by Elise Marion
“Deliriously,” he answered.
* * *
The sound of clashing swords drew Isabelle, Esmeralda, and Tatiana out into the courtyard hours later. They had just taken lunch together in the small family dining room, and had stepped into the courtyard when they came upon Serge, Damien, and Primus in the middle of training exercises with the army’s officers. The trio found an empty stone bench nearby and sat to watch. There were two hundred men present, all watching the swordplay taking place in the center of the quad. They were supposed to have gone over a new training protocol Serge had insisted upon to ensure the soldiers were in the best shape possible going into what promised to be all-out war with the rebels.
For the moment, it seemed sport was the order of business.
Damien and Serge stood in the midst a ring of spectators, preparing for a friendly sparring match. They’d stripped to the waist and appeared to have already engaged in a few bouts if the sweat glistening on their skin and dampening their hair was any indication.
Isabelle perked up as they took their swords in hand and began to circle one another. She noticed a few servant girls peering through windows, and peeking from behind corners, and smiled. What woman wouldn’t want to watch two of the most magnificent men on God’s green earth, shirtless and stalking each other like jungle cats? It was a veritable feast for the feminine eye, Damien a golden lion and Serge a sleek panther.
Isabelle watched, mesmerized by the beauty of Serge’s form as he countered Damien’s attack. Every corded muscle strained with control, yet moved with fluid grace as they circled and danced together, swords clashing in strikes and counter-strikes. Everyone knew Damien was the better man with a sword, but Isabelle silently hoped Serge would best him this time. Her husband was more capable than most and a near match for his brother, wielding his sword with brute strength while Damien excelled at speed.
“He doesn’t stand a chance,” Esmeralda murmured next to her.
She, too, seemed engrossed in the fight, her eyes locked on her husband. Tatiana bounced on the stone bench with unconstrained glee.
“I do not care who wins,” she chirped with a little laugh. “The spectacle is a treat all in itself.
“Tatiana is right, of course. But, Serge is just as good, and the odds are just as much in his favor.”
Damien parried Serge’s thrust before tapping his shoulder with the sword, a hit giving Damien a score of one point. The two circled one another again, eyes locked, weapons swinging as they went at each other a second time.
Esmeralda’s snort expressed her disagreement, but she remained otherwise silent while Serge scored a point by tapping Damien’s leg. All too quickly after that, Damien scored the final and winning point. Some of the men cheered and clapped, others booed and hissed, the raucous and good-natured teasing seeming a part of their masculine camaraderie.
“Our king and general brought low by his little brother?” Primus bellowed with a laugh. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen!”
The soldiers standing nearest him joined in, and the quip made its way through the courtyard, spreading like wildfire. The laughter swelled and Serge, who’d been walking away to retrieve his shirt, froze in his tracks. From where she sat, she could see his face, and he did not look amused. Storm clouds gathered in his eyes, and Isabelle fought the urge to run for cover. The man had done more than achieve a blow to Serge’s pride, which might have been brushed off. Her husband was known for his good nature and easygoing personality, after all. But, Primus’ joke could be taken as disrespect considering he was talking to the man who would be crowned King of Barony in two days’ time.
She watched as his jaw tightened, one hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. He looked to where Primus laughed with his comrades. Serge lifted his sword and extended it, pointing it at the other man in a clear and open challenge.
“You dare to mock your king?” he asked, his voice low and menacing, one dark eyebrow raised. “Men have been killed for lesser insults.”
Primus smiled and stroked his mustache, eyes glittering with an insolence that only seemed to make Serge bristle more.
“Surely Your Grace has a sense of humor. Besides, until the coronation ceremony you are not our king ... yet”
“Serge,” Damien called, a warning in his tone. “Leave it be.”
He knew his brother well, and so did Isabelle. Serge grew angrier by the second. Anyone who didn’t know him might be foolish enough to mistake his outer calm for something other than anger. By the time they realized he was not amused, it would be too late. Really, things had already arrived at the point of no return. No one else here knew of the disdain these two men already felt for one another; no one could know that this battle had been brewing for some time now.
Waving Damien off, he took a step in Primus’ direction. “Perhaps you think you can best me as well?”
The grand vizier stood, snatching up the gauntlet as quickly as it had been thrown down. “I am a fair hand with a sword, Your Grace. I would certainly be a worthy opponent.”
Serge returned to the center of the courtyard. “Someone give Lord Primus a sword!”
Isabelle worried that her husband could be tiring. He’d been at it all day, and the fight with Damien was sure to have taken a lot out of him, sapping the strength of his leg.
As he faced Primus, who removed his waistcoat and cravat before taking up his weapon, Isabelle knew he would not back down no matter how tired he might be. This was not only a matter of pride. Her husband was stepping into a role meant for someone else, and would have to command the respect of those under his rule. If Primus fell in line, the others would follow.
The men raised their swords and stood facing each other in silence for several seconds. Serge and Damien’s match had been friendly. The two had been sparring since they were young, and both knew what to expect from the other. It seemed more like a well-choreographed dance between them. Serge and Primus disliked each other, and anyone who had not known this before would know it now.
