by M. J. Scott
“You looked very beautiful, Your Majesty,” Sophie said. “You should bring that head seamstress into the palace staff.”
“I intend to,” Eloisa said. She lowered her arms and then walked over to the taller dresser on the other side of the room, where she kept gloves and scarves and pieces of jewelry that weren’t valuable enough to be locked up in the vault when not in use. Her walk was graceful and feline, the movements making the robe billow around her in a way that was unmistakably female.
Sophie wondered how exactly Eloisa had learned to be so . . . well, alluring. That was the word. She drew men’s eyes to her. Women’s, too. Maybe it was part of her training as a crown princess, but Sophie doubted it. Part of it had to be innate, as natural to Eloisa as breathing. Sophie walking across a bedroom in a robe would probably just look like a woman in a robe.
Whereas Eloisa was unmistakably a queen. Something to be desired. Feted. Envied. She didn’t need the dress and the jewels and paint.
Sophie watched, still not sure what Eloisa wanted, as the queen skimmed one hand over the polished wood of the dresser. It came to rest on the long triple strand of black pearls that Eloisa had worn for months on end, which should have been returned to the vault with her coronation jewels.
“I suppose I will have to stop wearing these,” Eloisa said, lifting the pearls and running them through her fingers. “It’s a pity. I’ve always liked black pearls best. The colors in them are so vivid. But they’re hardly an auspicious color for the start of my reign.”
She placed the necklace back down and then opened one of the drawers. From it she lifted a silk-wrapped bundle. She turned, offering it to Sophie.
“Here. I wanted you to have these for your wedding.”
Sophie unwrapped the silk carefully, revealing a pile of creamy—almost golden—pearls the size of small marbles. When she lifted one of them, they revealed themselves to be a long string that could be doubled or maybe tripled. Not the massive length of Eloisa’s blacks but still extravagant.
“Your mother mentioned your dress was cream rather than white,” Eloisa said.
“They’re beautiful,” Sophie said. The pearls slid smoothly across her fingers as she examined them, the sheen of them beautiful in the lamplight. “But too much, Your Majesty. Truly.”
“Nonsense. What’s the point of being queen if I can’t indulge my friends? You are my friend, aren’t you, Sophie?” The question was almost a purr. A purr voiced by a cat with razor-sharp claws, perhaps. Not an entirely friendly sound.
“Of course,” Sophie said, hands suddenly clammy under the pearls as the back of her neck prickled. She started to wrap them up in the silk again, trying to pretend she hadn’t noticed anything amiss in Eloisa’s voice. “I will always be your loyal subject and friend, Your Majesty.”
“Good,” Eloisa said, green eyes cool. “Then, as your friend, I offer some advice.”
Sophie looked up from the pearls. “Your Majesty?”
“You would be wise, I think, to be wary of showing your . . . affection for Lieutenant Mackenzie too openly. Wise, actually, not to indulge it at all.” She turned and walked toward the bed. “After all, it’s not real, what lies between you.”
Sophie’s hands tightened around the bundle of pearls. “I’m not sure I understand, Your Majesty.”
Eloisa sat on the end of the bed and shrugged fluidly. “I mean, it’s not you that he is reacting to. It’s the magic. For some men, particularly those with power, a woman’s magic is, well, let’s say it elevates the pleasure shared. Not all men. My husband didn’t find it so, but some men do. They like to touch fire perhaps. Any fire.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. Was that too polite? I will be more direct. I am saying that Cameron is such a man and that any witch would rouse him. Can rouse him. So don’t give him your heart. As I said, northerners are wild. They like their passions. But, in my experience, they also have limited attention spans. And, Sophie, I do speak from experience.”
Sophie felt as though she’d been slapped. Had Eloisa . . . with Cameron? Suddenly the room seemed severely lacking in air.
