Dark One's Bride

by Aldrea Alien

  As she expected, he followed her tactical retreat.

  She feinted and lunged. The sides of their blades clashed before she could pull her sword back.

  Lucias beamed at her over the crossed blades, an odd gleam in his eyes. “You’ve been training.”

  “Did you expect me to sit around all day and sew?” Granted, she did quite a bit of that along with other activities, but mostly because it gave her hands something to do whilst reading up on the kingdom’s history or listening to the Citadel steward’s daily report on everyday life in her home village, both of which often consumed much of her time.

  His gaze silently traversed her form and the mild heat of exertion turned into a furnace-like assault on her cheeks. Was he measuring her stance? It’d be hard to see precisely where her feet lay with the bulk of her skirts in the way. Or did his thoughts slink to something a little more primal?

  When he spoke again, his voice had become hoarse and choked with emotion. “You are going to make a spectacular Great Lady fighting like this. And in such cumbersome attire, too.”

  “It’s nothing,” she babbled. “The skirts aren’t hampering me in any fashion. See?” She tapped the front, sending the layers swinging. “Hardly any weight to them.”

  Lucias scoffed. “You’re being coy. I wouldn’t be able to walk, much less fight, in them.” Nevertheless, he gave the edge of her skirts a nudge with his boot, his head cocked to one side as they shifted with ease. “Do you think you could teach the children? Especially the girls.”

  She twisted from side to side, basking in the admiration. “I’d have to improve a great deal for that.”

  “Nothing perseverance won’t plough through, I’m sure. You wear determination like a shawl.”

  “I’m still nowhere near as good as you,” she professed.

  He dismissed her self-deprecation with a snort. “I’ve been training for as long as I could lift a sword, you started a few months ago. If you improve at your current rate, you will surpass me sooner than you think.” He untangled their swords and stepped back. “Care to go again? I wouldn’t want to over-exert you after your run-in with our newest recruit to the army.”

  “Again.” She resumed her ready stance.

  Lucias inched closer, watching her moves, a little more cautious now. Those little tells of his still worked in her favour, allowing her to close and react with greater speed.

  She pressed him whenever he showed an ounce of hesitancy, forcing him back past the pillars and along the outer ring. He grinned with every back step, praising each well-placed swing, offering suggestions to improve when an attack didn’t quite go as she’d planned.

  Finally, his sword dropped to react to a weapon that was no longer there. The lower length of the blade slid along her skirts, the edge pushed away from her legs by the fabric.

  Barely pausing to think, she swept her free hand before her, bringing it low. The cool weave of silk brushed her fingertips. She grabbed a fistful of fabric and twisted, leaving Lucias’ sword trapped in her gown.

  With a jerk of her hips, she sent his sword clattering onto the compacted earth. Clara watched the dust settle around it and gave a satisfied huff. “I’ve always wanted to try that.” She examined her skirts for any sign of damage. A few slashes on the outer fabric, nothing that some needlework couldn’t fix. She might even be able to hide the cuts in some embroidery.

  The absence of any sort of reply from Lucias had her lifting her head.

  He stared at her, his dark eyes at their widest. Then he straightened, his arms spread. “I love you,” he murmured. Before she could think of the ramifications of letting her opponent embrace her, he’d wrapped his arms around her waist, bodily lifting her and tipping her onto the ground.

  Her back hit hard, a grunt tightening her throat. Her sword jolted from her fingers and skittered out of reach.

  “S-sorry,” he stammered like a clumsy child. He stumbled in an effort to pull her back to her feet, succeeding only in tumbling atop her. “I didn’t mean for you to land so roughly. Are you all right?”

  Nodding, Clara attempted a half-hearted bid for freedom. “I’d be better if you got off me.”

  Rather than shift his weight, he pinned her shoulders to the ground. “So, you concede? I win this round?”

