Trade (Deridia Book 2)

by Catherine Miller

  21. Wife

  Renna stared at him uncomprehendingly. “You... what?”

  Machrus looked at her, a grim sort of smile at his lips. “I am quite surprised you never came to that conclusion yourself. I told you that my parents had just enough sons to support the treaties. Why should I be exempt from such a marriage?”

  When he put it like that, it did seem terribly obvious. But she hadn’t wanted to assume anything about him, not of his history, not of the possible reasons behind his temperament. It was his place to share with her, and in his own time, but for him to do so now...

  Her hands shook and she glanced blankly down at her bowl. Her stomach recoiled at the thought of eating anything more, though she’d eaten little as it was. But before she should slosh the contents onto her blankets, Machrus’s hands were there, taking it from her and placing it near his own, his free hand enveloping hers.

  “Does that...” he frowned. “Is there a custom of your people that one cannot remarry after the death of a spouse?”

  She blinked. “No. No, of course not.”

  His frown deepened. “Then why do you appear so troubled?”

  She was being ridiculous. Now was not the time for her to consider her own feelings on the matter. He had been so kind when she’d spoken of Maisie, of how she had come to be, and she would not be anything less.

  Even if her heart was aching with the knowledge that this was why he did not—would not—love her. Because there had been one before, one he probably still loved and wished could be his wife in her stead.

  But she pushed away such selfishness and forced herself to calm, to give his hand a squeeze lest he think her an unsafe confidant. “I am sorry,” she apologised sincerely. “I am... surprised, that is all.” Not entirely true, but true enough that she did not feel guilty for saying it. “It was silly of me to not have realised it before.”

  Machrus did not appear wholly convinced. His thumb was smoothing over her knuckles, careful and soothing, as if he feared some reaction from her. What did he expect her to say? His union had been true, not like her own unfortunate dalliance.

  Shame flooded through her, sharp and biting, her cheeks burning. Why could she not respond properly? This had nothing to do with her, nothing at all. She needed to listen and understand, to comfort, not behave like a ninny.

  “Will you tell me about her?” she asked gently, forcing away her pettiness. There was no place for it here. No room for jealousy. Or so she tried to convince herself.

  Machrus was staring at her oddly, as if still braced for some reaction from her. “She was of the Orgarond,” he began. She nodded, though the word meant nothing to her. “I saw her but once before our wedding.”

  “Was she pretty?” Renna asked before she could think better of it. It shouldn’t matter. Didn’t matter. Machrus hadn’t asked such questions about Maisie’s father.

  Machrus sighed, his thumb still tracing delicate circles over her skin. “I did not think so at first,” he admitted almost regretfully. “Their people have... much hair.” She vaguely recalled seeing similar people when first the Marzon came, and she nodded in understanding. She tried to picture Machrus with hair that seemed to reach down his spine, like a fur covering that had adhered to the skin, but could not manage it—nor did she think she could have found it particularly attractive, at least not at first.

  “But she was kind and sweet. Her laughter was contagious. I had... never been of the most amiable nature.” He glanced at her, and she could not contain her grim smile. It pleased her, in a way, for him to say that—to be reassured that the man she knew was not solely a product of his grief. “I valued solitude, or time spent quietly in companionship with my brothers. The prospect of a wife had always been... challenging.”

  He looked away, as if the admission was a shameful one. She could not quite imagine why, not when marriage was a daunting prospect for many, and that at least was something she could ask. “Was that wrong? For you to feel that way?”

  Machrus winced, though he smoothed his features quickly after. “It is our duty. My reticence was not an honourable quality.” He sounded as if he was reciting a lecture heard many times over, and she frowned to hear it. She was not certain if she was glad that his reluctance had been for his first marriage as well as his second, or if she only felt pity at him being forced into either of them.

  “I’m sorry,” she settled on at last, finding the words inadequate. But they were all she had, and she offered them freely.

  He eyed her in confusion. “For what?”

  That was so like him, so entrenched in his sense of duty and responsibility that it would not occur to him to begrudge his people, his family, for arranging his marriages, regardless of his own wants or desires.

  But she could not be so open, not when she wasn’t able to phrase her criticism in a way that wouldn’t offend.

  “I am sorry that you were put in that position. Twice. To marry when you did not love, when you weren’t certain that you even wanted to at all.”

  Machrus shook his head, his eyes softly determined. “I do not regret it. Not in the least. Not when my greatest joys have come from such a practice.” He grew more thoughtful. “My fears were unfounded, for I found that Nerine... she was easy to love. It was not long after our vows were spoken that I realised my care for her. And her for me.”

  Renna smiled thinly. He would never say such things about her, she knew. Theirs could never be described as an easy relationship, their love doomed before it had even been given the smallest room to grow. But, she reminded herself firmly, that did not matter.

  “What happened to her?” she asked as delicately as she could.

  Machrus sighed gravely, the memory obviously still a painful one. “There is a sickness in the Orgarond. They are born to it, but it is impossible to know who will succumb. When Nerine did not fall pregnant, I... wondered, but hoped that it would pass her.” His features hardened. “It did not.”

