The King's Pleasure by Kitty Thomas Page B

couldn’t set her free, now. As much as he was loath to admit it, Robert was right. Not about his feelings with regard to her kind, but about the weakness it would show to just release her. So it was her hand or her freedom.
    The woman watched him, waiting to learn if he’d tell the king. Suddenly the game didn’t seem as funny. Like others who didn’t yet know him or his intentions toward the kingdom, she’d assumed he was a monster like his predecessor, that her life would be on the line if the king caught wind of her thievery. He couldn’t imagine how hungry she must have been to take such a risk in the first place.
    “I am the king.”
    The color drained out of her, nearly eradicating the olive in her complexion. Less than a second later, she was on her knees at his feet, her lips pressing against them. Her hair splayed across his bare skin as she shook violently. The act of fear and submission struck him with a sudden wave of arousal. If he hadn’t already decided to keep her as his own, this moment would have been the deciding factor.
    “Your Majesty…” It seemed she would say something else because of the way her voice trailed off, but it was as if she couldn’t think of anything to fill the increasingly oppressive silence stretching between them, as if she feared begging for her life would only enrage him and ensure she lost it.
    “What is your name?”
    “A-Abigail.”
    “Not a very gypsy-like forename,” he mused.
    She cringed at that. “I’m only half-gypsy,” she whispered, as if hoping that was enough to spare her.
    “I see.”
    She jumped when he reached down and helped her to stand. “The floor is too cold for all of that out here. Come with me.”
    “Your Majesty?”
    He gave her a long, hard look. “Oh no. You will call me Master.”
    Her eyes became as large as saucers at the implication. “You aren’t going to kill me?”
    His gaze swept over her. She needed to be cleaned up, but he was quite sure his grogginess wasn’t overstating her loveliness. “Why would I kill something so beautiful that could bring me so much pleasure?”
    She didn’t reply as he led her back to his chambers; a guard was posted next to the entrance.
    “John, wake the cook and have her reheat that pheasant with the roasted vegetables we had for lunch this afternoon, for two. I’d also like some bread and tea delivered.” He paused in the open doorway and then turned as if in afterthought. “Oh, and I’ll also need a slave garment.” The guard’s eyes widened, but he wisely bowed and moved down the hall to carry out the order.

    ***

    Abigail stood just inside the door of the king’s chamber while he gave orders to the guard. This had to be some sort of trick. There was no possible way he’d spare her and take her as a slave. Not with her ancestry. Women in Himeros were groomed from puberty for such a position in the castle. Kings didn’t take peasants off the street, definitely not peasants of her racial background. If she got pregnant, he’d never allow a gypsy—even as watered down as the bloodline would be by then—to be his heir.
    So what was this, then? It had to be mere amusement. A cruel joke. He’d rape her and hurt her until he got bored. Then he’d have her killed or thrown back out on the streets. He was a war hero after all. He’d probably taken many women as spoils and played similar mind games with them.
    Even though she knew what he must be planning, Abigail was determined to find a way to keep him amused as long as possible to delay her sentence. Maybe if enough time passed, she could gain his favor and be spared.
    The door shut loudly behind the king. Even though his chambers were cavernous, the rooms shrank as the man in front of her seemed to fill every available bit of space with the power of his presence.
    As he looked her over, she almost wished she hadn’t been such a coward. She might have survived having her hand cut off, and the king wouldn’t have been dragged