  “After I disarmed you? You’ve got some cheek.” She struggled a little harder. Alas, with the bulk of her skirts tucked beneath her, there was no chance she could throw him off. Admitting defeat seemed to be the only option. “You win,” Clara announced with a sigh. She peered through the tangled strands of her hair when his weight didn’t move. “Did you not hear me? I concede.”

  Lucias brushed the hair from her face. She had expected to find his mouth warped into that insufferable smirk he always got whenever he won. Its absence only added to the guilt bubbling in her stomach.

  He leant close. “Clara.” His breath danced along her throat, its warmth aiding in the pounding of her heart. “Tell me you’re fine.” Each hushed word slunk across her skin, more intimate than any touch. “Look me in the eye and say it. Make me believe you’re no longer thinking of the attack.”

  Clara parted her lips, drinking in his breath. It was always hard to think straight with him so close. Her body strained against him, no longer seeking a way to be free of his weight. This is wrong. She willed herself to lie still. It left her bitterly hollow, but to do otherwise would only give rise to rumours and wouldn’t be doing the Great Lord’s reputation any favours if he was seen in such a compromising position in public.

  Her thoughts sluggishly turned to his question.

  Did she still dwell on the attack? In a way, her mind tumbled over various scenarios. Was she scared? She had been at the time. But once her would-be assassin had been taken care of, what was there to fear? He’d been working alone and was in no position to poison her or… or…

  “I—” She couldn’t bring herself to speak whilst looking at his face. Her gaze dropped, fastening on his bare chest. The way it rose and fell in rapid bursts only served to warm her cheeks. “I’m fine,” she finally mumbled.

  “Liar.”

  The stark certainty behind the word drew her gaze back up. He dared to call her that? She glared at him. There was the hint of smugness she’d expected earlier, tempered by the ghosts of fury and heartache. “I am not,” she insisted vehemently.

  His laughter shook both of them. “Lying about lying, now?”

  She pushed herself off the ground until their foreheads touched. Their noses also pressed uncomfortably against each other, but she wasn’t about the pull away right now. “Let more come, if they dare,” she muttered, each word clipped. “They will see I am not afraid.”

  Something dark shimmered in the back of his eyes as she spoke, flickering at her single falsely-uttered word. His lips twisted wryly. They were so close to touching hers that her skin tingled. “I don’t believe you.”

  Of course you don’t. If she couldn’t believe her words, then what hope did she have of deceiving him with something as plain as an outright lie? The magic he’d inherited from his mother’s family practically guaranteed she couldn’t. “I can’t be the Great Lady our kingdom needs, the one you want, if I’m scared of a little assassination attempt, can I?”

  Heartache darkened his eyes and deepened the lines on his face. “Clara…” The back of his fingers caressed her cheek; soft and slow as if she were some half-tame alley cat. “Did you not hear me when I told you that you will always be everything I want?”

  She bit her lip and searched for a fresh escape route. There wasn’t one. “Get off me.”

  His weight finally shifted, but he didn’t heed her. Instead, he straddled her waist. “Not until you admit you are lying. No one’s asking you to never be afraid. Fear is an understandable response. But the last thing I’d ever want is for it to rule you. All I ask is for you to tell me what haunts you and I will do my best to put those ghosts to rest.”

  “I know you will.” Her gaze drifte
d to her sword. She couldn’t rely on his help forever. Was that not the purpose of her wedding gift? “I am afraid,” she whispered. “But not for me.” His death would have a far greater impact on the kingdom than hers, for now at least. That the assassin chose to come after her could only mean they thought she was with child. “I don’t want you to die.”

  “You’re asking for me to be immortal?” He shook his head, the wisp of a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. “I can’t offer you that. Our lives are finite, for all that my ancestors have tried to prove the world otherwise. Being strong is something I can do, for the both of us if need be.”

  “I can be strong, too.”

  “Then we’ll do so together.” He stood, offering his hand and hoisting Clara to her feet. Lifting her chin, he met her gaze. “Think on what ifs only when you must, but never seek to bandage your head before it’s broken.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  She met Thalia’s midwife that night, the woman having been escorted to her door by Tommy. Abby, as she’d insisted on being called, had checked her neck and determined she was well.