  She squeezed his fingers. There was grief there, strong and true even after all this time, and she could well relate. Time might numb the wound, if only a little, but there was no forgetting. If thoughts lingered too long, the emotions came freely, a sharp reminder of a painful season that had never truly passed.

  “Did she live here with you?” She tried not to imagine it, another woman here, keeping his home, helping him with his grenpeets, but it was difficult. She felt like an inadequate replacement, a cheap rendition of what once had been love.

  “No,” Machrus answered somewhat wistfully, finally looking away from her. “We lived in the trees.” Renna grimaced. She likely wasn’t terrified of the Marzon ways and adapted to it with ease. “She was a proficient weaver and enjoyed working with the others.” She thought of her own fumbling attempts with the spinning wheel. It was doubtful she had produced anything useful.

  “And you? Did you enjoy living there?”

  Machrus sighed, glancing at her. “At the time, I never would have imagined living differently. We were... happy. But when the sickness came and she wasted away... I could find no joy there. Not any longer. So my brother gave me this flock, and helped me to build this home, and insisted I at least be useful in my misery.”

  Renna frowned. That did not seem kind. From what he had said before, it must have been Sladec who stationed him here, but she had thought he would have more compassion for his grieving brother than to banish him outright.

  Machrus must have seen something in her expression for he felt the need to clarify. “He was right to do it, Renna. I was wasting away just as she had done. I felt I had no purpose. He gave me one. I was... angered at first, but I have found peace here.”

  Renna still wasn’t certain she agreed that it was the best course, but she had not seen him, did not know all of the particulars that had led to that decision. And there was no denying he cared about his grenpeets deeply, the care he took of them was proof enough of that.

  She wondered how she would have fared if given something
else to love after Maisie died. If she had not had to bury her anguish and simply carry on, working each day as tirelessly as she ever had, all hope of family lost to her with the death of her daughter.

  And that was something that still had not been restored. Not really.

  “I’m glad,” she answered lamely. She meant it, but she could put little earnestness in her words, and Machrus looked at her oddly.

  “I am wrong to share these things,” he said at last, removing his hand from hers.

  “No!” she denied adamantly, reaching out and grabbing hold of his arm. She knew she was bungling this horribly, and she truly was sorry for that. “No, you’re not. It’s good I know. I want to know about you. Anything you wish to share.” Regardless of how she might feel about what he disclosed, it was important that she listen.

  Machrus stared at her grimly. “Your expression would suggest otherwise.”

  Renna suppressed a sigh. She was not a very good liar, and now was not the time to begin honing those skills. “I... I’m a little jealous, I guess. Which hurts to admit, and I’m trying very hard not to be. But... you loved her. Were happy with her.”

  His head cocked to the side. “And you do not believe me to be happy now?”

  She shrugged, not sure what else she could do. “No?” She did sigh then. None of this was coming out how she meant it. None of this was important. Not when she should be offering him comfort and understanding—should be assuring him that it was all right for him to still love his wife. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to make sense of her own muddled thoughts. Did she think him happy? Content, maybe. But even that was generous. “I don’t know.” She really didn’t. “Things are different now. You’re different now, I’m sure. You hadn’t closed yourself off then—hadn’t decided you didn’t want to love a wife again. Not if it wasn’t... her.”

  Machrus stared at her, but she could not quite read his expression. “Did you not make a similar choice? When first we met, were married, you did not wish for a true marriage either. Was that not because you feared having another child? Losing another child?”

  Renna swallowed, her grip on his arm loosening, her hands falling limply to her lap. “I did.” And even now, she felt a shiver of fear at the prospect of having another—of part of her heart being hopelessly, utterly lost to another precious infant.

  Only for it to break and shatter and hurt, almost beyond what she could bear, when that baby proved too small, too weak for the harshness of this world.

  How much would she have to endure?

  Machrus moved a little nearer. She could feel him eyeing her, the delicate hairs on her arms prickling, but she could not look at him. “Have you changed your mind? Do you think the risk worth taking?” he asked her softly, his hand coming to settle on her shoulder, his thumb making those aimless patterns against the naked skin where bandage or blanket did not cover.

  She swallowed, closing her eyes to the sensation, hoping that she could maintain her composure, did not have to rip out another piece of herself as she confessed her growing care—growing love—only to have it rebuffed as unreciprocated.

  The prospect of another child still terrified her, but there was no guarantee that their species were even compatible in that way. But her initial determination that their marriage could be solely platonic—a cool treaty that was amicable, but lacking in anything that remotely resembled passion—no longer seemed like a satisfactory arrangement.

  “Please don’t make me answer that,” she whispered wretchedly. “Not when I already know your answer.”

  The mattress shifted again as he came even nearer, his free hand under her chin as he coaxed her to look at him. “Do you? That is very odd, for I hardly know it myself.”

  Renna wanted to shake off his hand, but even at the slightest movement gave a twinge of caution, so she settled for letting him see how miserable this made her. “Please, don’t tease me. I don’t need you to pretend for my sake that you’re torn about it.”

