The docks smelled of river water and fresh-cut timber, the late-afternoon sun throwing long shadows across the planking. William Fletcher walked beside me with the rolling gait of a man who'd spent decades on decks, his salt-and-pepper beard split in a grin wide enough to rival the river itself.

"She's a beauty, Your Grace," he said, gesturing ahead. "Finest barge the kingdom's ever seen. Built her in your honor — oak from the northern forests, mahogany from the southern trade routes. Every craftsman in the yard volunteered for the work."

I followed his gaze. The barge sat low in the water, sleek and polished, her hull gleaming with fresh varnish. Lanterns already hung from her rigging, swaying gently with the current. Even at anchor she looked ready to glide.

"Ahead of schedule, you said?"

"Three weeks early." William clapped me on the shoulder. "The men heard you were taking a personal interest in the fleet's expansion. Wanted to show their appreciation."

We crossed the gangplank, our boots thudding against the deck. The wood was warm beneath my feet, sanded smooth by hands that clearly took pride in their work. William led me past coiled ropes and furled sails, past a small cabin door that stood ajar.

"She's all yours, Your Grace," he said, gesturing down a hatch. "Inspect her."

I paused at the opening. A ladder descended into lantern light, the glow warm and honeyed against the dark wood. Below, I could hear the gentle creak of the barge settling against her moorings.

"Shipwrights usually handle their own inspections," I said.

William's grin widened. "Ah, but this one's special. Built for a king. Deserves a king's eye."

I looked at him — at the laughter lines crinkling around his blue eyes, at the deck of cards peeking from his pocket, at the way he rocked back on his heels like a man who'd just played his winning hand.

I'd seen that look before. On Thomas Whitmore's face when he'd handed me his ledger. On Edward Bennett's when he'd given me the key to the map room.

The Cuckolds had sent their brother to make his play.

"I'll take a look," I said, and descended.

The ladder's rungs were worn smooth beneath my palms, the wood warm from the afternoon sun. The hatch's square of daylight narrowed above me, a seam of gold that thinned as I climbed down into the hold.

The air changed as I descended — cooler, denser, thick with river damp and the smell of polished mahogany. Lantern light swung gently with the barge's slow rock, casting dancing shadows across the curved walls. The hold was a close, humid box, intimate in a way that felt deliberate.

My boots found the floor. I straightened, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer light.

Rosalind Fletcher sat on a fur-lined bunk built into the curve of the hull, her flame-red hair loose over her shoulders, spilling down her back in waves that caught the lantern light like embers. Her ice-blue eyes met mine, and they were laughing — laughing the way she had when she'd laid down her last card and watched my trousers hit the floor.

"Your Grace," she said, patting the fur beside her. "Come see what my husband built for you."

Above us, William's voice drifted down through the hatch, casual as a sea shanty. "Take your time, Your Grace — I'll keep watch."

His boots crossed the deck overhead, the boards creaking as he settled into his watch. The sound was unhurried, comfortable. A man settling in for a long wait he was looking forward to.

I turned back to Rosalind. She rose from the bunk in a single fluid movement, the low-cut gown she wore shifting with her — deep blue silk that caught the lantern light, cut to show the generous slope of her breasts, the curve of her hips. She moved like a woman who knew exactly what she was offering.

"You planned this," I said.

"William planned it." She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the salt in her hair, the faint sweetness of perfume beneath it. "I just made sure the bunk was comfortable."

"The fur."

"Bear. Killed it myself."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Well." Her smile sharpened. "I watched William kill it. Then I helped drag it home. Close enough."

Her hand found my belt, fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. Her eyes never left mine — those ice-blue eyes, bright with mischief, bright with the knowledge that her husband's scheme had worked exactly as planned.

"You came down the ladder," she murmured. "You could have turned around. Called it a fine barge and gone back to your council."

"I could have."

"But you didn't." Her fingers found the button of my trousers. "Why is that, Your Grace?"

"Because I'm curious what else your husband built."

She laughed — that low, rough laugh that had made my cock twitch the first time I'd heard it across a card table. "Oh, he built plenty. Took him three weeks and half the shipyard's budget."

"And the fur?"

"That was mine." Her hand closed around my cock through the fabric of my trousers, squeezing gently. "I told him a king deserves something soft beneath him."

I caught her wrist. She didn't pull away — just looked up at me, that gambler's smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.

"You're very sure of yourself," I said.

"I'm a very sure woman." She stepped closer, pressing her body against mine. "And I've had you once. I know what you like."

"You think you know."

"I know you like a woman who isn't afraid to take what she wants." Her free hand found the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. "And I know you like a man watching."

Above us, William's boots creaked against the deck. A slow, rhythmic sound — the sound of a man settling into a comfortable chair, getting comfortable for a long stay.

"He's already stroking himself up there," Rosalind said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I'd bet my best gown on it."

"You'd win that bet."

"I always do."

She kissed me then — not the careful, measured kiss of courtly seduction, but the hungry, open-mouthed kiss of a woman who'd been waiting for this since the last time. Her tongue found mine, tasting of wine and something sweeter, and her hand worked my belt free with the efficiency of long practice.

My hands found her hips, pulling her against me. She was soft and warm beneath the silk, curves that yielded to my grip, and she made a small sound against my mouth — a sound that wasn't quite a moan, wasn't quite a laugh.

"The bunk," she breathed against my lips. "I want you on the fur."

I walked her backward until her knees hit the bunk's edge. She fell onto the fur with a soft laugh, her hair spreading around her like a halo of flame, her ice-blue eyes bright in the lantern light.

