by AJ Nuest
King Austiere abruptly stiffened in front of her. Denmar slapped a hand to his bald forehead and slowly wiped his palm down his face. Braedric huffed, crossing his arms. Fandorn swept his hands in a wide semi-circle and the water calmed to a smooth sheet of glass. Some folks gasped and shook their heads, others traded confused glances, but the horrified shock contorting the faces of the Council members was truly the final straw. Especially since she’d seen that exact same dismay too many times to count.
Rowena tossed her head back and uncontrolled laughter pealed from her throat. Outstanding! All this pomp and ceremony and here the man had gone and ruined their whole plan. She fought the urge to her toss her fists in the air and release a loud whoop!
One scathing glare from the king and her laughter quickly died on the breeze. Oops. She curtsied and bit her bottom lip, struggling to control her amusement, then stood on tiptoe for a better view as the prince swam toward shore.
The distance rapidly shrank beneath the powerful strokes of his arms. Once within reach, he pushed up from the seabed, whipped his dark hair aside and high-stepped with purpose toward the crowd.
Water rained down his body. His sodden shirt clung to each sharply defined muscle in his chest, his leather pants glued to the contours of his rigid thighs. Her heart tripped a beat at the magnitude of sheer, gritty determination forged in the scowl on his brow.
Prince Caedmon was a man on a mission. That was a nice idea for a change.
He finally made landfall, fisted his hands and increased his pace. A few trumpeters blew a half-hearted attempt at announcing his arrival, but their notes blurted like a fat man’s flatulence and faded listlessly in the air. Some people knelt, others remained standing, and several bobbed like apples in a rain barrel, unsure which action to take.
Another victory at denouncing their absurd rituals. Rowena chuckled under her breath. Bravo, sir. Well done.
He locked onto her and she grinned, even when his penetrating stare pierced her like an arrow and he clenched his scruffy jaw. The real icing on the cake would be if he ignored his father. But no, that would never happen. Even as the thought occurred, Prince Caedmon strode straight for King Austiere’s open arms.
Except…wait a second. He wasn’t heading for his father. He marched straight for her.
Oh no…
All the amusement fled her body. She glanced left, then right before meeting his formidable gaze a second time. Of course. Distracted by his gallant swim to shore, she’d forgotten. His dismissal of the pageantry didn’t have anything to do with defiance. He thought them still engaged.
She withdrew a step, but her shoulder blades bounced off the front of Marcelene’s ample bosom. Dammit! Pressed inside the crowd, no other escape route was available. And time was quickly running out. Her pulse leapt and her fingertips tingled as if she’d touched Fandorn’s lightning catcher. She couldn’t seem to draw any air. Great tits above, what was the man planning to do?
Prince Caedmon shoved past his father, seized her around the waist and fell to his knees, burying his face in her skirts.
Rowena instinctively placed a hand on his back. Blessed tears of the nine. What had they done to him? Who…or what was responsible for his wretched state?
In one swift stroke, she gleaned a small measure of what he had suffered. Those first few months after he disappeared. The despicable way she had been treated. Those who weren’t terrified by her appearance only befriended her for their own gain, their vows of loyalty abandoned the moment they learned she held no sway in court. And the insufferable way she had cowered in their presence, consistently saying the wrong thing, trying like hell to fit in. Only so they could call her mad, spread vile rumors and laugh in her face.
To these abhorrent people, Prince Caedmon had returned, and gratefully so…which meant wherever he had been, the conditions were much, much worse.
She covered the side of his head with her other hand and narrowed her eyes at the stunned, expectant faces of the crowd. By the great path of Helios, if anyone even looked at him the wrong way, she would claw their eyes from the sockets!
She sharply inhaled and tossed her shoulders back. Oh, no…no, no. She had been fooled by such grand displays before. And no matter what affectation this prince exhibited for her benefit, the day would come when his demeanor would change.
He was, after all, one of them.
