Wizard's Masquerade, page 50
“Look over there,” he said, and she reluctantly followed his gaze. She caught sight of their reflection in a nearby glass cabinet. The reflection was surreal, as if the intertwined couple were strangers.
Was that her? Was she the woman that the jester was ravishing?
“Keep watching,” he commanded, and she obeyed, giddy with anticipation as he continued to tease her, pressing and sliding in tantalising ways that made her legs go weak.
Her head lolled back to look at the ceiling, and he gave her a look of warning.
“Eyes. Mirror. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Jester grunted in approval and kissed her neck as his fingers thrust harder.
Suddenly there was a destination, and the rhythm was steady and merciless as he propelled her across a boiling sea. There, on the horizon of a midnight sky, a storm was building in the distance. She sailed towards it, swept forward by the torrents of pleasure unleashed by his buried fingers.
“More,” she gasped, struggling to hold on as the waves rose, becoming faster and more powerful, and he continued to drive into her, again and again, in movements that were short, swift, and forceful.
“Say please,” he sang in her ear. “I like it when you say please.”
“Please,” she gasped, no longer caring about anything but the repeated thrusts of his fingers, which were demanding.
“Say it again,” he ordered as the waves of sensations threatened to crash and spill over.
“Please, Finnigan. Please.”
But as she neared the climax, she gripped his arm, steadying him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“What about you?” she gasped. “I want you. I want…”
She didn’t know how else to ask, but she wanted Finnigan to feel what she was feeling—this thrilling, fulfilling sensation. She wanted to share this with him.
“Soon.” He smiled.
And then he pushed his fingers in again, sliding against her wetness—once, twice, three times, ten times—countless times, until her body was shuddering with pleasure, every inch of her alive with rapture as she collapsed against him.
The waves churned in the aftermath, but it was over. The storm had passed, and it was everything she had thought it could be.
She shuddered against Finnigan, her moans muffled against his chest as she rode the last gentle swell to shore.
When she finally opened her eyes, he helped support her as they sunk to the floor together. They were both sitting up, and she nuzzled against his chest. He held her patiently, kissing her forehead softly as her breathing calmed. “Well? How was it?” he probed.
“What happened to courting me properly?” she asked, laughing despite herself, the sound escaping as joy filled her.
“My mistake,” he said, but he was smiling, too. “Although, if that isn’t being courted properly, I don’t know what is.”
“Yes,” she agreed absently, her hands now wandering, tracing up and along his leg, slowly creeping to his inner thigh. He was rock hard. “You can court me properly tomorrow. But as for right now…”
He gave a murmur of appreciation as her fingers stroked him through the fabric of his pants.
It was her turn to undress him. Her fingers were less sure of how to work the leather tie closure, but after a moment of struggling, it came undone.
“Let me,” she whispered, and he went still as she reached inside his pants and stroked him. He groaned, his head falling back against the cabinet with a rattle.
Licking her lips, she pulled on the fabric so his cock sprang free, and as she gently caressed the shaft, he shuddered under her touch.
Without warning, he sat up, seizing her arms as he shifted to his knees.
“Enough playing,” he growled, trying to guide her to the floor. But she shoved him playfully, and he laughed in surprise and fell backwards to sit against the cabinet again. His look of wonderment was priceless as she stood, stripped off her pants, then climbed on top and lowered herself on top of him. She untied the mask and set it aside, then pushed the dark wig off, revealing a tousled mess of caramel waves that made his blue eyes stand out. He was adorable. And magnificent.
“Ready?” she teased.
He looked up at her and swallowed. “Yes.”
She kissed him, then drew back and flashed a seductive smile. Hovering over his groin, she positioned herself so the bulging head met her entrance.
“Careful,” he warned. His momentary nervousness was gone, replaced with wild carnality, his need obvious by the fire in his eyes and the way he gripped her arms. “I’ll give as good as I get.”
Her smile widened. “Good.”
And then she eased down, his thick member pushing into her, and her self-control was gone as he penetrated her fully. They were one.
A raspy, guttural sound escaped Finnigan’s throat as she slowly rode him, and their fingers interlaced as she rocked her hips. Her world grew hazy, as if she’d been drinking, and hot pleasure blazed with every stroke. His groans made fire roar inside her, and in those moments, they shared a secret world where no one else existed.
It was only them.
And then a polite cough made them flinch.
Chapter thirty-three
The Chamberlain
Whipping her head around, Leyna was mortified to see the chamberlain standing in the doorway. He was adjusting his spectacles nervously while balancing a large, heavy-looking plaque.
“My apologies…” he mumbled, setting the plaque down on a low cabinet. “I, err…I came to put this up…from the Ruffles tournament…but…I’ll just leave it here? S-sorry to interrupt…”
He left abruptly, and she stared after him, her heart pounding unpleasantly.
“Oh no…” she whined, sliding off Finnigan and snatching at her pants. She hurried to pull them on. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
But Finnigan did not seem to share her concern and was instead chortling to himself as he refastened his clothes.
