Her King's Command Read online

  Her King’s Command

  By

  Breanna Hayse

  ©2016 by Breanna Hayse

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Breanna Hayse and Twisted Hearts Productions

  .

  Hayse, Breanna

  Her King’s Command

  Cover Art by Serena LeBeaux and Twisted Hearts Productions

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Twisted Hearts' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking/sexual activity or the spanking of minors.

  (This title was previously published as King Dom Comes by Blushing Books)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  Epilogue

  Breanna Hayse

  Titles by Breanna Hayse

  CHAPTER 1

  Shannon's hand trembled uncontrollably as she re-read the letter. It contained one word, written in a bold script.

  Tomorrow

  She had known this day would come. There had been no escaping her fate from the moment the king had placed her in the hands of the Sisterhood of Truth, a tiny and isolated convent located in a remote village in Northern Ireland. He had left her with the hope she would gain the education, and learn the discipline, that would be necessary to take her place by his son's side as a wife and Queen. Her future was set, and Shannon's love and respect for the departed ruler did not leave room to question this destiny. She struggled with only two questions; when would the new king, Domitri d'Gavril, come for her, and how would he receive her unique 'gifts'?

  Pulling her knee-length, fiery red hair over her left shoulder, Shannon lowered herself to the hard wooden chair perched next to the tiny window of her chambers. With a shiver, she tried to milk the heat from the last rays of sunlight peeking through the hazy glass and splashing against the stony dampness of the room.

  Would Moldavia hold warmth for her in either temperature or its people? Shannon knew little about geography; only that it would take months to reach the small eastern European kingdom of Moldavia. Her journey would take her far away from the lush green hills of her home, where legends told of flying fairies that played among dancing leprechauns and wood nymphs, far away from the bogs and fens that swarmed with life, and even farther away from the political indignities and religious unrest that plagued the rest of the world. No longer would she have to live in fear of the Roman church and the heinous crimes committed against those who did not practice their faith in that same manner. She again wondered if her betrothed would embrace her talents as his father had done—if he was even aware of them. Surely King Malkai would have told his son that the woman he was marrying was not normal, in the conventional sense of the word.

  Not that it mattered. Religion bored her. Politics bored her. The convent, the place she was forced to call home, bored her. Excitement coursed through her veins at the prospect of seeing a new world, where she could run free in the sunlight and dance in the moonlight. Shannon sighed, suddenly wishing that she could take flight like the giant messenger. How glorious it would be to soar through the skies to her new home rather than being confined to an uncomfortable carriage, likely filled with people in sore need of lye soap, herb scrubs, and water.

  Shannon tugged an ivory comb through her thick tresses, an odd habit she had formed to help her remember to think first, act later. She sighed; the technique had not saved her from the frequent switchings she received from the Grand Dame, and she doubted it would save her from whatever else her future held with her new husband.

  Stories about the prince, now king, had traveled far and wide, even reaching the tiny convent. Unfortunately, none of them appeared to be good ones. With the recent death of his father, Domitri d'Gavril's behavior stirred up rumors that left many outside of his kingdom in fear of their lives. His vicious reputation for intolerance concerned her. The reports were that he never left the castle except to engage in warfare, and that he ruled his kingdom and his people with an unmerciful iron hand and harsh justice.

  Shannon had no physical fear of the prince, or for her life. Her gift protected her from any who would attempt to cause her harm; of that she had no doubt. Despite that, worry began to plague her again. To what extent would Domitri go to control her? Would he keep her locked in the darkness of cold, stone walls and force her to fit into a world in which she did not belong? Would her life be confined to a cramped courtyard and the interaction of a select few, so that he would not be judged for the keeping of, well, someone like her?

  Shannon placed the comb upon the edge of the chair and wearily looked up at the portrait of her deceased mother. "Mama?" she said to the painting. "What am I to do? How am I to act? I don't wish to be hidden away any longer. I need to feel the sunlight on my face and the grass under my feet. I miss the swamps and the sound of the wind through the bogs. Mama, I need you. Speak to me. Please."

  Celine Airlie smiled down at her daughter. The artist had captured the mischief and warmth in the beautiful woman's blue eyes, and Shannon felt the anxiety melt from her heart. Memories of her arrival at the convent, and the events that had led her to her upcoming nuptials, flooded back to her mind. She closed her eyes, remembering the story told to her by both her mother and King Malkai—of how he'd found them and why she had been brought to the convent.

  ***

  Celine was descended from a long line of Irish healers whose knowledge of nature went beyond the understanding of most. The conversion to Christianity had been a slow one in Ireland, too slow for the impatient Church of Rome, but it had come nonetheless. Hiding from the strong Catholic influence surrounding everyday life, those who followed the teachings of the druids were forced to practice their faith in the darkness of the night, deep in the swamps and hidden from curious, judgmental, and fear-filled eyes. Celine was one such follower, pacifying the self-righteous priests of the district during the day, and worshipping in freedom under the moon while the townspeople slept. She still dressed in the gown of the pagan sect, openly declaring her true beliefs to a world that assumed she dressed in white to proclaim her virtue.

