by Elise Marion
“I trust you are well this morning?” she asked, turning her attention back to Serge.
It was difficult not to notice how wonderful he looked, the clothing that had been tailored to fit his thinner frame starting to strain at the seams. His bulk was returning, his chest a prominent swell beneath his waistcoat, his arms bulging at the lines of his coat. The longer hair suited him, clubbed back into a queue that flaunted his square jaw and slope of his nose.
Stop it, she chided herself.
No good could come of entertaining such thoughts. She’d never looked at him this way before, and found it difficult to stop now that she knew what it was like to kiss him, to be touched by the hands hanging at his sides.
“Very well,” he answered. “Have you come down to greet Lord Burnham?”
“Yes,” she said, worrying her black skirts with nervous fingers. “I assume he has arrived.”
What was wrong with her? This was Serge, one of her very best friends since childhood … the brother of her husband. Surely one kiss and intimate embrace hadn’t changed that.
Only, it would seem that it had. Because now she could hardly look at him, let alone talk to him without going red in the face or letting her gaze fall to his mouth. How had she never noticed the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip, or the fullness of the lower one?
His voice jolted her out of her wandering thoughts. “He has just finished taking breakfast, and should now be in Damien’s study. I am on my way to join them.”
Isabelle finally gave in to curiosity, and asked the question that had been burning in the back of her mind ever since she’d received Lord Burnham’s letter.
“What is this meeting all about, Serge? No one thinks to tell me such things, but since I assume the matters being discussed concern the welfare of my homeland and my people, I ought to at least be privy to what is going on.”
“Burnham can give Damien a clearer picture of what is happening in Barony. He can tell us what the rebel army has been doing, and possibly where they are hiding when they aren’t burning villages to the ground.”
She gasped, one hand coming up over her mind at the images his words conjured. Of course, she had known that the rebellion had been violent—it had taken her parents from her, after all. But, she’d never been given details on how that violence continued to manifest itself, and had been unprepared to hear that.
Serge softened, reaching out to take her hand. “I’m sorry … I did not meant to upset you.”
She shook her head, but did not pull away from the comfort of his touch. “No, I appreciate your honesty. News like that is upsetting, as well it should be. I want to know what is happening and what is being done.”
Serge gave her a little smile, and her stomach clenched in reaction. “As is your right. Come with me.”
He offered his arm, and even knowing she ought not touch him, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. It was an innocent enough touch, and a courtesy she ought to be afforded as a lady and a princess. Yet, with him it felt far too intimate. With her hand on his arm, she could feel just how much his body had changed in the weeks since he’d awakened. She knew he engaged in some form of exercise once a day, or even twice if his leg didn’t pain him overmuch. His efforts were working.
She could smell whatever he had used to wash his hair, and sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye, she noticed the rough sprinkle of hair over his jaw. He hadn’t shaved this morning, but Isabelle decided the stubble suited him.
What in God’s name was she doing? She shook her head to clear her thoughts, and lowered her wandering stare to the carpet, watching the intricate pattern as she walked. She had been gawking over him like some silly, love-struck girl. This was Serge. He was her friend, her brother-in-law. She had no business noticing such things about him.
She’d also had no business kissing him, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now.
She was relieved when they arrived at the closed door to Damien’s study.
“Perhaps you two should take the morning off,” she said, turning to Vernon and Timothy, who stood silently by. “After this meeting, I intend to take tea with Lord Burnham and should be perfectly safe. I will send for you should I decide to step outside later.”
Bowing silently before retreating, the guards disappeared back the way they’d come. They were comfortable leaving her in the care of Serge and Damien, who would protect her as well as they could if the need arose. Though, Vernon did glance back at them over his shoulder, causing Isabelle to wonder if he happened to know what had occurred last night.
But, that was ridiculous. No one had followed her downstairs, and Vernon hadn’t even been on guard duty. Guilt was making her paranoid.
Isabelle reached for the doorknob, but halted when Serge gently took hold of her arm. She turned to find him gazing down at her, that grim expression once again pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“We might as well get this over with while we’re alone,” he murmured. “I apologize for what happened last night. As you know, I haven’t … been near a woman in some time, and I … I fear I lost my head for a moment. I hope I haven’t upset you, or made you uncomfortable around me.”
Yes, what man wouldn’t lose his head with a half-dressed woman traipsing about his chambers in the middle of the night?
Obviously, she’d made too much of what had happened. He certainly had not made much of it. Pushing aside the disappointment making her heart sink, she forced a tight smile.
“There is nothing to forgive. I am certain the incident will soon be forgotten.”
It would have to be. There was nothing for it.
Serge studied her in silence for a long moment, his gaze pensive. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, he opened the door to the study and ushered her inside, where they found the grand vizier waiting with Damien and the general of Cardenas’ army.
Lord Primus Burnham was not what she’d been expecting. She had never laid eyes on the man, and had only corresponded with him by letter. He’d been her father’s trusted adviser and best friend. According to the stories, he was the reason she had not been killed along with her parents.