“Poor Percy,” he said, shaking his head. “Not the best timing. I’ll bet he didn’t expect that.”
“He most certainly wouldn’t have,” she snapped. “This is completely inappropriate. I shouldn’t be here with you.”
Still sitting on the floor, Finnigan looked up at her questioningly. “Shouldn’t be here with me? Why, who else would you be here with?”
“Cut that out. You know what I mean.” She clutched her head, resisting the urge to bang it against the glass cabinet.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rising slowly, mask in hand.
She sighed. “It’s fine—it is what it is. But you know what the worst of it is? Now I need to go talk to him.”
He gave a surprised laugh. “Why? I don’t think he needs any clarification on what he just saw.”
She clucked her tongue. “No, because I promised Grace that I would talk to him.”
He rolled his shoulders, stretching. “Well, I can see how that would be a spot of bother for you.”
She didn’t respond, cringing with embarrassment as she smoothed her wrinkled clothes. Would Percy tell anyone what he’d seen?
“Leyna, are you alright?” asked Finnigan, stepping closer and placing a hand on her shoulder.
“No.” She pressed her lips tight. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. But I have to go.” She glanced up at him. “I’m sorry.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Go.”
She hurried to the door, but paused with her hand on the knob, frowning down at the wooden plaque the chamberlain had set down. Over two feet wide, the shield-shaped plaque was made of highly polished wood, and bore a golden plate at the top titled Distinguished Service Award of His Majesty’s Soldiers. Below this were dozens upon dozens of small, gold plates, many of them engraved with the names of castle guards and huskarls. She traced the small metal plates with her finger. The awards went back as far as eighty years ago, and in recent decades, Bancroft’s name appeared more than once, and even Damian had once made the cut. Some of the plates from the last twenty years were missing entirely.
“Leyna?” Finnigan moved closer. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes,” she said distractedly, giving her head a quick shake. “I’m fine. I should go.”
She burst out of the waiting room.
“Did anyone see which way the chamberlain went?” she asked, addressing the surrounding nobles.
Everyone stopped talking to stare at her. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mirrored vase. Her cheeks were flushed red, and her hair was not nearly as neat as it had been earlier. She resisted the urge to smooth it down. Could they tell what had transpired between her and Jester?
A short elderly noblewoman who was wider than she was tall cleared her throat softly. “I think he’s gone to his office, dear.”
“Thank you,” said Leyna gratefully, and hurried back through the castle to the rear staircase.
If it wasn’t for her promise to Grace, nothing would have compelled her to seek out the chamberlain. But she had promised Grace, and she couldn’t turn back now.
Halfway up the stairs, she collided with a group of people coming down.
“Sorry,” she said, before looking up. She’d come face-to-face with Maisy Fry—the last person in the world she wanted to see, especially in her current state.
“Sweetheart!” Behind Fry’s dainty frame was a group of three guards blocking the stairwell, one of which was Firmin. “It’s so interesting to see you here…”
“Out of my way,” said Leyna shortly, her own abruptness at odds with the deference she was used to showing the Guild professors. But Fry was no longer her professor, and so long as she was working for the castle, Leyna outranked her.
“Why, of course, sweetheart. But…just one moment, if you will.”
Leyna hesitated. “What is it?”
Fry smirked. “I only wanted to see how you’re doing in these difficult times. As a huskarl, there must be so much pressure on you!”
“I’m managing fine,” said Leyna stiffly. She looked over Fry’s shoulder at Firmin. “It would help if you were consistent in your accusations. Why did you say Quinn was guilty of killing Queen Claire? Because last I heard, you’ve changed your story to accuse Beatrice of being the one responsible for the queen’s death.”
Firmin shrugged.
“It’s much of a muchness,” he rasped, his dark beady eyes narrowing at her. “They were both there. It’s the same difference, innit?”
“No,” said Leyna. “It’s not. It makes all the difference in the world.”
Fry tittered. “Splitting hairs again, are we? Listen, sweetie…there’s really no point comparing one traitor to another, not when they’ll both end up on the chopping block. You’re wasting your time.”
“You’re wasting my time,” Leyna said, trying to step past Fry.
But Fry didn’t move out of her way.
“I’m only trying to help,” said Fry sweetly. “Naturally, that’s why the Guild sent me—so that I can be of assistance. But with today’s announcement of the executions—”
“Executions?” Leyna interrupted. “What executions?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Fry leant in conspiratorially. “Why, the execution of the traitors, of course! They are finally beginning.”
“When?” demanded Leyna.
“Tomorrow,” she purred. “And I am so looking forward to seeing justice served. And yet…” she trailed off with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t help but wonder how you’re coping. As the head of the Arrest Unit, the responsibility of carrying out the executions must be daunting—do you think you’ll have the stomach to execute your former huskarl friend, what was his name again…?”
“Huskarl Quinn,” Leyna answered, feeling lightheaded.
