Chapters (76)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- PROLOGUE
- PART I
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- PART II
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- PART III
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- INTERLUDE
- PART IV
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- INTERLUDE
- PART V
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- PART VI
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- INTERLUDE
- PART VII
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- PART VIII
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- EPILOGUE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Newsletter Sign-up
He breathed in deeply, and tried to estimate all the land between here and there. That was all his, too. Every tree and rock and deer shitting in between was his to cherish, or whatever it is one was supposed to do with land.
Myla tightened her legs around his waist and pointed him north. “We are halfway between the castles of York and Nottingham. Yorkshire’s that way,” she twisted his head to the right, “and the rest is Nottinghamshire.”
“I didn’t know you were a map.”
“I didn’t know you were a horse.”
She slapped his ass and wrenched his hair again, until he twisted and grappled her onto the floor. “The majority of the things there are to know about me,” he said as he kissed her neck, that soft spot at her collarbone, “are probably things you didn’t know. What would you like to know about me next?”
“What would you like to tell me next?”
John rewarded her answer by moving up to her ear. “Did you know that I’m the King of Ireland?”
She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “I did not know that.”
“No? Then you must be Irish.” He rolled over in search of another bottle of wine. “I was there for the first time some five years ago. I was eighteen. Eighteen. I had been King of Ireland for eight years, and they treated me horribly. They had no respect, they have no idea how to govern themselves, they’re a terrible people. Terrible. You’re not really Irish, are you?”
“No,” she giggled, tugging at his feet.
“I thought you said you were.”
“You said I was.”
“Yes, that sounds like something I’d say. They’re terrible people, and hairy. A man should never have a beard longer than his cock.” He rubbed his chin, clean and smooth. “So fuck the Irish, is what I say. What do you say, Waleran?”
Waleran, a pompous old name for a pompous old man. This old man still sat, unmoving, at the maw of the staircase. For hours he had sat there, desperately unhappy but too proud to leave.
“He’s someone important,” John had explained to Myla, “and insisted he speak with me. But your tongue can do far better things for me than his ever could, so why would I choose his? But he insisted, so I made him a deal. I would allow him one sentence for every time we make love. Provided, of course, that he sit patiently.”