She had expected an elderly, white-haired man, perhaps leaning on a cane. What she found instead was a tall, well-built gentleman, elegantly dressed and meticulously groomed. His dark hair sported a light sprinkle of gray at the temples, and equally dark eyes were set in a handsome face. A few lines around his eyes were the only hint at his age, which Isabelle guessed to be a few years above fifty, if not more. A clean-shaven face was pleasing to the eye, with sloping lines, a strong jaw, and a cleft marking the chin.
He stood when she entered the room, along with General Adams and Damien. All three men bowed to her. A brilliant smile spread across Lord Burnham’s face as he straightened and strode forward to greet her. He dropped to one knee in an instant, taking hold of her hand and kissing the signet ring she wore on her right finger—the signature ruby found in all the Guthrie family jewels. Tears shone in his eyes when he gazed up at her.
“My lady,” he murmured, his smooth baritone voice choked with emotion. “I have looked forward to this day for some time. It is such a joy to look upon you. The last time I saw you, you were just an infant, though I can see you have blossomed into a rare jewel of beauty much like your mother.”
She smiled and bid the man to rise. That they’d been corresponding by letter for a long time now put her at ease with him. She already felt she knew him well.
“I am glad to finally meet you as well, Lord Burnham.”
“Please,” he urged. “Call me Primus. I won’t take no for an answer.”
She smiled. “Of course … Primus. I hope no one minds if I sit in on this meeting. I am anxious to hear your report.”
“Of course not,” Damien cut in, gesturing toward the empty chairs facing his massive desk. “Please, join us.
“Yes,” Primus agreed. “There is much to d
iscuss. Perhaps we should get right to it.”
The men waited until Isabelle settled herself in a high-backed armchair before taking their own seats. She noticed that Serge extended his injured leg with a frown, using one hand to rub at his thigh. Pity lanced through her as she realized it must be paining him more than usual.
“As Isabelle said, we are most anxious to hear what you have to say,” said Damien, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk. “From your last few letters, I assume that time is of the essence here.”
Primus nodded, his expression becoming grave. “I’m afraid things have gotten worse since I was last able to write. Just before I left Barony, I was informed that Silas Winthrop is dead.”
Isabelle frowned at the bleak expressions on the three men’s faces. “I don’t understand. That is good news, isn’t it?”
Lord Silas Winthrop had been one of the senior members of Barony’s High Council when her parents still lived. Gayle had told her the story of how impending war with another kingdom had caused her father to establish an absolute monarchy, disbanding the council.
When he found out Silas had been aiding Barony’s enemy behind his back, he’d become suspicious and unable to determine whom he could trust. In order to protect his family and his people, her father had been forced to make the difficult decision to remove the influence of his council. Silas had retreated into the mountains bordering Cardenas and Barony in order to avoid punishment for his crimes and was never found.
Meanwhile, the war that many had feared claimed the lives of many citizens and consumed almost all of Barony’s resources. Famine and disease brought in by the invading armies took even more lives, and by then the people were frightened and angry. Questioning the king’s ability to rule under the laws of absolute power, they soon grew bold enough to demand he reinstate the council.
Isabelle’s father had refused, still stinging from Silas’ betrayal and paranoid as a result. It was then that Silas had reappeared. Promising the angered people an end to the war and an elected council, he’d urged them toward rebellion, hoping to claim the throne once all was said and done.
He’d eventually led his rebels in a siege against the castle. However, the battle had not gone according to his plans, and even though he succeeded in killing her parents and many members of her family, Isabelle had been secreted from the castle. Their aim had been to end the Guthrie line, but they had failed by letting her slip through their fingers.
Silas had also underestimated the strength and number of Barony’s remaining forces, and had been forced to retreat before claiming the ultimate victory. Another thing the rebellion leader hadn’t counted on was the fierce loyalty of the people to the king and queen. Their violent, public murders had caused the citizens to rise up against the rebels, resulting in a string of bloody clashes. These events had culminated in Isabelle being taken from Barony, hidden away.
A betrothal contract had already been agreed upon between the kings of Barony and Cardenas, and so the Rothchesters took her in, keeping her safe until she came of age to marry the Crown Prince. In the meantime, Primus had acted as steward, holding the throne until Lionus had married into the family and come to claim it.
He had been able to keep peace in Barony for some time after the bloody siege.
But Silas, not one to back down easily, had reappeared many years later with a force even greater than the one he had begun with. As he took his revenge on Barony by ravaging her cities with sword and fire, his aims were made clear to all. He would not stop until the crown was surrendered to him. It was for all this that Isabelle could not understand why the news of his death had been so grimly received. Surely everything would be set to rights now that the rebel army leader was dead.
“Why do you all look so bleak?” she asked when no one answered her. “Surely that means this will all be over soon.”
“I’m afraid not, Your Grace,” Primus replied. “Silas’ death means that his son has now risen as the new leader of the rebels.”
