by Nora Roberts
With a laugh, the gold-haired soldier thrust her forward toward the man seated at a long trestle table in an anteroom off the great hall. The man had been scribbling swiftly upon a map, but at the soldier’s words he halted his task, and lifted his head sharply.
Lianna was frozen to the spot. As she met his cold, hard gaze, both panic and surprise rose in her like drowning tides.
A great strapping giant gazed back at her, a giant with the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen and raven-black hair as startlingly dark as her own.
May the angels save me, she thought wildly. The man was pure warrior, more rugged than an oak. He couldn’t be more than thirty, but he looked to be the toughest, strongest man she had ever seen—and the most handsome. His chest beneath its dark plum tunic was massive and thick with muscles, and beneath his cropped black hair, ice-gray eyes glinted like shards in the torchlight that threw dancing amber shafts across the table where he sat.
She caught her breath. She had not expected him to be handsome. But he was—brutally, swarthily handsome. There was something dangerous and alive and vibrant about him, something magnetic that came not so much from the harsh lines of his face, the keen, deep-set eyes, that aggressive nose and chin, but from the sheer power and raw forcefulness that seemed to emanate from him. It radiated from those gray eyes and that immense body like dark slashes of lightning.
She could find no trace of emotion, neither pity nor amiability—and certainly not even a flicker of gentleness—in the impassive way he studied her. Unlike other men she had met, who openly revealed their admiration of her charms, Ambrose the Barbarian showed nothing upon that handsome countenance but swift, ruthless appraisal.
Lianna’s pulse raced. She wanted to stride forward and slap him as his gaze boldly swept up and down the curves of her body, as if he were seeing everything that was hidden beneath the elegant sapphire gown. He took in her slender waist, the swell of her breasts, and his expression remained unchanged—but his eyes darkened to the color of smoke.
His gaze missed nothing and at last came to rest upon her pale, defiant face and the sable hair that fell loose and tumbling past her shoulders.
“Satisfied?” Lianna asked between clenched teeth.
To her surprise, amusement flickered across his swarthy features as he stood, towering before her like an implacable mountain.
But he made no answer.
His silence unnerved her even more than the imposing sight of him.
She’d planned to be elaborately gowned and coiffed when she first met this man, protected by dazzling jewels and royal raiment and all her carefully cultivated dignity—wrapped in her power and position, using them as a shield against this bastard warrior who was so far beneath her. Never had she thought to meet him face-to-face like this—breathless, her hair flying, her heart pounding as uncertainty and panic collided within her.
She struggled for composure, but it was difficult to feel composed when he was regarding her as if she were a chunk of ham brought forth on a platter for his inspection before he picked up his knife to dine.
“I demand to know the meaning of this, Duke Ambrose.” She took a deep breath. “Why have I been literally dragged from my father’s side, forced to meet you here, and informed that we are leaving Penmarren within the—”
“Bring the horses now, Beorn. I’ll meet you in the courtyard shortly with my bride.” Ambrose cut her off without preamble, shifting his intense glance to the soldier. “What of the cardinal?”
“They’re fetching him.”
Ambrose nodded. “Make haste, then,” he said curtly, and the gold-haired soldier hurried out, leaving them alone in the antechamber.
Swiftly the barbarian duke strode around the table.
Lianna had to fight the urge to back away. In his rich purple tunic of heavy wool, fastened at the shoulder by a distinctive star-shaped brooch of gold, onyx, and rubies, with that powerful body and harsh, thoughtful face, he was formidable—he might have been a young dark prince, born to command. Not the ragged, coarse bastard she had envisioned but a leader of men, a warrior/ruler who looked every inch as royal as she—and a hundredfold more dangerous.
“Silence,” Ambrose said softly. “Good. I don’t like chatter in a woman.”
“Do you really think I care what you like?” she asked haughtily as he paused less than a foot from her.