He slowly withdrew from her, loosening his arms at her waist. “Am I too late?” His voice was gruff, thick with regret. “Have the distance and years hardened your heart to me?”
He strongly resembled Prince Braedric, but where Braedric’s eyes were cruel and indignant, his nose thin and hawk-like, this man’s face held no hostility. Prince Caedmon’s skin was darker, the shade of warm honey, his jaw more square and cut with a sharper edge.
With the fingertips of her left hand, she cleared the water droplets from subtle curve of his brow, the defined line of his high cheekbone. His velvet-brown gaze beseeched her, filled with an inner turmoil she witnessed time and again while studying her own reflection in the glass.
Like a drifting feather, sorrow wafted down and shadowed her heart. If only she could remember what had passed between them.
A penetrating throb pulsed behind her eyes and she lifted those same fingertips to her temple. Going anywhere near the past always brought pain. And though she tried to wade through the murky fog in her brain, his features remained unfamiliar to her.
The prince stood and grasped her fingers, lowering her hand from her face. “Where is your ring, my love?” He swept the ball of his thumb across her knuckles. “Why do you not wear the symbol of my devotion?”
Fear prickled up her arm, icy in the warm air. Rowena darted a glance toward the ominous glare on King Austiere’s face. The truth would only cause trouble, but neither would she lie. She vowed long ago not to be anything like these people.
Caedmon followed her line of sight over his shoulder and then stepped between her and the king, blocking his father from view. He reached out with both hands and cupped her cheeks. “Sweet Rowena…my love. Tell me my chances have not all disappeared. Present me grace in this hour of my homecoming.”
The comforting heat of his skin, his heartfelt plea made her pulse pound. A dull ache leeched up the back of her head. She swallowed past the constriction in her throat, her tongue thick and cumbersome. No, no, she shouldn’t let him touch her. His tender caress incited a confusing jumble of emotions which refused to settle. And showing any weakness in this place was a dangerous thing.
She turned her head out of his grasp and withdrew, dropping her focus to the sand. To this and all his questions she had but one answer. “Welcome home, Your Highness.”
Chapter Two
Foolish. That’s what his actions had been. Only an utter madman would approach her in such a way.
Caedmon strode with purpose down the hall toward his lady’s chambers. Bathed, groomed and dressed in his finest embroidered doublet, he chastised himself for the immeasurable stupidity he demonstrated upon his arrival. Of course she would falter under such pressure. She remembered nothing, had only been offered the barest chance to study his face before he’d deserted her. He was a stranger, an interloper amid a sea of countless courtiers. He must tread lightly, not charge at her as if she were his latest war campaign.
He clenched his hands until his knuckles grated in distress. And what of his mother’s ring? At the mere mention, fear had widened her eyes. She had looked to his father. Without that jewel on her finger, his lady didn’t truly belong to him. No one would consider them betrothed…which left her open to the advances of any man in the realm. Perhaps the king had purloined the ring with just this idea in mind, in hopes of wedding her off before Caedmon had the chance to return and claim her as his own.
If such be the case, his father’s judgment was flawed, and his interference only heightened Caedmon’s resolve. He would prove to her his love, demonstrate his devotion at every opportunity and, in return, she
would remember. She would hasten back to his waiting arms. Thus was his only hope.
He rounded the corner and a small garrison of foot soldiers came into view, two standing on opposite sides of her chamber door and two in the exact same positions across the corridor.
Caedmon frowned, slowing as he approached. From the swollen battle marks on their faces, Denmar most likely had them in the Gantlet, but the contests were usually held in late spring. One young man in particular appeared to have run headfirst into the blunt end of a battle axe; his nose sat off-kilter beneath a white bandage, large purple welts discolored the skin beneath both of his eyes. Additional training, perchance? In preparation for their assault on Castle Seviere?
The guards snapped to attention in unison and pounded their right fists to their left shoulders in a royal salute.
“Be at your ease, men.” Caedmon tipped his head toward his lady’s chamber. “Has Her Radiance yet departed for the Grand Hall?”
