The Devils Who Would Be King (Royal Pains Book 4) Read online

  Praise for Royal Pains by Nina Mason

  “Well-written, saucy, and ribald historical fiction.”

  —Romantic Historical Reviews

  “An exquisitely beautiful yet intriguing story encircled by a world of unrest far more real than we want to acknowledge.”

  —Unwrapping Romance

  “An amazing, well-written, hot read that I simply couldn’t put down.”

  —Sabina’s Adventures in Reading

  “A truly good book!”

  —The Ardent Reader

  “The description of the characters is so detailed it is like looking through a picture album at them. And the story line is not only exciting, but HOT!!!”

  —Immortal Reviews

  “Wow, did Ms. Mason bring it. It's a historical romance, but it's smokin’ hot.”

  —Bound by Books

  “A truly good book!”

  —The Ardent Reader

  “Had me hooked from page 1 till the very end! I absolutely love historical romance and this did not disappoint!”

  —Just One More Romance

  “An amazing read from start to finish.”

  —Eclipse Reviews

  “An erotica reader’s pot of gold”

  —Triple A Book Blog

  “If you like your sex hot and your history accurate, read this series.”

  —Amazon Customer

  Their loyalty, faith, and love will be tested like never before…

  Maggie, pregnant and missing Robert like mad, invites Gemma Crosse to help ease her loneliness, only to get swept up in a whirl of naughtiness and heartache. Meanwhile, rebellion is brewing to the north, where her husband is acting as a spy for the king, who grows drunker with power by the day.

  Will Maggie and Robert’s love be strong enough to weather the coming storm? Or will the winds of change blow their world into pieces?

  Books by Nina Mason

  Sins Against the Sea

  Royal Pains

  Devil in Duke’s Clothing

  The Duke’s Bedeviled Bride

  The Devil’s Masquerade

  The Devils Who Would Be King

  Out of Print

  The Queen of Swords

  The Tin Man

  Starry Knight

  Dark & Stormy Knight

  Knight of Wands

  Knight of Cups

  Knight of Pentacles

  The Devils Who Would Be King

  Royal Pains: Book Four

  Nina Mason

  Copyright © 2016 by Nina Mason

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be produced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews..

  Acknowledgements

  For his support and encouragement along the way, I thank my husband Dan.

  For helping me iron out any manuscript issues, I thank my friends and beta readers Elizabeth Burns and Anne Rindfliesch.

  For their allegiance to me, Robert, and Maggie, I thank all the readers who have followed this tale to the end.

  For helping me get the history right throughout this series, I thank the authors of the following books: An Ecclesiastical History of Scotland by George Grub; James II and his wives by Allan Fea; The Diary of Samuel Pepys; The Social Life of Scotland in the Eighteenth Century by Henry Grey Graham; Diary of the Times of Charles the Second by Henry Sidney, Earl of Romney; The Last Days of Charles II by Raymond Crawford; Whitehall Palace: An Architectural History of the Royal Apartments by Simon Thurley; Queen Anne: The Politics of Passion by Anne Somerset; Princess and Queen of England: The Life of Mary II by Mary F. Sandars; The History of England from the Accession of James II by Thomas Babington Macaulay; A View of the Reign of James II by Sir James Mackintosh; The History of the Sufferings of the Church of Scotland from the Restoration to the Revolution by The Rev. Robert Wodrow; A History of the Early Part of the Reign of James the Second by Charles James Fox; Shield of Empire by Brian Lavery; Fall of the Stuarts by The Rev. E. Hale; A Scots Earl in Covenanting Times by James Willcock; Aphrodisiacs, Fertility and Medicine in Early Modern Europe by Jennifer Evans; and last but not least, The School of Venus by Michel Millot.

  Chapter One

  May 5, 1685

  London, England

  As the hired chairmen transported Maggie and her son through the crowded streets of Westminster, she shut her eyes and waited for the nausea to pass. The sedan-chair ride to Mrs. Crosse’s apothecary shop, jarring and confining though it was, had not caused her sickness. By her calculations, she was nearly two months gone.

  She took a deep breath, despite the air’s unpleasant smell. With luck, the swell of her belly would not show for another two months—or even longer with the talents of her abigail and mantua-maker artfully applied.

  Robert left her three weeks ago and she’d had no word from him since. Not that she expected him to write. Much as she yearned to hear from him and know he was safe, she understood the reasons for his silence. How could he write without imperiling his mission as well as his life? There was too great a risk his letters would be intercepted by the rebels. If they found any addressed to the Royal Palace, they would know he was a spy for the king.

  Tears sprang into Maggie’s eyes. Sniffing them back, she bounced wee Jamie in her arms. While she had missed her courses before Robert left, she had kept her suspicions to herself for three very good reasons. First, she was not yet certain; second, there was an excellent chance, given her history, she would lose the child before he returned; and third, she had no desire to make it harder than it already was for him to do what the king had asked of him.

  Like it or not, the king’s commands must be obeyed, even by his relations. All she could do was lighten her husband’s load to the degree within her power, pray for his safe return, and try her best to keep fear and loneliness at bay.

