The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok #3) - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,13

he retched over it, bringing up a good deal of the strong, sweet wine he’d overindulged in. He would never drink it again, he vowed as his throat burned and a wave of misery and self-pity swept over him.

“Here,” said the obliging female, hesitating as he retched again, but there was nothing more for him to bring up. Then he spat and she wiped his mouth with a damp cloth. “You’ll feel better now,” she said briskly. “Here, let me take that.” The basin was removed from his grasp and Armand collapsed back against the pillows feeling sick as a dog. “I’m dying,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut again.

“Drink this water,” she said, holding a cup to his lips. Definitely not a tavern wench, who’d have been kicking him out of her bed at this point and cursing him soundly. Armand took a hasty swig of water and then pushed it away. He felt her hand smooth back his hair. Who the fuck was this ministering angel? Tentatively, he squinted up at her again. She had a faintly anxious look on her face. “You must go back to sleep now, Sir Armand,” she said politely. “Then wake upon the morrow feeling refreshed, yes?”

He eyed her doubtfully. He liked her optimism, but not the fact she looked so grave. She wasn’t his usual type. He liked them on the petite side and saucy, but he could see why he’d picked her alright. She had a sweet, full mouth and a nice round pair of tits with large nipples so dark they resembled autumn berries. He hoped he’d enjoyed her charms fully, because he knew he wasn’t going to remember a damn thing in the morning.

With a groan, he rolled toward her, grasping her about her waist and hauling her against him. She gave a faint gasp but did not struggle or pull away as he rested his brow against her soft, deep bosom. She made a damn fine pillow, he thought as his burning eyes drifted shut. After a moment, he felt one hand tentatively stroke his hair. Nice, he thought wistfully. He hoped he’d at least given her his mouth the night before, as he doubted he’d been able to stay hard for long considering the amount of liquor coursing through his veins.

*

When next he woke it was daybreak. Someone had thoughtfully kept the shutters closed, but he could see the light that was filtering into the room around the edges.

“Fuck,” he groaned, clasping hands to his head and rolling onto his back. “My head.” He cast about the room, his thoughts jumbled. Someone should be here with him, he was sure of that much, though the identity of his bedpartner for the moment eluded him.

Slowly, his senses returned to him. He had been competing in that damned fool competition the King had put on as part of the May Day festivities, though everyone knew it was really a ruse to get that ugly cousin of his off his hands. Armand remembered that he and Fulcher had determined he should lose in the very first round, in order to earn the fattest purse, for lately he had been performing well.

Then … His memory faltered. He had been dragged back into the ring and that damned fool jester had given some speech about the man in last place winning the princess. He blinked, and even that seemed to make him feel dizzy. He had won the princess as some sort of twisted consolation prize. They had been swiftly married in the King’s private chapel and after that, his memory grew hazy.

There had been a woman jumbled up in it somewhere, a woman with a sweet mouth and a nice pair of thighs, but she was not the princess. What the fuck had he done with the princess? He sat bolt upright and almost immediately wished he had not. His head swam alarmingly. At his groan, someone moved at the opposite end of the room.

“Sir Armand, are you well?”

He turned his head and saw the attractive piece he had spent the night with. She was bent over a basin of water, washing and clad in a scandalous scrap of a translucent fabric that would normally have his full attention, but right now he had more important things on his mind. Where the hells was the fright of a wife he’d just bound his lot to, he wondered with a stab of anxiety? He was no expert on wedded etiquette, but spending