  Clara had her check over the children, too. They’d a relatively good outcome on that, bar the sunburns and malnutrition. Abby had left them with strict instructions to eat only until full and not to gorge themselves just because the food was there. Clara hadn’t considered that as a hazard beyond making an overeater ill, but the woman had spoken quite seriously of witnessed instances where people had died from simply eating too much.

  The children had certainly believed her, all listening with the widest eyes Clara had ever witnessed on a group. In all, it made for an interesting night of sleep, with several of the children piling into her room after nightmares of their bellies exploding like trodden fruit.

  The morning bells had seen her groggy and not at all willing to clamber out of the middle of a pile of equally sleepy, little bodies. Only the hesitant rapping of knuckles upon her new door—made of sturdy, brown oak—had kept her from sinking back into a dreamless sleep.

  She’d been greeted outside her door by one of the castle’s many servants only a few hours ago, the woman bore a message from Thalia. An invitation for Clara to join the lady of the castle and the other noblewomen in the solarium. Unrolling the note had revealed an addition scribbled hastily in the corner, insisting that the children also come along.

  Ushering the children into their rooms to change had been quite the task. Fortunately, they’d rather enjoyed themselves with mingling yesterday and chasing them up had consisted of reminding the younger ones that they couldn’t wander through the halls in their chemise or wearing no trousers whatsoever. At least she’d Derek and Tommy to help with the latter fussing, convincing Poppet that her dress didn’t need to match Clara’s had taken several trips between the girl’s room and her own.

  But they’d finally made their way to the solarium door, where Thalia waited in the doorway with her hands firmly planted on her broad hips. “You finally made it, I see. For a while there, I thought you’d opted to stay all shut up. I simply couldn’t allow that.”

  “My apologies for our late arrival,” Clara gabbled, impulsively adjusting the large dark-red ribbon Poppet had insisted on wearing in her hair. “We’d a few issues with getting dressed.”

  Thalia flapped her hands, brushing off the apology as if Clara needn’t had said a word. “Servants, my dear. We’ve plenty who’d be all too happy to help. Do make use of them. In fact, I’ll send Tammi your way; she’s excellent with settling our young ones.” Clasping Clara’s hand, she whisked Clara in through the solarium doorway. “But you’re here now and you simply must join the rest of us noblewoman. You’ll feel much better around people.”

  Clara nodded. With her would-be assassin’s failure still fresh in everyone’s minds, having other people nearby seemed like a good plan. After all, what were the odds that everyone in the room was out to kill her?

  The solarium was filled with what had to be close to every noblewoman in the castle, if not all of them. They crowded around the lit fireplace and had been chatting amongst themselves quite exuberantly until she’d been spotted. Now they talked in almost hushed tones, occasionally glancing her way. They either drank from little porcelain cups or waited on those who did the former.

  “I must admit—” She trotted after Thalia, trying to keep up with the woman. For someone so heavily pregnant, she moved deceptively fast. Clara leant close to the woman’s ear. “—I’m uncertain what a lady of the court does with her time.” Whilst alone in the Citadel, bar the Great Lord’s men, she typically engaged each new day with whatever took her fancy the most.

  Thalia halted, her lashes fluttering as she stared incredulously at Clara. “Why, we do the same thing every other woman does when there’s a group of us. Sit around the fire, drink tea and talk.”

  She recalled a few hazy memories of her own mother engaging in such talks, back when her father had been alive. Generally, it was nearer festivals. “I’ve never done that,” she confessed. “Mother always said it was for women.”

  The older woman’s fine brows twitched together, confusion clouding her eyes. “I see. Is that an Everdark custom?”

  Clara shrugged. She’d never thought to ask, merely taking her mother’s words at face value. But tea was expensive and having an extra mouth consuming even a small amount would’ve used it that much faster.