Surprise flickered momentarily in those intent gray eyes, and perhaps another shadow of amusement, but just as quickly vanished. Ambrose had no time or patience for spoiled princesses, however beautiful they might be. And this one was the most beautiful he’d ever beheld, with her gorgeous spill of velvety hair and those eyes like amethyst stars. But she was not a prize to be cherished and indulged, he thought harshly. She was a necessity—a weapon of sorts—and all that mattered was that they be wed and she be ensconced under guard in the keep as soon as possible. His holdings, all that he’d fought for his entire life, were being threatened by an old enemy, his clever cousin Sandar of Kenelm, who had planned a surprise attack meant to wrest Blackenstar away. He needed to reach his land’s eastern border without delay to make sure that Sandar failed.
And that he paid.
Ambrose also needed to learn how Sandar had discovered he was to be away at this time fetching his royal bride, with a large portion of his army dispersed—and thus temporarily vulnerable.
It reeked of treachery. If there was indeed a traitor in his camp, he, too, must be found. And made to pay.
So he looked at the lovely black-haired girl glaring at him and spoke brusquely. “You are as beautiful as they say, I suppose, if one cares for such an elegant, icy type of female.” He ignored her gasp and continued calmly. “And you are clearly royal. It shows in every inch of you. That is good, for it’s the reason I chose you.” A slight pause, and his eyes narrowed upon her. “But they tell me you also possess powers. Is this true?”
Lianna drew in her breath. How dare he! Her magic was a difficult subject. Her mother had hated her powers, perhaps because she herself didn’t possess them, and from the time she was a child Lianna had learned to keep them quiet, nearly hidden, as a matter of course. Even after her mother’s death, she rarely openly displayed the few small gifts she possessed. But everyone seemed to know of them all the same.
“There is some magic in me, my lord duke,” she said stiffly. “Not enough to turn you into a toad, I’m afraid.”
For one brief moment a grin tugged at those hard lips, then his expression turned cool once more. “Be advised, when you reach Blackenstar, you may do what you will with small, harmless charms and tricks, but I will not have you practicing spells or employing potions. That is forbidden. Do you understand?”
“And if I disobey? Punishment by death?” she retorted, but then recoiled as the blood drained from his face and every muscle in his body went rigid.
She suddenly remembered the first wife, the one he was rumored to have killed, and her mocking remark rang through her head like an ominously tolling bell.
Ambrose spoke with dangerous quiet. “You have an undaunted spirit, Princess—as well as beauty, royal blood, and power. Use them wisely and do not anger me, and you will live a long and contented life.”
“They say you anger readily, my lord. That may not be an easy thing to avoid.”
“They say many things about me, Lianna. Some are even true.” His voice was rough. “You’ll have to make your own judgments.”
“I already have,” she murmured sweetly, but there was contempt dripping from the words.
He gripped her arm and yanked her closer, so close she gasped. His touch sent a sizzling warmth through her. She would have jerked away, but she knew her strength was no match for his and so she went still, gazing up into his eyes, her lips parting.
He smelled of sweat and leather and horses. There was the dark shadow of beard on his lean jaw. She had never been quite this intimately close to a man before, even those who had dared to kiss her—chaste, temperate kisses, hesitant, almost
meek. There was nothing meek about Ambrose the Barbarian. His eyes glinted like coals in the torchlight. They ignited something inside her: fear, perhaps—or was it fascination?
Lianna knew better than to struggle. She would not break free, not if he didn’t want her to. She nearly whimpered because her skin burned hot where his strong fingers touched.
He was entirely too powerful. Too close. Too handsome.
She swallowed and kept silent, though it took all of her will to meet those hard, stern eyes.
“I learned long ago never to judge early, or in ignorance,” he said softly. “Such blunders prove fatal. You’d be wise to remember that.”
Waves of fear enveloped her, but Lianna lifted her chin and spoke with all the calm she could muster. “Are you threatening me, my lord?”