The door flew open and she side-stepped into the corridor, her delicate frame wrapped in silk the shade of deepest midnight. The tresses of her white hair cascaded past her shoulders, over the flawless triangles of her shoulder blades, ending where the soft tips brushed the bottom lace of her kirtle.
Her intoxicating nectar permeated the air, redolent of juicy ripe raspberries and freshly cut heather. Fierce longing tightened his groin, but her attention remained otherwise detained inside the room.
“For the last time, I heard you!” she yelled. “Tits above, Gertie, your constant fussing battles that of Marcelene’s!” She slammed the door, rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and drew a deep breath into her lungs. Expelling a slow waft of air, she locked onto his face and slapped a hand to her chest, withdrawing so quickly her back collided with the door.
Caedmon bit back his amusement as she pushed to her feet, glanced left then right before meeting his gaze a second time. Her scathing perusal skimmed up the length of his legs, her eyes momentarily widening when they reached his manhood, and continued along his chest until she reached his face.
She squinted and crossed her arms, plumping the smooth swell of her breasts above the beaded edge of her bodice. “Well? What do you want?”
His cock pulsed and he nearly groaned. His true heart’s desire was to press her back through the door, rip open that infuriating gown and coax a passionate gasp from her throat, possibly a desperate moan or two. He would lose himself in the dewy, sweet folds of her warmest places…time and again…until both of them had nothing left to give.
Two or three suns would most likely cover it. He heeded the glittering challenge in her emerald eyes. Then again, perhaps their dalliance would last four suns or more. His blood heated and pumped straight into his aching member.
He cleared his throat, snapped his booted heels together and executed a formal bow. “If Her Radiance would permit me the honor of escorting her to dinner?”
“Don’t call me that.”
He slowly straightened. “Then what would you have me call you, my love?”
She winced and pressed two fingertips to her temple. “Not that either. My name is Rowena. Or am I not the only one whose memory is faulty?”
She experienced pain. Did she suffer his appearance, or were his endearments the cause of her misery? “Rowena, then, my lo—”
He posed a pleasant smile and offered his arm. “My lady Rowena, would you allow me the honor of escorting you to the Grand Hall?”
She studied him from the corner of her eye before lightly laying her hand atop his.
Her fingertips quivered like a frightened bird, and beneath the slender curve of her wrist the hard edge of a weighted object met his forearm. He frowned but remained silent. She was secretly armed? For a formal gathering? He clenched his jaw. She felt the need to protect herself in his presence. Tread lightly he must, indeed.
He inclined his head and started them down the hall, yet his footsteps faltered when she gasped and abruptly stopped.
“Oh, Urich.” She edged toward the injured guard and lifted a hand as if she intended to touch his face. At the last moment, she switched directions and pressed three fingertips to her own lips instead. “Oh, Urich, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
The young man notched up his chin, contorting his swollen face into a scowl. “Mistress, you offend me. I wear these wounds with honor.”
She hesitated, then laughed softly and shook her head. “Well thanks, I guess. But I still feel awful. You must promise me that next time you’ll remember to duck.”
The guard lowered his shoulders and his face relaxed into what vaguely resembled a sheepish grin. “If milady is gracious enough to bestow on me a second chance, I shall indeed, as you say, duck.”
She smiled and squeezed his arm before continuing down the hall.
Protective voracity surged through Caedmon’s veins and he leveled a fierce glare at the soldier. The young man had the good sense to shrink back, but he didn’t drop his gaze. In fact…
The prince quickly assessed the other guards. One had a sharp red line across his neck, as if he’d recently been strangled by a thin rope. The second bore a stitched gash down the length of his right cheek and, although the third appeared uninjured, based on the way his bent arm rested gingerly against his left side, Caedmon had no trouble ascertaining his ailment. A set of broken ribs. All normal injuries for the Gantlet, yet his lady had apologized?