  Machrus shook his head, his agitation mounting. But still, his touch was gentle, just as he always was with her. “Assumptions are rarely correct,” he reminded her. He wasn’t being fair, touching her like that, his voice a soothing rumble. He had accused her of thinking him made of stone, but clearly he presumed the same. She could try all she wanted to quell her rising attraction for him, to learn from her past mistakes and harden her heart against the growing affection for him. But then he looked at her that way and all of it melted away into some useless defence that never had a chance of succeeding. “I have found these last days to be quite... enlightening.”

  She closed her eyes tightly, not even wanting to guess at what that meant.

  “Would you like to hear the conclusions I have reached?”

  She opened them, ready to snap, ready to snarl, ready to wrench away from him. Because this wasn’t fair, his calm steadiness nothing more than an irritant as she felt herself cracking, felt all her hopes and worries mingling into an ever-growing tension that made her nearly sick.

  And he dared keep looking at her so softly, almost tenderly in his regard for her.

  “I don’t want any more hurts,” she confessed, more to herself than to him. “I can’t bear it. So if... if you want to tell me that nothing has changed, that you loved... love your wife and there is no room for me... then I do not think I wish to hear it.”

  “I will always harbour love for Nerine,” Machrus confirmed. “Just as the love you have for Maisie will not diminish.”

  Her heart sank, knowing just how true that was.

  “However,” he continued, taking hold of her hand and giving it a mild squeeze. “I do not believe that precludes me from caring for the wife I have now. From... desiring a relationship with her that is more as a husband and wife should be.”

  Her breath caught, and she looked at him in bewilderment. Surely she was not understanding him properly.

  “What I realised,” he carried on, sitting a bit straighter, reminding her how much taller he was even in their seated positions. “Was that despite my best efforts, despite doing my utmost to ensure that the bond would lie dormant... when faced with the prospect of my wife nearly perishing...” he shook his head. “I find it most disagreeable.”

  She had asked him not to tease, yet from the way his mouth curved ever so slightly, she could tell he was doing precisely that.

  “That’s not the same,” she managed to choke out, her voice tight and strained from trying to maintain her composure. “Not wanting me to die isn’t the same as wanting me. You’ve... you’ve already had to live through one wife dying, and I understand wanting to avoid that again. But you must see that it isn’t the same. Not the same as... loving me.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that aloud, but she could not bring herself to regret it.

  He was staring at her placidly, as if she was being foolish for emphasising that, but she held firm. She did not want him out of guilt. She did not want him to turn to her out of fear. She wanted him to simply... want her.

  She knew what it was when a man did not want her fully, and she would not live through that again. She simply would not.

  “Renna,” Machrus coaxed, raising his hand to smooth through her hair, his thumb tickling the shell of her ear. “I am... far out of practise in being a husband. In saying what I must to make a wife feel cherished. And for that I must ask your pardon, ask you to have patience. And, perhaps, accept that I... as I have so recently discovered, that loving you, despite my efforts to the contrary, no longer seems to be something I can avoid.”

  Was that supposed to make her feel better?

  “You already admit it,” she pointed out, beginning to feel the same itchiness that had made her seek the solace of a walk in the first place. “You don’t want to want me. Any... any... care,” she could not bring herself to say love, “is forced. Coerced.” She huffed. It wasn’t a sob. It simply wasn’t. “Why do you think I’d want that from you? For you to have all your choices stripped away, to have your
desires whittled down until all that was left was an unwilling sort of affection that you couldn’t help but feel? If you want to remain true to your first wife, your first love, then you should.” Even if it broke her heart in the process. “I do not want more than you want to give me.”

  She’d known what that was like—for another to demand more than was offered, to convince her that it was somehow owed. And she wouldn’t accept that from Machrus. She felt soiled just for contemplating it.

  His answer did not come with words. He looked at her for a long while, and it was enough to make her want to slump down, to tug all those blankets over her head until she was as alone as she could manage. To beg him to leave her be.

  But then there was a gentle pressure, not from where he gripped her hand, but from that knot in her mind that wasn’t quite her own. It pulsed, once, twice, and then a release of warmth so sweet that it made tears come to her eyes. “What are you doing?” she managed to get out, occupied though she was with this foreign presence, the lull of comfort that made her so pleasantly numb—as if her worries had finally been banished, if only for a while. She remembered them, but the ache had dimmed, the anxious clutch at her stomach easing.

  “That is a taste of what it is for me to be near you,” he answered calmly. “Rather intoxicating, is it not? Difficult to resist?” He was looking at her, clearly waiting for confirmation, but she could only stare back at him, waiting. For what, she did not know.

  Machrus sighed, but continued. “When you were so unhappy that you were driven from my home...” he held up a hand to silence her protest. That was not what happened. “I realised I have been selfish. I have enjoyed your company, have grown... very fond of your presence here, yet cling to a promise I had made to myself that I would not love the woman that was given to me. Sladec might have convinced me to marry for the good of our peoples, but I was determined to retain my solitude despite your coming. Despite how you might feel in return.”