“Who would threaten such a fine royal lady?” he asked silkily, the clamp of his fingers tightening. His gray eyes raked her as her own eyes widened. “As brides go, you have all the attributes I seek. And yet I tend to prefer a woman who thinks before she speaks, who does not deliberately try to offend, but rather tries to please.” He swept an arm around her waist, pressing her up against him, letting her feel his superior strength. Indeed, he could break her in two if he chose, and they both knew it. “Still, my spoiled, sharp-tongued princess, if you learn to mind your tongue and please me in our marriage bed, you’ll do. Aye, my lady Lianna, you’ll do.”
She drew in her breath, her face flushed a vivid pink. “How dare you,” she whispered, in a voice as cold and furious as midwinter snow.
He met those wide, flashing eyes, his own hard as granite. “If it’s wooing and pretty words you want, you won’t get them from me. I’ve neither the time nor the nature to indulge such things. This is a business arrangement, Princess, one you’ve been raised to understand. If you don’t know what this marriage is about, don’t blame me for it—and don’t expect me to coddle you. I am first and foremost a warrior and I’ve got a battle to fight. A savage one, at that.”
He pushed her away. But as he began to wheel toward the table, Lianna grabbed his arm.
“Coddle?” she flashed. Her fingers gripped hard, terrifying muscle, but she rushed on anyway, driven by an anger that was deep and scorching. “I’d never expect that, my lord duke—especially not from a man like you! Only a barbarian would treat his intended bride with such callousness as you have shown this night—”
“Exactly.” His nod was weary. “I am what I am. You do understand. Now go.”
“Go?”
“Go to your chambers and ready yourself for the journey. Take what belongings you can gather in the next few moments. There isn’t much time, so seize that which is most precious to you, and the rest will be sent for later.”
“But my ladies-in-waiting! They must pack for themselves as well as for me…”
“No ladies-in-waiting, Princess. They’ll be sent for later, when Crow’s Keep is once more secure. For now, you’ll have to manage like a soldier.”
Desperation surged through her. “Why don’t you go and fight your battle and then come back to Penmarren, and we’ll have a proper civilized wedding ceremony—oh!”
He seized her so suddenly that she gulped back the rest of her words, nearly choking on them. His strength seemed to pulse through her, dazzling her senses, weakening her knees. She who had been taught to use a sword by her father’s own man-at-arms, who had killed a boar, who had met with equanimity kings and counts and rulers from lands near and far, found herself trembling as she stared into the lean, dark face of this barbarian from Blackenstar.
“There is nothing proper or civilized about me, Princess. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be. Now, I have no more time to waste chattering with you—either go and pack what you can and meet me in the courtyard in the blink of an eye, or you and your precious kingdom of Penmarren will know exactly what kind of barbarian I really am.”
Her chest constricted with fear, Lianna read the furious determination in his face. “You’re hurting me,” she whispered.
He glanced down, as if unaware, at the spot where he gripped her wrists, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. With an oath muttered under his breath, he released her.
“Go!”
She went. She turned and swept toward the corridor, refusing to run, refusing to look desperate and afraid, though heaven knew that was how she felt. As she reached the outer hall, she heard his voice call sharply behind her.
“Don’t make me come looking for you, Princess! I have urgent business, and if you cause me a moment’s delay, it will not go well for you or for those you hold dear.”
Lianna did run then. She fled through the great hall and the solar, up a short flight of stairs, and down the corridor that led to her own quarters. All the castle was aflurry about her—guards and servants running, shouting, colliding, as the news spread from the tower to the cellar that the Barbarian of Blackenstar was leaving at any moment and taking the Princess Lianna with him.
“Princess…is it true?” Else gasped, her face whiter than the snows that still clung to the winter trees beyond the window.
“Please, by the stars, no!” Meeg whispered, but one look at Lianna’s taut, pale face, and she dropped her head into her hands.
“I must get to the courtyard. I am to be married at once and leave immediately after for Blackenstar.” She managed to say it without bursting into tears, though they clogged her throat and burned behind her eyelids. It would not do to collapse in a quivering heap now—it would not serve her father, her kingdom, or herself. What was it her mother had always told her?