  The local townspeople embraced her secret, and protected her from the prying eyes and condemning hearts of the local priesthood and religious zealots. Her generosity in offering her healing gifts defined her as both blessed and gifted in the eyes of the community.

  However, for as many loved Celine and respected her ancient skills, there were also those who feared the folk tales and proclaimed her a Banshee: a fairy woman/swamp witch associated with death. Celine's worst enemy was her husband, and Shannon's father, Dougal McCleary. However, it was not the mysterious druid rituals or the supernatural gifts that he feared the most, nor was his hatred based upon his own religious beliefs. No, his hatred was anchored in the fear that she would discover his own sin, and for that, he wanted her gone.

  Fear made him careless. As it
grew, so did his frequent absences from his home, wife and baby daughter. Celine's suspicions grew, and she followed him out one evening with their daughter in tow. Shocked by the discovery of him fornicating with a local seamstress, Celine threw curses upon both of them. Witnesses to her outburst gave it no second thought, for they were understanding of her hurt and betrayal, nor did anyone blame her for the death of the woman upon the next full moon. The town magistrate declared that the unfortunate adulteress had tripped over the thick knots of marsh grass while walking through the bog, and had struck her head upon a rock. She drowned in two inches of mud and water.

  Overcome with grief at the loss of his mistress, and the need to place blame upon anyone but himself, the man launched a campaign against Celine. One week after the seamstress's death, Dougal ran into the market center, waving a large handful of 'Devil's Porridge' with the accusation that the hemlock hidden in the herb closet was meant for him. He furthered his crusade by quoting theological passages against witchcraft, along with fanciful stories of Celine's nightly escapades to have sex with the devil. His stories grew more far-fetched each time they were told, and the townspeople grew weary of his attack against Celine. It was not until he brought in an English bishop, that the townsfolk felt their way of life was threatened, and all chose to abandon their support of the healer.

  After a lifetime of being in a close-knit community, Celine found herself isolated and alone, with only her one-year-old daughter to keep her company. As the years slowly passed, the sweet songs that had filled the empty stirring of the night were replaced by keening wails, weeping, and moans that penetrated the stillness.

  The legend of the beautiful woman's banshee-like cries traveled rapidly across the lands. Repeated by minstrels and housewives, soldiers and children, the folk tale spread, and was used to keep young and old alike from being lost to the shadows and other forms of evil after dark had fallen. The fable fell upon the ears of Malkai d'Gavril, a Romanian born nobleman who had lost his beloved wife in childbed as she gave birth to their son. Something in the minstrel's telling brought both pain and need to the elderly man's heart, and Malkai vowed to explore the myth as soon as he could eradicate the evil Ottoman ruler from Moldavian soil. He became obsessed—so much so, that after he had seized the castle and cast out the Ottoman occupation, he left his country, and his motherless son, to hunt for the mythical creature.

  Months passed as Malkai followed the clues to be found in rumors, gossip and song. He had searched every village and occupied field on the green island, and heard neither keening nor reports of the banshee's whereabouts. Many people laughed at his inquiries, calling him foolish to believe in tales spun to frighten children. His dream destroyed, Malkai ordered his reluctant entourage to return to the ship and wait five days for his return while he mourned his loss. He boarded his horse at the stables in a small village surrounded by heavy marshland, and set out to roam the wetlands on foot, praying to hear the banshee keen just one time. On the third day, the movements of a strikingly beautiful, redheaded woman caught his attention. He hid behind an outcrop of rocks and watched in breathless silence as the white-gowned creature gathered herbs by a small stream and delicately placed them in her basket. Then the sound of soft singing made him turn his head, and his eyes found the tiny girl hidden in the greenery of the stream bank. The mesmerizing child was alit with colorful butterflies, and wild rabbits, weasels, and squirrels gently took morsels of food directly from her small hands.

  ***

  Shannon smiled and picked up her comb, this time running it through her hair to soothe herself. She barely remembered their meeting, but every time King Malkai told his story, he never failed to tell her that that was the moment he fell in love—with both Celine and her daughter.

  ***

  She had been only four years old, but remembered the tall, commanding man clearing his throat while slowly approaching her with long, confident strides. He dropped to one knee, placed his broadsword on the ground before him, and begged for a moment of her time. He remained with his head bowed as the butterflies and animals scattered hastily from view, and she felt overwhelmed by his majestic presence. She had never seen a man so large! She was both frightened and intrigued, for, through the eyes of a child, he dwarfed the highest mountain and appeared to nearly touch the clouds. She looked over at her rapidly approaching mother, who held a rock in her hand. Celine's haunted blue eyes narrowed as she glared at the handsome intruder.

