall, but the entire kingdom of Ireland as well.”
She tugged the front of his tunic, pulling his chest against hers.
“Princess Issylte is the greatest threat to my throne.” She shared her breath with him.
He lowered his mouth to devour hers, moving to assault her exposed throat. His face flushed with desire, he raised his head and snarled, “Then she must die.”
Morag wrapped her slender arms around his thickly corded neck and pulled his face down to hers. She teased his lips with her own, rubbing her hips against his in a provocative dance of seduction. Taking him by the hand, she led him most willinglyinto her adjacent chambers, to the inviting, enticing, lavender-scented bed.
A short while later, after he had left, the queen was recovering from the amorous assault of her beloved Black Knight. Her limbs were still quavering with pleasure, her loins smoldering like glowing embers, when there was a sudden, urgent knock at her door.
The queen, who had dismissed her attendants for the intimate tryst, quickly donned her hastily discarded blue gown and smoothed her sex-tousled hair. Inhaling deeply, she rose to her full regal stature and opened the door to find one of her royal guards standing before her, visibly distressed.
He knelt at her feet, his head bowed in homage. Morag’s heart leapt to her throat. Had someone seen? Or heard? She had practically screamed, lost in the throes of pleasure. The Morholt knew all the ways to drive her wild.
“Rise, Sir Knial. What is it? What is wrong?” She tried to calm her racing heart.
The knight was obviously flustered. He rocked from side to side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. By the Goddess, what was wrong?
“I just saw the Lady Brangien leave the servants’ quarters, my queen. The room beside your royal chambers.”
He stammered, beside himself with agitation.
“I did not realize she was there, Your Majesty. You gave explicit orders that no one was to be in the vicinity. I did not see her, my queen. But I did notice her leave, just a few moments ago. She raced down the hall and took the stairs to the kitchen. I did not know of her presence in the servants’ quarters, Your Majesty. I have failed in my duty.”
He dropped to his knees, his head lowered in shame.
Morag’s mind raced. She needed to react quickly. What had Brangien overheard? She couldn’t take a chance. She had to act decisively. And immediately.