“Oh, don’t look so stricken,” Eloisa said, still in that cool voice. “If I wanted him back, I would have taken him back by now. No, the next man I take to my bed will be my consort, and Cameron doesn’t qualify for that role. I just wanted you to know the truth of it. After all, dear, this is a world arranged to benefit men. So it doesn’t do to give them extra advantages by being foolish. Royal marriages are alliances, not affairs of the heart. You should keep that in mind.” She smiled then, though there was little warmth in it. “After all, you have proven useful so far. So I would rather have you undistracted by heartbreak when he grows tired of you.” She stretched again and yawned. “Now, off to bed with you. You should rest whilst you can these next days. After all, it doesn’t do for a bride to look exhausted on her wedding day.”
He really should have accepted Liam’s offer of Iska for breakfast. Cameron couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this nervous but suspected it had probably been before his very first battle. That time he’d ended up emptying the contents of his stomach behind a handy bush.
Couldn’t do that this time.
A vomiting bridegroom wasn’t exactly dignified. Or desirable. Liam and Alec would never let him live it down. Nor would his fellow guards. Plus, it was entirely possible that Domina Skey would gut him if he puked in the temple.
Should’ve had the Iska. Iska calmed the nerves nicely. Or at least made you not care that you were nervous.
Nothing to be nervous about, he told himself firmly. It was almost noon, and that meant that very soon Sophie would come into the temple and her father would place her hand in his and they would be married. And this entire ordeal would be over and everyone would leave them alone.
At least he hoped.
He couldn’t quite shake Lord Sylvain’s warnings from his mind. The erl had sought him out again at the coronation ball. He’d offered him a hearty—and Cameron thought heartfelt—congratulatory speech. And then he’d reminded Cameron not to forget Louisa before he’d vanished back into the whirling dancing court and been lost to sight.
Cameron hadn’t seen him in the day that had passed since. The commander had taken pity on him and, in a rare show of empathy, swapped his duty to daytime so he wouldn’t have to stand watch the night before his wedding. He’d also been given a week’s leave, generous under the circumstances to—as the commander had put it—become more acquainted with his new wife after the wedding. But even with day duty, assigned again to stand witness for the Illusioners in the Salt Hall, Cameron hadn’t seen Lord Sylvain.
He’d barely seen Sophie, either. He’d hoped that, with the coronation over, the queen might have fewer demands on her ladies’ time, but apparently not.
It was hardly proper to attempt to visit her late at night—it would no doubt lead only to something they might regret—and it was unfair to deprive her of what little sleep she was able to get.
This wedding business was harder on women after all. He’d had to get his dress uniform cleaned—Liam had pushed for Inglewood colors, but Cameron had killed that idea—and pick out a wedding gift for his wife along with a wedding band. Both the gifts were taken care of with a single visit to the court jeweler, who’d been more than eager to please the future husband of the newest royal witch. And Jeanne had taken his uniform in hand.
Whereas Sophie, no doubt, had a lot more on her plate. They weren’t having a grand ball or anything after the wedding, just a smaller dinner with family and some friends—Cameron’s closest from the Red Guards and Sophie’s from the ladies-in-waiting and a few other girls near her age who’d come up from her parents’ estate. But that was one more thing she had to be involved in arranging. Then there was the matter of the wedding dress.
He really wanted to see her in a wedding dress. She’d looked beautiful at the coronation, polished perfection but almost too perfect. Without so much pressur
e on the occasion as a coronation, perhaps she wouldn’t be primped to within quite such an inch of her life. She’d still be beautiful, but she would look more like Sophie.
And she’d be his.
He was looking forward to that part most of all, even though the thought of it, of peeling her out of her wedding gown and taking her to bed, made his mouth dry and his stomach clench all over again. He would have time to do things properly. To go slowly. To show her how it could be between a man and a woman. The thought made his cock harden, and he was glad of the disguising length of his uniform jacket.
He took a deep breath, and Liam, standing beside him, gave him a sympathetic look.
“Not much longer, little brother. This is the worst part.”
