Claimed by the Kings Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  More Medieval Romance Books by Loki Renard

  Additional Stormy Night Books by Loki Renard

  Loki Renard Links

  Claimed by the Kings

  By

  Loki Renard

  Copyright © 2016 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard

  Copyright © 2016 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard

  All rights reserved. No part of this 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 Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Renard, Loki

  Claimed by the Kings

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Period Images, 123RF/Viacheslav Lopatin, and 123RF/magenta10

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  Feminine sobs filled a room swimming in wisps of smoke from the fires in the castle town below. Two tall masculine figures stood over Princess Elizabeth of Ammerdale, a beautiful young woman recently come of age whose hair was as red as the flames leaping near the ruins of the old castle gate.

  “Don’t cry, dear.” A strong male hand descended gently on Elizabeth’s red-gold locks. “All will be well.”

  The shivering, naked princess squeezed her eyes tightly shut and gasped a panicked little breath. There was good reason for her state; she had woken from a deep and dreamless sleep to find herself at the mercy of two dangerous men, each with an intimidating weapon drawn in the aftermath of battle. It would have been a perturbing discovery on its own had there not also been some… unpleasantness with her guards in the minutes following her waking. She was cowering on the floor having vacated her bed in an effort to flee, but there was no fleeing the force of fate.

  King Milo Lionheart regretted the fact she had seen her personal guards wounded, but invasion was a nasty business at the best of times and they had refused to stand down even though the rest of the castle had fallen. His men had taken those brave souls away to tend their wounds, leaving Princess Elizabeth vulnerable and alone with him and his unlikely companion.

  “Stop pawing the girl,” Ragnar barked gruffly. “We have yet to come to terms.”

  Milo rose to his feet, leaving Elizabeth sniveling at his boots as he faced his unexpected ally—and anticipated rival. They had both planted boots and flags in the very heart of Ammerdale, the Middle Kingdom. Where Milo reigned over the northern lands, Ragnar was the king of the southern kingdom, as far as those lawless lands full of rough barbarian men could ever be said to be ruled by a king.

  The two men could not have been more different in aspect and temperament. Milo was famous for his height, his shock of bright blond hair, and his strategic ruthlessness in battles. He had bright blue intelligent eyes, a handsome face that held wisdom and strength in equal measure, and a body that had been hardened by battle, but that was naturally agile in form. He was a young king, five and twenty years old, but he was an able and ambitious one.

  Ragnar preferred to go by his unofficial moniker: Ragnar the Barbarian. He never wore a crown, preferring instead the furs of his ancestors. He was brave and he was bold, a powerfully built man with prominent musculature that was evident in every part of his body. His jaw was square and strong, his shoulders were broad, his chest was like a muscular barrel and was visible under the leather harness to which his shield was still strapped against his back. He had eyes of such intense brown that they almost appeared black, ringed with long dark lashes that were matched by the black stubble of his beard, which was just starting to see a touch of gray as he approached his thirtieth year.

  “She is close to catatonic with shock,” Milo said to the barbarian. “There will be little to come to terms over if she is not clothed and fed.”

  “Who will clothe her?” Ragnar grunted.

  “And who will feed her?” Milo asked the second question in turn. Truth be told, they were in a rather curious standoff. Elizabeth was the unfortunate princess of a kingdom they had conquered at much the same time. Both campaigns had come to a head at the capital city, which had fallen in record time thanks to assault from all sides. There was no sign of the king of Ammerdale, just his daughter sleeping sky-clad in her bed at the top of the tower in which Milo and Ragnar now stood facing one another in victory.

  “I will.” Their voices came in unison.

  Milo let out a laugh at the situation the fates had put them in. “We have divided all the treasures and territories of this kingdom, but this one.”

  Ragnar snorted. “This one cannot be divided, only taken.”

  Both men fell momentarily silent, looking down at the girl whose life was at their mercy. Her pale curves and soft red flowing locks drew gazes of lust and pity. She was so completely vulnerable, and so entirely desirable. There was no doubt in Milo’s mind that he was looking at the true crown jewel.

  “I will trade you the gold reserves of the northern mines for her.”

  “No.” The word fell heavily from Ragnar’s lips. “You take the gold reserves. I’ll have the princess.”

  Milo’s brow rose. He was surprised that Ragnar was turning down gold. The man had a known obsession with riches; barbarians always did. They found power in the material. Milo’s more educated caste understood more subtle forms of power. Ragnar was not stupid, but Milo expected him to be base in his desires as a general rule.

  Milo’s reasons for wanting to take the princess as his bride were many and complex. In addition to being very beautiful, Elizabeth would make a very useful wife. She was well bred, connected to the kingdoms to the east and the west and he was certain once she settled she would make a suitable partner as well. It was said she had a talent for poetry and dance, and had been tutored in foreign tongues. Ragnar would not have use for any of those things.