  "What say you?" she hissed. "Are you here to torment me?"

  "Nay, good woman," the king answered formally, slowly raising his eyes to gaze upon her beauty. "I give only my respect. I have followed rumors spread from across the continent to find you. Please, madam, honor me with your acceptance of my intrusion."

  "What rumors have enticed you to spy upon us? Are you of the church?"

  "No, I follow my own faith, not that which is forced upon me. As for rumors, the minstrels tell of a beautiful banshee who mourns the loss of love. They say she will continue to keen until true love is found. I, too, seek true love, but my keening stays within my heart. Tell me, druid," King Malkai met her eyes, "are you the banshee that the world sings about?"

  "Nay." Celine shook her head. "Tis not I."

  A gust of wind encircled the trees, and Celine froze in silent obedience to nature, watching as the leaves and grasses bent over in reverent bows to the breeze. Little Shannon tilted her head to contemplate the interaction between the two adults, and fearlessly rose to her feet to stand boldly before the odd stranger. She traced her index finger along the puckered, tight, scar that ran across his cheek.

  "Does that hurt?" she asked innocently.

  Malkai's eyes widened, and he lifted his hand to touch his face. The raised scar remained, yet the tightness that made it painful to smile was no more. Gently, he took Shannon's tiny hand in his large one, kissed the tips of her fingers, and said, "Not any more, child. You have made all the pain leave me. I am honored that you have chosen me to be the one you touch with your gift."

  "You know what she is?" Celine whispered, her body stiff with fear.

  "Aye, and she is beautiful," Malkai said, gazing into the child's clear blue eyes. "My son has been blessed with gifts as well. I cherish them and those who hold them, my lady."

  Malkai's acceptance was instantly understood by the child. Shannon smiled, kissed his scarred cheek, and ran giggling into the woods. The villagers had been wrong all along. Celine was not the banshee fae; Shannon was.

  ***

  Shannon broke away from her memories to look out through the tiny slit in the stone wall. She had not been allowed to venture beyond the bleak, dirt filled yard since her arrival so many years ago, and had only been permitted the friendship of a stray chicken and several goats. Only her mother had known that Shannon had wished for the death of her father's mistress; nor were outsiders willing to acknowledge that such a sweet, innocent child could be responsible for the fate of those who had witnessed her mother's demise. Shannon felt her heart ache as she recalled the lesson she had learned so early in life; a lesson that taught the power of ignorance, and to only trust people to believe the worst in others. She leaned against the cold wall, staring into space as her thoughts returned to the past.

  ***

  King Malkai hastily returned to his ship to announce his intent to stay for the remainder of the summer, and sent his men back to Moldavia to watch over the crown prince until his return. After years of forced isolation, Celine found the love and attention that her heart and her spirit yearned for, and the sounds of keening ceased. Songs of joy once again filled the night air around the village, often joined by a second voice whose beauty made flowers bloom. For over four years, the king visited frequently, showering Celine and Shannon with loving attention and beautiful gifts, including the ivory comb that Shannon refused to remove from her hair. Shannon began to call him 'Father', and blossomed under his guidance and care. More than anything, she begged him to take her and her mother to h
is homeland so that they could be married, she could have a father and a brother, and they would all live happily ever after, in the perfect fairy tale ending.

  King Malkai proposed to Celine on one knee that night, promising her the moon and the stars if only she would be his wife. Celine declined, smiling as she stroked the long unruly locks from her cherished daughter's face. She explained that although her marriage to Dougal was a farce, his jealousy and hatred prevented him from granting a divorce, and prevented her from being allowed to live as another man's wife. More so, the swamp was her home and the source of her faith, and a simple life made her happier than beautiful jewels or an opulent life ever could. Malkai was disheartened by her decision, but honored Celine's requests with a sworn promise to ask for her hand every day that they were together.

  Shannon wiped a tear from her eye, remembering the final months that the three of them had spent as a family. Malkai had chosen to stay until the early autumn, when the ground already begun to freeze over in the night, his concerns for the upheaval in the religious sects from England weighing on his heart. Celine reassured him, promising that Ireland was safe from the attacks, and urged him to leave before he was forced to travel through the worst snows of the eastern European winters. As they said their final farewells, Malkai left with a promise to return before the first yellow cross of the Celandine flower showed its head in the thaw of spring, and that his love for Celine would grow greater every moment that they were apart. As he rode away, Celine released an anguished cry, her heart filled with pain at seeing her lover depart. Shannon, heartbroken at the departure of the only father she had ever known, lifted her voice alongside her mother. The first true cry of a banshee was thus projected into a world filled with misconceptions and fear, and put the fear of death into all that were unfortunate enough to hear; including the king himself.