Cameron squared his shoulders. Both his brothers had survived getting married. He would, too. Of course, neither of them had married a royal witch.
A royal witch who had failed the goddess’s rituals.
They were to undergo the binding of husband and wife after the marriage ceremony. The Domina had informed them, mouth flattened in disapproval, that it must be attempted, even though she had no idea if it would be successful. She seemed to think that if Cameron wasn’t going to benefit from his witchly wife as other men did, it was his own fault for giving in to lust and ruining Sophie.
He wasn’t overly concerned about it. He had magic of his own, and he and Sophie had already channeled power together in a small way in the garden. If he ever needed her help, no doubt she would give it if she could. He’d rather a gift freely given than one forced from the giver anyway.
He took another deep breath, willing the hour bell to ring as he flattened his palms against his thighs, trying to remove the damp feeling from them.
But before he could give in to his nerves completely, there was a sudden commotion at the far end of the temple, which had everyone turning in their seats. Above him the bell finally boomed into sonorous life, and Sophie began to walk down the long aisle toward him.
The dress she wore was creamy white. It clung to her in all the right places and belled out to the floor in a sweep of gleaming fabric and lace that made it look as though she glided rather than walked. Pearls circled her throat and dotted the hair swept up on her head.
Beautiful.
But he really didn’t care about the dress. He wanted the woman in it. Sophie. Her back was very straight as she walked behind Honoria, her wedding maid, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm. In her other hand she carried a small posy of fiery red summerbells. She was smiling, but it wasn’t the blinding smile he’d been looking forward to. No. No, it looked, to him at least, somewhat strained.
Which was fine. She was entitled to be as nervous as he was, after all.
He smiled at her, trying to put her at ease, but her expression didn’t ease. Her eyes caught his, but then she looked past him to the queen, seated in the royal family’s enclosure to the side of the altar, and then on to the Domina.
“You’re on,” Liam whispered, and stepped back to let Cameron move forward as Sophie reached the quartered circle of silver set in the marble in front of the altar. He waited for her to curtsy to the queen, his heart thudding in his ears loud as cannon-shot. He hoped he’d be able to hear what the Domina was saying when she began to speak.
Beside his daughter, Sir Kendall nodded at Cameron and then lifted Sophie’s hand from his arm and held it out to Cameron.
He wrapped his fingers around hers, nerves easing now that they were finally touching. Her fingers were cool, but they curled around his. Together they waited whilst the Domina poured a small cup of salt water over their joined hands and then bound their wrists with dampened salt grass.
She began to recite the blessing of the goddess that was so familiar to Cameron after so many years of attending temple that he barely heard it even as he spoke the words in unison with everyone else. Instead, he watched Sophie, wishing she would stop watching the Domina and look at him.
Would see him.
See that they were in this particular mad venture together now.
But instead, she stared at the Domina, seemingly as fascinated as a bird who had spotted a cat nearby.
Cameron resigned himself to impatience as the Domina moved on from the blessing to addressing the assembled party. Apparently, she didn’t believe in missing any opportunity to preach to her congregation. The speech was a little lacking in the joy of marriage and a little heavy on the sacred duty of royal witches and of Anglions to protect the land of the goddess for his taste, but finally she came to a halt and asked him if he had a ring.
He produced it, and she took it from him, dousing it and the heavy band Sophie offered in more salt water and passing the rings briefly over the altar flame before she turned back to Cameron and Sophie.
He knew this part. Had been reciting the vows in his head or out loud whenever possible so there was no chance that he would get them wrong even with the Domina there to prompt him if needed. He wanted the words to be right. For his vows to be clear.
Reaching for Sophie’s unbound hand, he slipped the ring onto her finger and began to speak. The vows weren’t long, but he didn’t plan on saying them again in his lifetime.
“I offer my vow,” he said steadily. “I am yours, body and blood. Your shield and your shelter. I will share with you what is mine and take from you your hurts and sorrows. Until we return to the blessings of the goddess and rest in earth once more.”