You do not have what it takes to be a true princess, Lianna. Running through the woods like a squirrel. You lack dignity. Grace. A princess never speaks without considering her words or acts without considering the effects of her deeds. You are impulsive, emotional, and unreliable. You disappoint me.
“I must take only some clothing and necessities. Else, Bronwen, help me, if you please. Fill my trunk—quickly. I am to meet Ambrose immediately, or he will…he will…” Her voice faded, but she summoned it back. “I must go down without delay,” she finished desperately.
Else and Bronwen began frantically tossing clothing, boxes of jewels, colored hose, snoods, and other belongings into a silver-edged trunk.
“A marriage gown,” Meeg gasped out. “Surely you must have time to don your marriage gown.”
“No time,” Lianna muttered, dragging her crimson velvet cloak from its peg and throwing it around her shoulders. “We will be riding for Blackenstar as soon as the wedding is done. I dare not make him come in search of me, or who knows what those I leave behind will suffer. The man is a beast. ‘Barbarian’ is too kind a word for him…He is…”
She stopped short. The horror and pain on her nurse’s beloved face made her curse her own tongue. “He is not that bad, dearest,” she whispered. “He is quite handsome, at least. I am sure we shall deal well together.”
But it was a lie, and every woman in the room knew it, especially Meeg. She caught Princess Lianna’s lovely face in her doughy hands and spoke to her so softly no one else could hear.
“Take care, Lianna. Watch your tongue, child, I beg you. Do not anger him. He is a dangerous man.”
A dangerous man? Lianna bit back a hysterical laugh. That was true a hundredfold. She wanted to claim that she wouldn’t be intimidated by any man—least of all a graceless bastard who didn’t deserve the noble title of duke that he had snatched for himself, but she knew such rash words would only alarm Meeg further.
“I will take care, Meeg,” she promised softly, a catch in her throat. “Do not fear for me. I promise you—all will be well.”
All will be well—when Constantine comes for me, she finished silently, grimly. Then she was running down the hall again, the manservant Ludd following with her trunk and all her ladies trailing after, weeping.
The night whipped around her in a flurry of icy, bitter winds. Wrapped in her crimson cloak, a f
ew wild strands of hair escaping from her hood to fly about her face, she shivered and prayed that she would survive the hours ahead.
They’d been riding nearly all the night, it seemed to her, and she wondered that dawn had not yet begun to glimmer on the horizon. But, no, darkness still shrouded the great dark forest through which they rode—she could not even see the stars—and the cold was unrelenting.
Behind her in the saddle, the Barbarian’s large, well-muscled frame was warm and hard, but his arms around her were every bit as unrelenting as the cold.
Lianna knew that if she were riding alone or in a litter she might well have frozen to death by now. It grated on her to be grateful to him for anything—after all, she would be in her own soft, warm, and very safe featherbed right now if not for him—but she had to acknowledge that she was thankful for the very solid bulk of his body behind her, for his warmth and strength, which partly shielded her from the fierce night wind, and for his arms, which held her upright in the saddle—for she was so weary, her body aching and exhausted, that without his grip, she was certain she would slide right off the horse and simply die of cold and misery upon the forest floor.
As they rode, the wedding itself whirled through her mind, a blur that seemed more like a dream than a real event. She saw her father’s face, ashen and furious as he gave her away to the Barbarian of Blackenstar, and the cardinal, his collar askew, his voice trembling at the unexpected late-night turn of events, concern for her glistening in his sad, ancient eyes as he guided Ambrose and her through the sacred vows.
With torchlight smoking in the courtyard, and incense burning, and women muttering prayers, Ambrose’s men had chafed impatiently, horses had snorted and pranced, and the groom himself, cloaked, wearing hauberk and sword, had barked out his vows in a quick, rough tone that had made Lianna repeat hers with deliberate slowness. Then just as they’d finished and Ambrose had scooped her up in his arms and hoisted her into the saddle, Meeg had pushed forward, breaking free of the knot of women and going straight to the Barbarian himself.