Chapter 177: The Meat Pie
Lorraine’s chemise clung to her skin, soaked and translucent, every curve of her body outlined by the gentle, flickering candlelight. Her chest pressed heavily against Leroy’s, warm and yielding, as the bathwater lapped softly around them. Her breathing was slow, measured... but every inhale trembled with desire.
Leroy’s hands roamed her body like claimants of territory long denied. One hand gripped the small of her back, pulling her impossibly closer, while the other slid lower, grazing the damp curve of her hip, tracing the swell of her thigh. His mouth left soft trails of fire along her neck, each kiss more possessive, more urgent than the last.
Her lips parted in a soft gasp as the heat between them built to a fever pitch. The weight of his body beneath hers was solid, grounding, yet every touch carried a whisper of sin. She arched into him instinctively, craving more, needing more.
Leroy’s eyes darkened, smoldering with need as he leaned in further, his lips brushing hers in a teasing, torturous dance. His tongue flicked out, demanding, coaxing her mouth to yield. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him deeper, as though to anchor herself in the overwhelming sensation.
He was about to sink into her, to bridge that final, delicious gap, when the sound of a knock shattered the stillness; sharp, sudden, intrusive.
*Knock* *Knock*
They froze.
Leroy’s breath hitched, his jaw tense as he slowly pulled away, his eyes never leaving hers. The weight of desire still hung heavy between them, unfinished, aching.
Lorraine’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her skin still flushed, her chemise clinging impossibly more. The bathwater trembled from their sudden movement, small ripples echoing the storm of their interrupted passion.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.
"Who could that be?" Leroy said, his voice low, strained, but controlled. He slid his arm from around her back, gently setting her down in the water as if to shield her from sight, though neither of them could deny the intensity of what had nearly happened.
Lorraine’s eyes met his, burning with unspoken promise: this was far from over.
"I’ll handle it," he added, his tone cold now, decisive, as though trying to bury the carnal ache that throbbed in his chest.
But in that lingering glance, heavy with need, Lorraine knew the moment was only paused—not denied.
"Supper must be ready," she said with a faint, knowing smirk, pushing lightly against his chest. "The water grows cold. I should not stay here long."
Leroy stepped out of the tub first, his movements deliberate. He took her hand, guiding her, and wrapped her in a soft towel.
"I’ll have them bring your clothes," he murmured, his voice low, as he slipped into his robe.
Lorraine watched the trail of water left in his wake, a small smile playing on her lips as the towel hugged her form.
As expected, it was Aldric. Leroy’s glare cut sharp, but Aldric remained indifferent, simply stating that supper was ready.
Sylvia entered, bearing Lorraine’s garments, and froze at the sight of Leroy drying Lorraine’s hair.
At her presence, Leroy stepped back, but not before adding, "Take good care of her... now that she carries our child."
Lorraine’s smile was small, unreadable. He did not speak of the baby as she had imagined, as there was no sigh of joy, no bright announcement from his side.
Still, she saw it in his eyes: care, a steady, quiet acknowledgment.
A man of action, not sentiment.
She wouldn’t expect flowers, or flattery, or extravagant promises. But perhaps... that was enough.
During supper, Lorraine sat silently, watching Leroy as he ate. His expression was unreadable beneath the carefully crafted mask of indifference, and she couldn’t tell what reaction flickered in his eyes. The dining hall was filled with their staff, orderly and attentive, and Aralyn sat nearby, poised but radiant in her quiet presence.
Lorraine knew perfectly well that Leroy wouldn’t like Aralyn’s presence. That much was obvious. But she was determined not to force him, but to let him come to his own decision. She wouldn’t let go of Aralyn, not when that frail woman had become an unexpected, gentle thread of comfort in her life.
She recognized the pie immediately. The golden, savory, and tender meat pie was unmistakably Aralyn’s work. It was also Leroy’s favorite dish, known to be the one thing he craved above all else. She remained silent, letting the unspoken logic play its part.
No honorable man, after enjoying a woman’s cooking with such hunger, would dare to cast her aside. That was a rule as ancient as the court itself.
So, like a careful and patient wife, she let time do the work.
After the meal, once Leroy had finished almost the entire meat pie himself—third helping, fourth helping—she chose her moment. She barely ate, content to watch his appetite betray how much he enjoyed it.
Aralyn beamed, pride shining in her gentle eyes, her smile pure and sincere.
When Leroy, who rarely complimented food, finally spoke, his voice was cold but clear. "The meat pie was... exceptional."
It was then that Lorraine revealed the final piece of the puzzle. "That was Aralyn’s doing," she signed for Sylvia to translate it. Then she bowed her head, as though she had offered a well-kept secret.
Leroy’s face paled. His eyes flickered toward Lorraine, sharp and accusing. Surely his smart wife had planned this. His gaze then shifted to Aralyn.
Aralyn’s eyes, wide and expectant, glimmered with nothing but gratitude. She looked at him, waiting, perhaps hoping, for a word of admiration.
His throat bobbed. He could not say aloud what she feared most: that he wanted her gone, discarded, handed over to her enemies.
Instead, a heavy sigh escaped him. For the first time, he truly looked at Aralyn. There was something about her, something fragile yet unwavering, that reached past his defenses. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she had once been his wife’s solace, her unexpected ally in dark times.
"I... wanted to thank you for rescuing me, Your Highness," Aralyn said softly, bowing deeply, her voice steady, tinged with humility.
That simple, heartfelt gratitude struck him harder than any blade.
His guilt flared uncontrollably. His chest tightened, his breath came ragged and uneven. A cold sweat broke across his brow.
He removed his mask, wiping his face, trying to erase the evidence of his shame.
"You..." Aralyn’s voice trembled as she pointed at his face, eyes wide with disbelief. "It can’t be..."
Her fingers began to shake, as if the very weight of the revelation threatened to crumble her.
Leroy froze, shocked. Lorraine’s own heart sank.
Aralyn’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, and she tried to walk to Leroy. Before either of them could react further, her body went limp.
Lorraine moved instantly, catching the frail woman in her arms, steady and sure, even as a gasp escaped her own lips.
The room seemed to freeze around them, the candle flames flickered as though in sympathy with the suspended moment of shock, guilt, and the undeniable burden of unspoken truths.