“Oh yes, that’s right,” simpered Fry. “The traitor Quinn. Yes. Do you think Quinn will be the first to die tomorrow? Or will there be a warm up?”
Without thinking, Leyna seized Fry by the ruff of her shirt.
“You’re lying. Quinn hasn’t been trialled yet.”
“Perhaps I misheard,” said Fry. “But if I’m right…it really is for the best, don’t you think? After bringing the Royal Guard into disrepute?”
Leyna shoved Fry against the wall and pushed past the guards, too angry for words as she stormed up the steps. She had to find the chamberlain and get confirmation—now.
The meeting with the chamberlain went better than Leyna could have hoped for. He was nothing but professional, giving no indication he had witnessed her compromising position only minutes ago, and she was grateful for his discretion.
She shared her concerns about what Professor Fry had said on the stairwell, and was relieved to learn that Fry had exaggerated much of what had officially been announced.
While there were indeed executions scheduled to begin the following day, neither Quinn nor Beatrice were scheduled.
“They are high-profile cases,” explained Percy. “Beatrice’s trial is later this week, and we have yet to set a trial date for Quinn. As for the other traitors, those who have already been trialled and found guilty will be executed publicly this week, beginning tomorrow morning.”
Amongst the morbid topic, she was further relieved to learn that Fry had exaggerated her role in the executions. Contrary to what the professor had implied, no one expected Leyna to carry out the executions herself. This relief was short-lived, however, as Percy expanded on her actual role.
“As head of the Arrest Unit, you will have the great honour of escorting the prisoners to the scaffold,” he said solemnly. “There, you will present them to the executioner. I know it is not an easy thing, but I trust you will be capable of carrying out your orders?”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, twisting the sleeves of her cloak.
How on earth was she going to lead the prisoners to the execution platform, knowing they would die there?
What if Quinn is found guilty? Will I have to walk him to the scaffold too? With Grace watching?
It would be the end of her friendship with Grace. It wouldn’t matter what Quinn had done. Even if he’d slain hundreds of innocent men, women and children in wolf form, it wouldn’t offset the damage to their friendship—Grace would never forgive her for facilitating his death, and even if she did, Leyna would not be able to look her in the eye.
Percy noticed her distress.
“There, there,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “No one can deny that these are difficult times. But try not to worry, it’s for the best. We must do the hard thing now so the kingdom can heal. Speaking of which, how goes your investigation?”
The change in topic startled her.
“It’s going well, sir,” she lied, and gave a progress report, listing the potential suspects: Quinn, his father the steward, the headmaster of the Wizarding Guild, Professor Fry, the Brotherhood, and a handful of others. She even listed Lord Brighton, but purposefully did not mention the jester, knowing it was the disguise that Finnigan preferred for its versatility across social circles. She hesitated before admitting to the chamberlain that he himself was a suspect—but this only made him smile.
“At least you’re being thorough,” Percy said, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his spectacles. “Although, I had hoped by now you would have narrowed it down somewhat. And what about the Brotherhood? Have you been able to identify any of its members?”
It was an objective Leyna was unaware of.
“Err, no, not yet.”
“Pity.” The chamberlain turned to stare out the window.
She hurried to recover. “But I do plan to question Maurice and Firmin.”
Percy’s gaze returned to her. “Maurice and Firmin?”
“I’m just waiting for the testimony from you, sir. I’d like to read it first before I approach either of the guards.”
The chamberlain blinked several times.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“The testimony,” she repeated. “The steward said you would give me a copy. He sent a guard to convey the request?”
Percy continued to blink.
“I’m afraid I never received such a request.”
“Oh.”
“However, I think that’s an excellent idea.” He clucked his tongue, then offered her a friendly smile. “Silly me. How can I possibly expect you to do your job without a copy of that report? You should have had it from the beginning. It’s like trying to do the job with your hands tied, isn’t it?”
He gave an awkward titter, and Leyna tried to return his smile.
“So, does that mean you’ll give me a copy?”
“Absolutely,” he nodded, but made no move to get up.
Leyna frowned. “When?”
“Well, I’ll need to create a copy. But I daresay I can have it to you by this evening.”
“Can’t I just see the original?”
The chamberlain shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not how things are done. The Council simply cannot afford to lose the original, you see. But do not worry, you will receive a notarised document which will have been certified as a true copy by another court official. Now, is there anything else I can be of assistance with?”
There was. She asked about the application for the magical spears, and Percy assured her he’d forwarded it to the steward.
Her hands clenched under the table. What was going on? Was someone intercepting communication between the steward and the chamberlain?
“Is there anything else?” asked Percy, but his tone was calm and patient, as if he had all the time in the world for her. Through his window, she saw a spectator fly past in the far distance, rolling elegantly through the clouds.
“Actually, sir, I wanted to ask if you are alright.”
“Me? How kind of you to ask.”
“It’s just that I know the steward has you summoning demons for him,” she said in an undertone. “And I know the demon summonings are dangerous.”
“I just worry about the risks,” said Leyna. “And how it affects our treaty."