  The first two challenges were proving easier than the third. At times, she missed Robert so much she could barely breathe. Her only sources of comfort were her son and her memories. But the baby could not lend her a sympathetic ear and the past could not keep her warm at night. The move to the smaller palace had distracted her for a time, but now that she was installed in her new suite of apartments, she missed Robert more acutely than ever.

  Maybe if she had a friend, his absence would be easier to bear. Someone to whom she could unburden her heart. But alas, the queen was too embittered by the return of the king’s mistress to be of any use to her, and the other ladies of the court were too artful to be trusted with her secrets.

  With a heavy sigh, Maggie closed her eyes and called into her mind the last time she and Robert made love. She still vividly recalled every gesture, word, and nuance. Standing over her in his shirtsleeves as she lay on their bed, he had taken hold of her legs and dragged her toward him. Her petticoats drew back as her bottom skidded across the coverlet, exposing everything she owned to his view. When her bottom reached the edge of the mattress, he pulled off his shirt and cast it aside. Stepping up to her, he parted her thighs with his body and planted his phallus to the root within her. The unexpected violence of his occupation had made her gasp.

  “You are mine, Rosebud,” he growled, pressing his claim to her limits. “Mine and mine alone, forever and always. Mine, whether I am here or in Scotland. Mine, whether I am dead or alive.”

  Withdrawing a little ways, he sank into her again. She lifted her hips, admitting him so deep she could feel the head of his cock banging upon the door to her womb.

  “I mean to hammer you so hard you break into pieces,” he said, his gray-green eyes ablaze with passion, “so I can take one
of those pieces with me, and keep it locked inside my heart.”

  “Do,” she said, ready to die of love and longing for him. “Take me, break me, and carry me in your heart in the manner of a talisman. For I am yours, my darling, body and soul. Not only in this life, but for the whole of eternity.”

  “I want your whole heart, too,” he said, besieging her once more.

  “I surrender it gladly.”

  He began to pound her in a solid, relentless rhythm that pushed her closer to heaven with each invasion.

  “I want you to call me Lord and Master.” His soft command was a seductive threat. “I mean to make you my slave.”

  “Do with me what you will, Lord and Master. For I am in your thrall.”

  As he came into her again, she clenched her muscles around his girth. He moaned and shuddered in response, driving spurs into the sides of her already galloping desire. He hammered her over and over with a force that straddled the fine line betwixt agony and ecstasy. She felt disconnected, but also fully present; whole, and yet fragmented. All her senses, all her awareness, were fixed on the point of impact, where the persistent ramrod pushed her toward pleasure and pain in perfect harmony.

  When she raised her hips, he ducked under her thighs, taking her legs onto his shoulders. As she locked her ankles at the nape of his neck, he elevated her buttocks whilst still pounding away. Though each jolt jarred her to the core of her being, she willingly offered herself to him.

  He was the Holy Spirit, the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End. He was the serpent of temptation, offering her the forbidden fruit of knowledge. He’d already devoured her, seeds and all.

  Robert lowered himself, straining the muscles in the backs of her trembling legs. She cared not. She wanted to be ravaged. To be stripped to her bones. To be ground into powder.

  “Yes,” she cried. “Oh God, Robert, yes!”

  Taking her face in his hands, he forced her to meet his ferocious gaze. “You are my Eucharist, my Corpus Christi, and I am the priest who will bless and break you for the communion to come.”

  His hands slid to her breasts and squeezed their supple fullness before sliding down her sides. All of his weight rested upon her now as he cupped and raised her buttocks to achieve still greater depth. When she cried out in response, he kissed her with ferocity, forcing open her mouth, crushing her lips, and scraping her face with his sandpaper stubble. As his thrusts picked up speed, a spark caught somewhere deep inside her, and out of the ashes of annihilation rose a fire-breathing phoenix.

  Mistress Margaret, taking wing, drew her sword.

  Arching up to meet his next lunge, she bit his lip hard enough to break the skin.

  He grunted in protest, removed his mouth to her neck, and latched on. As he drove into her, she raked her fingernails down his back, tearing his flesh. She wanted to mark him, to draw blood. If she was the wafer, he would be the wine. The sacrificial blood that washed away the sins of the world.

  The source of her power, atonement, and completion.

  As the sedan-chair rocked, the scene faded. She opened her eyes, stripped naked by longing. The queasiness in her stomach had been replaced by a knot. Would her dear heart come back to her? The mere thought that he might not pierced her to the core. A tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away, scolding herself for her weakness. As time wore on, would her memories of him fade, too? Would she forget someday how glorious it felt to be touched by a man she cherished so dearly?

  “Please, God,” she whispered hoarsely, “do not take him from me.”

  Despite her entreaties, she knew perfectly well that the Lord would do what was best for the greater good of all. She must not be selfish. God had blessed her in many ways. If she lost Robert and her children, she would have to accept her unhappy fate with as much grace as the Blessed Virgin had accepted hers. She just prayed her destiny would not include a forced marriage to the Earl of Mulgrave, who had been annoyingly attentive since her husband’s departure. Instead of easing her loneliness, his tedious company only made her miss her husband the more.