  “If it is her body you desire, you could find many wenches with lustful forms,” he said in an attempt to convince Ragnar to give up his claim to the princess.

  Ragnar snorted again, looking at Milo with a dark gaze that Milo was starting to think did not lack as much intellect as he had previously imagined. There was a gleam in Ragnar’s eyes that was more than simple sexual conquest.

  “I want a son from her womb,” he said bluntly. “She would do my bloodline proud. No amount of gold can buy strong progeny.”

  Their reasons were different, but equally compelling. Under other circumstances, the better brawler would have simply taken Elizabeth for his own, but there was no way either of them could steal the princess. They were at the end of a long campaign and both armies were fatigued and ready to celebrate victory together. Triumphant mingling was already taking place in the castle below.

  “What do you want her for, pretty king?” Ragnar barked the question at him.

  The jest made Milo’s eyes narrow slightly. Ragnar was taunting him. Milo’s handsome features earned him favor with women, and admiration among men, but Ragnar was the sort of barbarian who thought good looks were tantamount to weakness—though he should have known better, for they both stood triumphant in the same space. The iron y of the jibe was that Ragnar was also a good-looking man, though perhaps in a simpler, rougher way.

  “She bears the blood of all four directions,” Milo said simply. “Whoever has her, has the ear of the continent’s courts.”

  A derisive snort emanated from the barbarian. “A beautiful woman, and all you can think of is politics.”

  “A political coup at your feet, and all you can think of is rutting,” Milo rejoined. “You are a walking cock.”

  Now they were even in their jibes.

  It was Elizabeth who settled the argument. Having laid practically silent aside from sobbing, and offered no resistance at all from the moment her bedchamber was breached, she suddenly came to life, much like a striking snake.

  A blade appeared in her hand, likely having been secreted under the pillow she had been clutching for security. She lashed out at Milo and almost caught his boot with the sharp edge of the dagger. He jumped back a step and let out a cry of surprise. Ragnar laughed heartily at Milo’s shock, slapping his knee with raucous humor.

  “She is too bold for you, pretty king.”

  Milo cut his eyes at Ragnar. “Call me pretty king but once more and I…”

  The princess slashed at him again, forcing him to once more evade her threat.

  Ragnar’s laughter grew louder as the naked young woman squirmed around, her blade aimed at Milo, who was still much closer than Ragnar was—at least until the barbarian took one large step forward, reached down and wrapped his large hand around her ankle.

  “I will save you, pretty… ho there!”

  In an instant, Elizabeth had curled up on herself and stabbed the knife toward his hand, forcing him to let her go.

  It was Milo’s turn to laugh at the bewildered expression on Ragnar’s face. He hadn’t expected her to attack him too, so it seemed.

  “Too bold for your blood too,” he chortled.

  They both stood back, looking down at their prisoner whose breasts and bright red flare of fur between her thighs were visible now that she had rolled onto her back and was holding the dagger in two hands.

  There was a fierceness to her beauty now, but no real danger. She was like a spitting wild kitten, capable of sinking needle-sharp claws into a hand or finger and causing pain, but nothing resembling a match for the power of either of the men standing over her.

  “Now, princess,” Milo censured her gently. “Put the knife down. We mean you no harm.”

  Her lips parted and she spoke the first words she had uttered since their joint invasion. “Go boil your head.”

  A snort from Ragnar drew her furious green eyes in his direction. “Rebellious wench,” he growled. “A good dose of the flat of my hand will settle her.”

  Milo was inclined to agree. Elizabeth was young and impulsive. Discipline was important for high-spirited ladies of good breeding. She had doubtless been spoiled in her formative years. Her kingdom was a small, but rich one. Her father’s father had been a prince from the eastern kingdom, her mother a famously beautiful princess from the west. That made Elizabeth a central figure in a great many respects, spoiled and feted by three kingdoms.

  Though ostensibly the invasion had been about expanding his lands and holdings, Milo had made his journey in large part for Princess Elizabeth. He was beginning to think that Ragnar had made the very same decision. Milo had ridden out from his home on the day of her eighteen birthday. It seemed likely that Ragnar had begun his invasion at much the same time. They had been in a race for conquest of more than mere territory, and now their quarry was between them, in reach and yet very much not in reach.

  “I will sell my life dearly,” Elizabeth declared bravely.

  “That won’t be necessary, darling,” Milo drawled calmly. “We’d both rather you kept it.”

  “Put the knife down. Now.” Ragnar growled the order in a tone that commanded obedience.

  Elizabeth kept her hands wrapped around the dagger, her eyes darting between them as her pale, perfect breasts rose and fell with every breath she took. Even in her resistance, she was beautifully fragile.