Perhaps she attended the training with the other courtiers and her beauty had distracted them during the exercise. No large stretch there. The same had happened to him once, two years past while sparring with Denmar in his bedchamber.
Still, a persistent niggling ate at his gut. Each guard bore contempt in his demeanor, as if they deemed him unworthy of her consideration. And not one among them cowered under his scrutiny. If anything their stares only hardened, growing steadily more resolute.
They were protective of her; devoted.
He must up his efforts to gain her affections.
Caedmon glanced down the hall and quick-stepped to her side, the guards falling into formation a few paces behind them. Yet he was ill-advised at winning the attentions of such a rare jewel. What did one discuss after so long an absence? She’d been living at court. What topics were pertinent? The frivolities of art? Music, mayhap, or the latest fashion? None of these subjects were within his ken.
He opted for the safer route. “The guards. They are all of them enamored of you.”
“What?” Her laughter rang out like a soothing balm to his soul, but she dismissed his comment with a subtle wave of her hand. “Don’t be silly.” She glided a few paces down the corridor, a gentle smile gracing her lips, and then tipped her head as if resigned to his compliment. “Okay, maybe Urich’s a little smitten, but get real. He’s still a boy, don’t you think? Besides, according to the nobilities’ standards, I’m well past the age of eligibility.”
Caedmon clasped his hands behind his back, his confidence bolstered. “I do not hold them at fault. Your beauty has most assuredly grown legendary in my absence. And dressed thusly, your loveliness shall make every man at banquet linger over his plate.”
Her smile vanished. “I hate this dress. I can barely breathe and all this heavy fabric makes it nearly impossible to move.”
“Then request another designed to meet your taste.”
She expelled a sarcastic puff of air. “There’s a stellar idea. Marcelene would just love that. The woman lives to make me suffer, ordering the seamstresses around while I stand frozen like a statue, no choice in the matter.”
“If the servants displease you, I shall petition to have them dismissed.”
She unexpectedly halted and spun on him, an unruly tempest marring her brow. “You will do no such thing! Are you crazy? If Gertie lost her job how would she feed her kids? Her husband died last year, out hunting to provide for their family. And Marcelene is nearing retirement. No one would hire her, especially after the horrible disgrace of being discharged from the
castle.”
Closing in mere inches from his face, she jabbed him in the shoulder, each poke emphasizing the words of her fierce tirade. “These servants, as you so readily call them, have spent their entire lives taking care of your family’s every need. You can’t just fire them without considering the consequences.”
A quick whirl of her skirts and she stormed away, silk rustling in time to the mesmerizing sway of her hips. “Idiot,” she muttered. “Typical royal asshole.”
She rounded the corner and disappeared.
One of the guards grunted, his brow furrowed, disgust twisting the grim set of his mouth. Another crossed his arms and cocked a condescending eyebrow.
Caedmon frowned. They more than just adored her; they respected her as well.
He swept his attention back to the empty corridor. Perhaps he’d made a blunder in his assessment. Though she’d arrived in his world a clean slate, she was still a sorceress and, despite the influences of courtly politics, her opinions of his realm remained the same.
The thought of all that untamed feminine fortitude, coupled with his world…
Trepidation swirled a sinking vortex in his gut. May the goddesses lend him strength.
He rushed after her and passed her on stairs, stopping on the first landing in direct line of her path. “My apologies, Lady Rowena.” He bowed low. “I was remiss in my reasoning. Of course your wisdom in these matters outshines that of—”
“Just stop it,” she snapped. “Do me a favor and just stop with all the fake, flowery nonsense.”
He straightened, studying the glint of frustration in her eyes. Could it truly be?
“I am sick to death of the constant translating, trying to weed out the truth behind all the effluvious verse.” She tossed her head back and spoke toward the ceiling. “God, what I wouldn’t give for at least one person in this place to just say what they mean!”
His brows shot up in surprise. “You sincerely wish me to speak plainly?”
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “If you only knew how much.”