  Robert’s absence was torturous enough to begin with. Night after night, she did her best to relieve the terrible ache between her legs, smothering her cries in her pillow lest someone overheard her through the walls. If that were to happen, she would be mortified. The royal court was a hotbed of gossip. Rumors would spread that she’d taken a lover—rumors that Robert would hear upon his return. Would he believe her denials? Maybe, if he granted her the favor of listening to her explanation. Robert’s reaction, however, was not her greatest worry; Lord Mulgrave’s was. If the earl confronted her, how would she explain herself?

  Certainly not by admitting the truth.

  And Mulgrave, being as relentless as he was uncouth, was sure to say something if reports of her infidelity were to reach his ears. That he sought to share her bed was evident. Every chance he got, he corralled her so he could bore her further with his blovious tales of his own heroism. He also read her poems—odious heroic couplets that seemed to go on forever and bored her senseless. He claimed he’d penned the verses especially for her. She cared not who they were for. They were monotonous at best and insulting at worst. When she could get a word in edgewise (a rare event), she would do her best to steer the conversation to the brewing rebellion in the hopes he would reveal some news of her husband. Her efforts came to naught, however. For Lord Mulgrave insisted he had no news to share.

  “Upon my honor,” the earl told her, “we have heard naught from your husband since he set off for Scotland, much to my and your father’s vexation.”

  Though he seemed sincere, she was not foolish enough to put her trust in his word. Even if she could bear his company (which she could not), he had a hand in sending Robert away—she was sure of it—more than likely to clear the way for himself. As if she was some two-timing tart who spread her legs for other men the moment her husband looked the other way.

  Even were she inclined to take a lover, she would choose someone more appealing than “Grandio” (one of many names Lord Mulgrave was called behind his back). He was of middle stature, had an overlong nose, and wore a sour, lordly expression most of the time. He also was boastful, ill-mannered, and mind-numbingly dull.

  One evening, at a small gathering that included the king, Lord Mulgrave had boasted once again about his own intrepidity at Tangiers, where he claimed to have fought bravely despite a severe illness and a great storm. Maggie, who lay upon a couch in the room, pretended to fall asleep. (Had he droned on much longer, she would not have needed to pretend!) At length, Lord Mulgrave took his leave, claiming to be worn out from his trying day. When he was gone, Maggie sat up, and said, “Is he gone? How tiresome he is!”

  Her father replied only, “I thought you were asleep, my dear.”

  “No,” said Maggie. “I only shut my eyes that I might not join in the ennuient conversation. If only I could have shut my ears, too! I am sick to death of hearing of his great courage every day of my life. Who cares for his old storm? I believe, too, it is a great lie, and that he was as much afraid as I should have been, for all that he says now.”

  The king chuckled good-naturedly. “I believe you are right, my dear. For when I hear others speak of Tangiers, their portrayals of Lord Mulgrave’s actions are not in the least heroic.”

  Surprised by his answer, Maggie furrowed her brow as she regarded her father. “Why, then, do you suffer his company and seek his counsel? He is naught but a sycophant, sire. Surely, you can see that.”

  “Yes, he flatters me,” said the king, now looking nettled, “but I believe his compliments to be sincere. And as to the former, I suffer his company because he is loyal, and I value his counsel because he is clever.”

  Maggie wanted to remind her father that Robert was loyal and clever, too—certainly more so than Mulgrave. After a moment’s reflection, she decided ’twould be wiser to say no more on the subject.

  Mulgrave, who insisted she call h
im John (as if she would submit to such an intimacy!), had offered to accompany her to the apothecary’s this morning—nay, insisted she bring him along for protection—but she had stood her ground. She had not seen Mrs. Crosse since the night of their ménage à trois and could not be sure how matters stood betwixt them. The last thing she needed was Lord Mulgrave’s posturing adding to the tension.

  In a moment of weakness, she had told him about the engraftment, which she now regretted, for if she wounded his ego too severely, he might use the knowledge against her.

  Casting all thought of “Grandio” aside, Maggie looked down at wee Jamie, who was cradled in her arms. Heart overflowing with motherly affection, she said, “Would you like a little brother or sister, my sweet boy?”

  The chair stopped and one of the carriers opened the door. Maggie took a deep breath and tightened her grip on her son. Sudden dread gripped her as she looked down at his dear little face. He was the picture of health, and she was about to make him ill! Purposefully. Could she live with her guilt if the engraftment killed her child? Even in expert hands, the procedure was dangerous. There was every chance her dear boy would die after being infected, just as some of her friends at the convent orphanage had when she was a girl.

  Maggie had been one of the lucky ones who developed no more than a mild case of the disease. Now, she was immune, enabling her to nurse her husband when he contracted the dreaded contagion last year. The memory of that terrible time raised her hopes for her son’s survival. Since both wee Jamie’s parents had beaten smallpox, he stood a good chance of doing the same.