Serge went on the offensive first, feigning a lunge before swinging his sword the other way and catching Primus across the back. A tear appeared across Primus’ shirt where he had struck just hard enough to slice through the fabric. Fury welled up in Primus’ eyes and he countered the attack, landing a blow to Serge’s shoulder. He did not move away fast enough to avoid another slash from Serge across the chest and another tear on his shirt.
Serge’s mouth curved up into a smile, his blue eyes twinkling with humor as he danced around Primus, a spring in his step.
“What’s the matter, old man?” he taunted as Primus lunged at him again. Serge easily blocked his thrust. “Did you not have your afternoon nap? A bit tired, are we?”
Whereas Serge became more relaxed the longer they fought, Primus became angrier. His fumbling attempts at retaliating only fed right into Serge’s plan, putting him within reach of his opponent’s sword. Before long, his face grew red with fury, his eyebrows drawn together over his flashing dark eyes. He attacked without mercy, but proved unsuccessful almost every time. By the end of the match, Primus’ shirt was in ribbons, although not one drop of his blood had been spilled, a testament to Serge’s superior skill.
Serge lunged and attacked, Primus parried and countered, but her husband was ready for him. With a circular motion, he forced the grand vizier’s sword from his hand. The weapon fell to the stony ground of the courtyard with a loud clank, and Serge took advantage of his shock and dismay to knock the man’s feet from under him. He placed one foot on Primus’ chest, pressing him down before touching the tip of his sword to the man’s throat.
A hush fell over the courtyard, and everyone waited with baited breath to see what their future king would do. Should he choose to slash the grand vizier’s throat for his insolence, he’d be well within his rights. However, she knew Serge better than that. This had been a warning, one Primus would likely never forget.
Serge tossed the sword aside with a derisive snort,
then turned to walk away.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” he said as he bent to retrieve his shirt. “And anyone else who would dare to mock me.”
Chapter 11
When Isabelle entered her chambers that night, she found Serge already there, undressed for bed. He paced before the fire, limping and clutching his injured leg. Holding a half-empty glass in one hand, he grasped his thigh with the other, a grimace tightening his features.
“Are you all right?” she asked, coming into the room and closing the door behind her.
He looked up at her before draining his glass and then setting it on the mantle.
“My damned leg,” he muttered. “I overexerted myself today.”
Isabelle laughed, joining him before the fire. “Teaching impertinent subjects lessons in humility will do that to you.”
Serge snorted, and rolled his eyes. “He had it coming. Besides, it is important that I establish a firm hand as a ruler. I can’t be seen as the kind of king who can be pushed around, can I?”
She grasped his arm, causing him to cease his pacing. “Of course not. You handled that well, and in my opinion showed a great deal of restraint. But, we are alone now, so you can sit down and allow your wife to tend to your hurts.”
A slow grin spread across his face, and he leaned down to kiss her. “That may just be the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
He lowered himself into a nearby armchair while she dragged a footstool toward him. She lifted his leg onto the stool and knelt down beside it. Then, she began kneading his thigh, her fingers working the muscle that had grown hard as stone. He sighed with pleasure, and sank back into the chair.
“I hope you’re not feeling any sympathy for Primus,” he said as he watched her. “The man is an ass.”
Isabelle shrugged. “Not as much as I should. He did mock you in front of everyone.” She looked up from his leg and smiled. “Besides, the display of masculinity was quite impressive.”
He chuckled, then groaned when she found a particularly sore spot. “Well, I’m glad my suffering could bring you entertainment.”
“Oh, not just me,” she said with a sly smile. “Esmeralda and Tatiana were quite titillated by it as well.”
“Impertinent witch,” he teased.
He fell silent as she continued to work the tension out of his flesh with her hands. After a while, she glanced up to find him studying her quite intently, all traces of amusement gone. The flickering fire played over his face, causing his golden-brown locks to gleam. She recognized the look in his eye well, and understood that his mind had shifted to carnal matters.
“Better?” she asked, her hands still resting on his muscular thigh.
“I don’t ache there anymore.”
“Good,” she said, moving to stand up.
His arm shot out in a swift motion, and his hand wrapped around her arm. He tugged just hard enough to topple her into his lap. Her face fell against his chest and his arms went around her, ensnaring her in his trap and keeping her there.
“That ache is gone, but there is another terrible discomfort that only you can ease, my lady,” he murmured as she raised her head to look him in the eye.
Before she could open her mouth for a retort, he was kissing her and spreading her legs until they dangled over both sides of the chair. Pressed so intimately against him, her breath stolen away by his kiss, Isabelle could do nothing more than sink into his embrace. He tore his lips away, gaze locked with hers as he lifted one hand to stroke her cheek.
“I love you,” he murmured. “I love you, so much.”
For a second time, the words slammed into her with the weight of a club, stealing the breath from her lungs. She’d known Serge cared deeply for her, perhaps even realized he loved her in a way one did a person they’d been friends with their entire lives.