“His son?”
“Lucius Winthrop is a dangerous man,” said Damien in response to her puzzled expression. “He is even more bloodthirsty and ruthless than Silas. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had something to do with the death of his own father.”
“Of that we are not certain,” said Primus. “But we do know that he has been planning another attack against Guthrie Hall, and at this time I’m afraid we haven’t the manpower to fight him off. He has grown most aggressive in the recruiting of soldiers.”
“We’ve heard he rides from village to village, killing every man who will not fight alongside him,” said General Adams, his expression grave. “The women and children, he takes as servants for himself. Children not old enough to work are slaughtered or left to starve.”
Isabelle gasped, clapping one hand over her mouth, eyes filling with tears. Yet again, the truth of what was happening in her homeland struck her like a blow to the chest. These were her people, her responsibility. Hers alone, now that Lionus was gone. She must do something to end this conflict once and for all, or she feared they would all meet the same unbearable fate.
Primus reached across the space separating them and clasped her hand. With his other hand, he offered her a crisp, white handkerchief. She accepted it with a grateful smile and began dabbing at her damp cheeks.
“I know these things are hard to hear, Princess,” he said in the gentlest of tones, his voice like a soothing balm. “But His Majesty and I have been working diligently to find the best solutions for these and many other problems. You mustn’t worry yourself over these things; we will not fail you.”
“How can I not?” Isabelle snapped, irritated at being told not to ‘worry herself’. “These people are my responsibility. I am soon to become their queen. They will look to me for guidance. I am not a man and cannot ride into battle as one would, but there must be something I can do.”
She did not miss the knowing glances Damien and Primus exchanged before turning their attention back to her. She knew what the grand vizier would say, and had dreaded this part of the conversation. Bracing herself for it now, she squared her shoulders resolutely.
Primus finally broke the uncomfortable silence. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “There is always the subject of marriage.”
Chapter 5
Serge did not like Lord Primus Burnham. He prided himself on being reasonable person, and had never been the type to judge a man so soon after meeting him. In any other situation, he would be content to allow a man to prove himself before drawing any of his own conclusions. However, when he had led Isabelle into Damien’s study and watched the handsome older man fall at her feet, pressing his lips to her hand a second longer than was proper, extreme dislike had blossomed within him.
Because he was so reasonable, he sat in silence while the others talked and ran through his mind all the reasons he did not like Primus.
For one thing, the man was entirely too handsome for one his age. Isabelle’s breathless sigh when she’d first seen him told Serge she thought the same. No man who had held her as an infant should be able to make her sigh like that. Yet, there he stood … tall, regal, and infuriatingly spry, kissing her hand as if he were some young swain come to call upon her.
For another thing, he was too charming. Charisma practically oozed from his pores. Even now, as Primus held her hand and extended his monogrammed handkerchief to her, Serge could not deny the man’s magnetism. The very sight of him touching Isabelle, even if just to take her hand—the same one he had pressed to his own lips the night before—made him want to jump up and shove himself between them.
Isabelle merely sat there, her wide blue eyes glistening with unshed tears, the perfect picture of innocence and untouched beauty. Serge knew better.
He remembered how those tear-filled eyes had darkened, widening when he’d pressed his lips to the sensitive spot on the inside of her arm. He remembered how her back had arched to thrust her breasts against his
open palms. He remembered the wild strands of her carefully knotted coiffure loose and unbound down her back.
He knew like no one else in this room just what lay under the surface. He wished to God he didn’t; it was all he could think about.
He tore his mind away from the images he had vowed to forget. He even managed to forget listing all the reasons he did not like Primus for the time being, and focused on the conversation at hand.
“Like his father, Lucius is after the throne,” Primus was saying. “He will stop at nothing. Until the security of your throne is certain, I fear you will be in great danger. Princess, we have spoken of this in our letters, and His Majesty assures me he has discussed this with you as well. I’m afraid the only way to ensure your safety and the security of your throne is in marriage … and also … there would need to be, er … production of an heir.”
Serge did not miss the irritation flashing in Isabelle’s eyes as she pressed her lips together. “Yes, we have spoken of this. And I see no reason to talk about it again. You both know where I stand on this issue.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I had hoped you would reconsider,” Primus countered. “If you took a husband and produced an heir as soon as possible, the future of the throne would be certain. As of now, ascending to power without a husband or child leaves you quite vulnerable.”
“Then protect me!” she snapped. “Is that not what you promised my parents you would do?”
“We will do everything within our power to ensure your safety,” Damien interjected. “You know that. But a husband can only help our efforts. You know that as well as we do, despite your protestations.”
“Princess, you must make a decision,” Primus urged. “You wondered if there was something you could do to help your people. I am telling you the only thing you can do.”
Isabelle took this in silently, eyes lowered. Serge pitied her, knowing her heart still ached over Lionus. He also knew that Damien happened to be right. Knowing she must marry, and soon, made it all the more difficult for him to forget what had occurred between them the night before.