Sophie’s eyes were very large and dark in her face as she took the band back from the Domina and put it on his finger.
“I offer my vow,” she said clearly, and he smiled before he could help it. “I am yours, body and blood, your solace and your shelter. I will share with you what is mine and take from you your hurts and sorrows. Until we return to the blessings of the goddess and rest in the earth once more.”
“As the goddess has witnessed, as you all have witnessed, these two are married,” the Domina said as she reached to slash the salt grass with a silver blade. “May their union be strong and blessed.”
Above them the temple bells began to ring out, and Cameron grinned down at his wife.
If Cameron didn’t stop smiling at her, Sophie thought, as she tugged another pin from her hair, she rather thought she might stab him with something. He’d been smiling all day. Smiling at her as though he hadn’t forgotten to mention the small matter that the queen had once been his lover.
Ever since Eloisa had dropped that particular tidbit of information into Sophie’s lap, she had been burning with fury. Did he think she was an idiot?
That she wouldn’t find out?
She knew what Eloisa had been doing in telling her. Asserting her power. Reminding Sophie of her place. Very well. She might have to accept that from the queen, but she wasn’t going to put up with a husband who treated her like a good little girl who could be kept in the dark and would do whatever he asked of her.
She pulled the last of the pins out and dragged her fingers into the curls, pulling the pile of hair back down around her shoulders. The ladies-in-waiting had brought her into the bedchamber in the small apartment the queen had granted to them, and they’d giggled and fussed around her, helping her off with her jewelry—she’d been tempted to fling Eloisa’s pearls across the room and never pick them up again, but that would be difficult to explain—and shoes and touching up the color staining her lips and cheeks. Honoria had dabbed perfume over her, including between her breasts, and then they’d finally—finally—left her alone to wait for Cameron.
Alone for the first time all day, she’d finally been able to scowl as she wanted to and had reached for a cloth and water to rub the cosmetics off her face before she’d started pulling down her hair. If she could have gotten out of the wedding gown on her own, she would have. But that would require arms that bent in ways not humanly possible, thanks to the row of tiny buttons that began at the back of her neck and finished past her waist. Not to mention the corset that laced at the back rath
er than the front like the ones she wore day to day so she could dress herself. Truly women’s clothes were stupid. If she and Cameron ever did live on an estate, she was going to stake a claim for eccentricity and wear the most comfortable clothes she could design, propriety be damned. Hopefully no one would want to upset a royal witch by telling her she couldn’t.
No one but her husband perhaps. She scowled at her reflection again, wishing there was something else she could do to express her displeasure. Cameron might be expecting a pretty, painted, perfect bride waiting placidly for him, but he wasn’t going to get one. She picked up the cloth again and scrubbed at her wrist where the spicy, heady scent Honoria had chosen was strongest. But apparently it had already sunk into her skin, because the smell didn’t budge.
She dropped the cloth back onto the dressing table and looked around the room. There was wine on a small table near the fire. And glasses. She had refrained from drinking any more than was strictly necessary to acknowledge the toasts at the dinner following the wedding, not wanting to risk giving in to her temper in public if the wine loosened her tongue. But she didn’t have to worry about that anymore. The ruby-colored wine looked pretty in the glass and tasted sweet on her tongue as she drained the first glass. She poured a second and was lifting it again when the door opened and Cameron stepped through.
He looked somewhat surprised to see the wine in her hand but then smiled—that damned stupid smile that was so attractive on his damned stupid face, even though she hated him—and held up the bottle in his own hand. “I see we had a similar thought, milady wife,” he said. “I didn’t know the servants had already left some.”
Given the amount of Iska his brothers had pushed on him throughout dinner, it was surprising he could stomach the thought of wine at all. But that wasn’t her problem. “Perhaps we’ll need two bottles,” she said.
Cameron locked the door and turned back to her, a sympathetic expression on his face. “Are you that nervous? There’s no need—I mean, if you wish—”