  * * *

  She had thought it must be a dream when two large men appeared in her chamber. Elizabeth still wasn’t sure. She could feel the floor at her back and the hilt of the ornate blade in her hands. They both felt real, but dreams could be vivid and surely there could not be two kings of opposing kingdoms arguing over her in the middle of the night? Had the war truly come so close to home? It had been raging on many fronts for quite some time. She had been cloistered away for several months in the tower, restricted to activities such as sewing and singing, and her father had forbidden any news be given to her. He did not want her to worry about such things, so he said. Some of her maids had whispered little bits and pieces to her, but she had never known quite what to believe.

  Now she did not know if she could believe her own eyes—though she recognized both men from the tales that were widely told about them. The tall one could be no other than King Milo Lionheart. He wore the sigil of a rampant winged lion upon his chest and he was just as handsome as was told of in the songs the bards sang. If they had met under more refined circumstances, she would have been very pleased to make his acquaintance.

  She met his blue gaze, saw in it desire and some good humor. It was enough to make her clench her thighs together, both to preserve what was left of her modesty and to hide the way her nethers were responding.

  Her eyes darted from Milo to the other man, King Ragnar. She would have wanted her dagger at her side regardless of the time and place of their meeting. He had an air of rough danger that was palpable and he made her quiver in quite a different way than Milo. Now she met his dark gaze, she felt her body responding yet again. It was a forceful, primal reaction that had nothing to do with sense and everything to do with her animal form.

  “You are being rather naughty, princess,” Milo purred. “Put down the knife and save more unnecessary unpleasantness.”

  It was difficult to keep her eyes on both men, standing as they were on either side of her. Escape was impossible. She knew that she would be taken. She should lower her knife and accept her fate, but she could not. The excitement and the fear were far too great. Both these men, these proud kings were looking at her with a carnal hunger that made every part of her tremble.

  She saw a glance pass between them a moment before Milo leaned toward her again. She swiped at him with the knife, a motion that made her roll toward him. In that moment of exposure, Ragnar’s hard hand came down across her bottom in a slap that sent a sudden shock through her body and a flash of heat across her cheeks. It was enough to make her grip on the knife loosen, and to distract her so that Milo could pluck the hilt of it from her hands, neatly disarming her.

  He smiled down at her with warm triumph as her hands went back to cover her now stinging bottom.

  “You are fools,” she hissed angrily, fear rising strongly as she realized she was now totally at their mercy. “A pretty boy and a bandit. I will not be had by either one of you.”

  Milo shook his head at her, blond strands of hair falling into his piercing eyes for a moment before he pushed them back. “Now, princess,” he said in his cultured tones. “Be a good girl and mind your tongue.”

  “I will not be a good girl, and certainly not for you,” she threw back rebelliously. “I was not raised to be some meek woman as you have in your countries, too afraid to speak or show themselves in the light of day. The blood of four royal houses runs in my veins. I…”

  Her proud speech was cut short as the barbarian behind her sat down on the bed, took hold of her by the upper arm, and unceremoniously pulled her up from the floor and then over his lap. She found her naked body pressed against his leather-clad thighs and his iron slab abdominal plane. He had no pretty words for her. Instead his palm met her bare bottom as he started to spank her.

  “What are you doing!?” She made the inquiry at the top of her lungs. Elizabeth had never been punished in her life. Being struck by the barbarian king was not only painful and embarrassing, it was utterly confusing. The physical sensations were powerful, a heat searing through her skin, making it feel hot and tight and an ache in the flesh below, the muscle of her bottom contracting sharply with every single slap.

  “You pulled a blade,” Ragnar growled. “And you have an insolent tongue. This is punishment for both sins.”

  Elizabeth struggled to free herself, but he seemed to be infinitely powerful. Her naked form was no match for his muscle. He clamped an arm about her waist and she was locked in place, her legs flailing as she kicked and squirmed furiously.

  “Unhand me, brute!”

  Her words were met with a slap to her upper thigh. Elizabeth let out a shriek. She had not known that it was possible to feel such a sudden sharp bolt of pain. It was as though she could feel each place his fingers had landed individually.

  “You are tender, princess,” Ragnar said, his large rough hand passing over her bottom and thigh, rubbing the spot he had spanked. “You skin is soft and your flesh is unaccustomed to chastisement. You should be more careful of what comes out of your mouth.”

  She let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper. It was most frustrating and humbling to be pinned against the body of a powerful man who was insisting she show him respect and deference though he was nothing but a brutish invader.

  He spanked her until the heat grew so great she was certain her bottom was swollen beyond all measure. Her body had ceased to be hers and only responded to him; his touch, the slaps of his hard hand, which set a rhythm that felt more primal than her own heartbeat. Her hips jolted with it, the hard little bud that usually hid in the folds of her womanhood becoming erect and grazing against his thigh with every single slap.

  She was aware of Milo’s eyes on her. It would have been bad enough to have been spanked by a barbarian king, but to know she was under a debonair blue gaze, to be made to feel so very small and so very naughty made her feel thoroughly chastised.