  Thalia laid a comforting hand on Clara’s arm. “Well, it’s no matter either way. You’re not far off from getting married.” She tipped her head and smiled over Clara’s shoulder, no doubt at the children who warily tailed them. “And you’ve several simply adorable little ones under your care. I’d say those two points alone class you as being a woman.” Her gaze drifted further over Clara’s shoulder.

  Turning to discover what had caught the woman’s eye almost had Clara colliding with her page. The boy practically hovered at her elbow.

  “Is there anything you need?” Tommy asked, his gaze flicking to the young women milling around the steaming kettles. His eyes suddenly widened, realisation flashing in their depths that he’d an audience. He bowed to Clara, his hands clasped before him, and stammered, “I-I mean, m-my lady?”

  “Not at this moment.” Clara laid a hand on his wrist, stilling the tapping his fingers had started up. Whilst he didn’t mind crowds when they were outside, he’d gotten progressively less happy being around even small groups of strangers. “Go relax with the others.” She gestured to the children with a sweep of her free hand. Already, they’d all scuttled over to a table laden with an assortment of delicacies designed to tempt children’s bellies.

  Nodding, Tommy joined the others in taking a sample from each plate before settling on a bench near the solarium entrance to eat in peace.

  “Your page,” Thalia said. “Is quite the peculiar young man.”

  Clara bristled at the remark. Her lips parted, ready to defend Tommy the very instant the wrong words came out of the woman’s mouth.

  “Why, just the other day,” Thalia continued, seemingly heedless to the change in Clara’s expression. “One of the stable hands caught him in a stall talking to the moodiest of our warhorses. Well, I thought we’d have to send him to the doctor or, Goddess forbid, a priest. But he had the beast nuzzling him and eating apples like the most docile of ponies.”

  “Tommy prefers the company of animals to strangers,” she replied, fighting to maintain a civil tone. There was certainly nothing peculiar about an animal liking someone who showed it proper respect. She’d seen guard dogs when they weren’t on duty gambling down the streets like puppies alongside their owners; it wasn’t a stretch to imagine a warhorse had that same playful nature. “And they always prefer him.”

  “Oh?” The remark tore the woman’s gaze from Tommy to focus back on Clara. “My father employed a woman like that. Best milkmaid I’d ever seen. Practically had the goats lining up to be done.”

  Clara frowned, trying to picture Tommy milking goats. “He’s at his
best with horses.”

  “Our Great Lord has designs on making your page his stable master, correct?” Thalia smiled when Clara inclined her head. “Then I am certain he’ll do a marvellous job.” She swung to the women, all of whom had gone deathly quiet in the close presence of the lady of the castle. “I fear most of these faces will be quite unknown to you. You already know my dear daughter-in-law, I trust? I hear you’re from the same village and you two were in the Citadel at the same time.”

  “Yes,” Clara murmured. She wasn’t sure just what the woman knew about Brenna, but she also wasn’t looking to form any rifts in anyone’s life. Thalia could even be aware of everything, right up to Brenna having had the possibility of being the Great Lord’s mistress in lieu of Clara. None of that was any of Clara’s business and she intended to keep her nose out of it.

  “Well, I—” Frowning, Thalia rubbed her belly.

  Her thoughts immediately turned to Lucias’ remark yesterday of how the woman was past the usual nine-month mark on her pregnancy. The women she’d witnessed go into labour generally felt no pain at the beginning, though. “Are you well?”

  She smiled and patted Clara’s shoulder. “Extremely so. The little one’s just being a touch more energetic than usual. If you will excuse me, I must sit down.”

  “Of course.” Clara moved to escort Thalia to her chair by the fireplace.

  “Please, my dear lady,” one of the servants said, scuttling to Clara’s side. “Allow me.” She deftly clasped Thalia’s elbow and laid a hand on the pregnant woman’s back.

  The noblewomen seemed to realise just who she was, for they jolted to their feet and gave her a deep curtsey, waiting until she replied with the small bob of her head before any of them dared to return to their seats.

  Was this what Lucias had to deal with on a daily basis from the court? Small wonder he preferred taking patrols.