"There," she said, propping herself on her elbows. "Now come see what my husband built."

I looked at her — at the flame-red hair loose and wild, at the ice-blue eyes laughing up at me, at the low-cut gown that showed the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the spread of her thighs. She lay on the fur like she'd been made for it, like the shipwrights had built the bunk with her measurements in mind.

"You're a very confident woman," I said.

"I'm a woman who's been waiting three weeks for this." She reached for the hem of her gown, pulling it up slowly, deliberately, showing me the smooth skin of her thighs, the dark thatch of hair between them. "William's been away at the shipyard every day, making sure everything was perfect. And I've been... preparing."

"Preparing how?"

"Imagining." Her fingers found the edge of her smallclothes, hooking them aside. "Imagining your hands on me. Your mouth. Your cock."

She was already wet — I could see it in the lantern light, the slick gleam of her folds, the way her thighs parted to show me everything. Her fingers traced her own slit, spreading herself for me, and she watched my face as she did it.

"Come here, Your Grace," she said. "I want to feel you."

I shed my tunic, then my trousers, and she watched me with those laughing eyes, her hand moving slow and deliberate between her thighs. "There he is," she murmured. "The king of the palace. The king of the bedchamber."

"And what does that make you?"

Her smile sharpened. "The woman who's about to ride the king."

I knelt on the bunk, the fur soft beneath my knees, and she reached for me — her hand closing around my cock, stroking me slow, her thumb tracing the vein on the underside. "Mmm," she hummed. "I remember this."

"Good memory."

"I have a very good memory." She leaned forward, her lips brushing the head of my cock. "I remember how you taste. How you feel inside me. How you sound when you come."

Her tongue traced the length of me, slow and deliberate, and I felt my hips twitch toward her mouth. She laughed — a low, throaty sound that vibrated against my skin — and took me into her mouth, her lips sliding down my shaft, her tongue working the underside as she swallowed me deep.

I groaned, my hands finding her hair, the flame-red strands soft between my fingers. She worked me with the enthusiasm of a woman who genuinely loved what she was doing, her head bobbing, her throat relaxing to take me deeper, and above us I could hear William's boots creaking against the deck — faster now, a rhythm that matched the movement of his wife's mouth.

"Fuck," I breathed. "Rosalind."

She pulled off with a wet sound, her lips slick with spit, her eyes bright. "I want you inside me," she said. "Now. On the fur."

She lay back, spreading her thighs, and I moved over her — her legs wrapping around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back as I positioned myself at her entrance. She was slick and hot, her cunt gripping the head of my cock as I pushed forward, sinking into her inch by inch.

"Yes," she breathed, her head falling back against the fur. "Fuck, yes. That's it."

I buried myself to the hilt, and she groaned — a sound that came from somewhere deep in her chest, her cunt clenching around me, pulling me deeper. Her legs tightened around my waist, her heels pressing into my ass, and she looked up at me with those ice-blue eyes, wide and bright and full of mischief.

"Your Grace," she said, and the title sounded like a dare. "Fuck me like you mean it."

I did.

I pulled back until only the head of my cock remained inside her, then thrust forward hard, burying myself to the hilt again. She gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I did it again — a rhythm building, slow at first, then faster, the fur sliding beneath her back as the barge rocked gently with our movement.

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, yes, yes."

Her cunt was hot and tight around me, slick with her arousal, and I could feel her clenching with every thrust, her body rising to meet mine. The lantern light swung overhead, casting dancing shadows across her skin, and above us I could hear William's boots against the deck — a steady creak-creak-creak that matched the rhythm of my thrusts.

"He's watching," I said, my voice low. "He's up there, stroking his cock, listening to his wife moan."

Rosalind's eyes flashed. "I know." Her hand found the back of my neck, pulling me down for a kiss. "I want him to hear."

She moaned louder, her voice rising with each thrust, and I felt her cunt tighten around me — a flutter, a clench, a warning of what was coming. Her legs wrapped tighter around my waist, her heels digging into my ass, and she looked up at me with those laughing eyes gone dark with pleasure.

"Don't stop," she breathed. "Don't you dare stop."

I didn't. I drove into her harder, faster, the fur bunching beneath her back, the lantern light swinging wild with the force of our movement. She was gasping now, her nails raking down my back, her cunt clenching around me in waves.

"I'm close," she gasped. "Fuck, I'm so close."

"Come for me," I said. "Come on my cock."

She did — her body arching off the fur, her cunt clenching around me so hard I felt it in my spine, a guttural moan tearing from her throat. I watched her face, the way her eyes squeezed shut, the way her mouth opened on a silent cry, and I felt myself teetering on the edge.

"Your Grace," she breathed, her voice wrecked. "Fill me. Please."

I thrust deep and held, my cock buried to the hilt, and I came inside her — hot and thick, spilling into her cunt as she clenched around me, milking me dry. She made a sound that was half moan, half laugh, her legs still wrapped around my waist, her body trembling with the aftershocks.

"There," she breathed, her eyes opening to meet mine. "That's what I've been waiting for."

Above us, William's boots had gone still. But I could hear his breathing through the hatch boards — ragged, uneven, the sound of a man who'd just spent himself listening to his wife's pleasure.

I pulled out slowly, my cum leaking from her cunt, and she made a small sound of protest. "Don't go far," she murmured. "I'm not done with you yet."

"The barge," I said. "You haven't shown me the rest of it."

Her smile sharpened. "Plenty of time for that, Your Grace. The shipwright built it to last."