But, when he’d confessed his feelings in that tower this morning, she’d known he meant it in a different way. In a romantic way. In the way that Lionus had loved her.
She was speechless now just as she had been then, struck dumb by panic that grew with the knowledge that he’d said it twice now. Now only had he said it, he’d meant it, the words heavy with the weight of so much want and need.
However, she did not need words just now … not with the way he was looking at her, the hardness of his arousal pressed against her. She could give him what was possible for now, the one thing that brought them closer together and sealed their bond as man and wife. He had to understand it was the best she could do for now, her heart and soul still too entangled with her first husband.
Would she ever be ready to say it back to him? Would doing so end in even more guilt as she gave him the last part of herself that had belonged only to Lionus?
Desperate to escape those thoughts, Isabelle reached down and began slipping the buttons of his shirt through their holes. When she leaned down and pressed her lips against his chest, all thought of conversation fled. She teased him with kisses and strokes of her tongue, putting desire at the forefront and pushing the rest aside for the time being.
Before long he lifted her, carrying her to the bed to show her with actions what he’d already said to her with words.
Thoroughly exhausted after his long and trying day, he fell asleep immediately afterward, head rested upon her breast. Isabelle was tired as well, but found it difficult to fall asleep. Her thoughts became a chaotic whirl, and she couldn’t seem to calm her racing mind.
There was absolutely no way she could continue to trivialize the depth of his feelings. Serge truly did love her, and his nature did not allow for him to keep that inside. He’d tell her often, reminding her with each utterance just how broken she was that she could not find it in herself to say it back.
At the moment, she felt content with the way things were. But in the back of her mind, she knew it would not last. She could not go on pretending forever Serge’s feelings didn’t exist.
* * *
She was back in the dark glen, fog swirling around her ankles. The moon hung high overhead, shining through the trees and casting dark shadows over the damp grass. Isabelle pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and moved through the mist, shivering against the cold.
As she neared the clearing ahead, she noticed a slender figure in black standing at the edge of the tree-lined glen. Drawing closer, her heart leaped in recognition. Dark hair gleamed in the moonlight, raven black brows arched over deep blue eyes, angular features were in shadow, but still recognizable.
“Lionus!” she cried, lifting the hem of her gown and increasing her pace.
As she ran toward him, he turned and began walking back toward the dense forest, the fog closing in around him, sucking him away from her and into the dark. She ran as fast as her feet would carry her, and even though his pace was slow, she could never seem to get close enough. He was drifting away from her, faster and faster, almost out of reach, out of sight.
“Lionus, wait!” she called as she followed him.
She ran after him until her feet were numb from the wet, cold ground; until her lungs were on fire and she could no longer breathe. Her chest burned and her legs ached, but she continued on, determined to recapture what she had lost. Hot tears ran down her cheeks and splashed onto her neck as she chased him, her hand extended. She was but an arm’s length away from him now, so close she could touch him if he would only slow down or stop.
Just as her hand made contact with his shoulder, he vanished, becoming one with the swirling mist. Gone for good. Lost to her forever.
Falling to her knees, Isabelle buried her face in her hands and sobbed, her heart breaking anew with every tear...
* * *
She opened her eyes, shocked to find her cheeks wet with tears just as they had been in her dream. Relief swept over her as she turned to find the space beside her empty. Serge had probably gone to ensure all was in order for their coronation ceremony the next day. If he were here, he would insist upon knowing what she’d dreamed about that cau
sed her to awaken in tears. Isabelle did not have the heart to tell him, nor did she think she could adequately express the convoluted jumble of feelings tearing her apart with grief and guilt.
There were a myriad of things to attend to, but as she swiped away her tears and rose from the bed, she found herself reluctant to leave her room. She could not face anyone in such a state, nor did she feel like putting on a brave face for everyone’s benefit. She decided against ringing for Gayle, needing the solitude to recover from her emotionally crippling dream.
She padded to her dressing room, where her trunks had been placed. While all her belongings had been unpacked by servants, the one she knelt in front of held the mementos she preferred to keep locked away. Slowly lifting the lid, she peered down at the collection with a deep sigh. Every memory she had of Lionus could be summed up by what lay inside this trunk, each item holding some sort of significance. Many of his belongings had been stored at Rothchester Hall, but these were the things most important to her—the things she’d kept to remember him by.
She lifted them out one by one, her heart rending more at each item, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.
She ran her fingers over the lace and silk of the white nightgown she’d worn for their wedding night, before putting it aside. She opened the tiny box containing the wedding ring he’d slipped onto her finger after they’d spoken their vows—a golden band flaunting a massive, square-shaped diamond colored a pale yellow, the band etched with a swirling scroll pattern. Then Isabelle dabbed at her eyes with one of his cravats, before burying her face in the fabric. It still smelled faintly of him, a scent as crisp as he himself had been—not fussy or overpowering, simply clean, masculine and uniquely him. A ribbon he’d once tied his hair back with caressed her fingertips, and she twined it around her knuckles, remembering removing it herself before running a brush over his dark locks.