by Aldrea Alien
A strangled grunt came from outside.
Clara hastily donned her dressing gown. Was someone at her window? Impossible. She was several floors up. A person would have to be mad or extremely desperate to attempt climbing so high. Another assassin? She scrambled for her sword and slunk across the room towards the window. They would not find her unprepared this time.
Throwing the curtain to one side offered no more than the view of the moors. She fancied seeing dark shapes moving on the distant grassland. Cattle. Perhaps the wind had carried their cry, warping it along the way.
The windowpane rattled. A hand flattened itself against the glass.
Clara jerked back, a scream lodged in her throat. She clutched the sides of her dressing gown to her chest and, with the sword levelled at the panes, inched backwards in search of the door. What sort of madman would dare to enter her chambers via the window?
Her gaze fastened onto the small metal latch which was all that kept her intruder at bay. The latch turned. No one touched it, yet its ponderous movement was unmistakable. The two sections of the window swung into the night. A forearm thumped onto the sill. The other arm joined the first, followed fast by a head topped with dark hair and a familiar face.
“Lucias?” Clara couldn’t help the relieved laughter escaping her lips as she scurried to his side. Of course, only her madman would dare to attempt something so foolish. So much for his vow to not risk his life. “What are you doing out there?”
He grinned up at her. Sweat flattened his hair, yet the wind still managed to move a few strands. “Trying to get in?”
“Through the window?” She glanced back at the door. It was held shut with a simple lock. Such a mechanism hadn’t stopped him in the Citadel and the effort he could’ve put into magically manipulating the latch had to be far less than scaling the castle. “I thought you were another assassin.”
Lucias paused in hauling himself onto the ledge, his face scrunched in more than mere effort. “I… didn’t think of that,” he confessed with a sheepish grin. “But the custom demands me to enter my bride’s chamber through an alternative entrance.” He swung his legs over the sill and jumped into the room. The windowpanes creaked shut behind him. “Which, admittedly, would be easier had this been a tent. Fortunately, this room’s within easy climbing reach.”
She thought back to the words someone had uttered upon her arrival at Endlight. Of the view and how she wouldn’t be doing much in the way of admiring such a sight. The person who had arranged this room to be hers must’ve known what was planned and had been deliberate in their choice. “So what happens now?”
His smile grew crooked. Those dark eyes dropped to run over her clothes, or rather the lack of anything decent, before returning to her face. A spark of silvery-blue light flickered to life in his pupils and then vanished. “We spend the night together.”
She drew her dressing gown tighter. Her face felt aflame. “Yes, but how?” He once swore to teach her ways where they could be intimate without actual sex being involved. She had agreed back then, but now he was standing here, expecting more from her than kisses and…
Clara wasn’t quite so sure she was ready to go any further.
He frowned and leant back against the window ledge. “Would you prefer I left?” Gone was the cocky teasing he had clung to over the days. A quiet, almost understanding, affection took its place. “It won’t be any fun if you’re uncomfortable in my presence.”
“Yes… no!” She clutched at his arm, although he hadn’t attempted to move. “I don’t know!” she wailed. Clara plucked at the linen of his shirtsleeve. She’d no clue what she was meant to do. The women she’d asked had tried to be helpful, but it was such a conflicting jumble she wasn’t certain of the truth anymore. “I can’t… I… I mean, I don’t think I could…”
Lucias smiled. “A brave woman like you? Sure you can.” He brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek. “We’ll take it slow and, I swear, go no further than I promised. But first…” His hand dropped to his sword belt. “I won’t be requiring this.” He tossed the sheathed weapon aside. The scabbard and sword slid across the ground to hit the dressing screen with a clatter.
“Are you certain? We might be attacked by brigands in the middle of the night.”
Laughter creased his eyes. “I assure you, they’d be greeted with a rather chilly reception before they made it this far.” Leaving her side, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Come.” He patted the bedding. “Sit with me.”
She hugged herself, torn between staying put and doing as he asked. This was going a little faster than she’d hoped. What if she did something wrong? What if she didn’t like what he did?
She bit her lip. Then he’d stop. He’d promised her that he would. “Lucias…”
“Back at the Citadel, you entered my chambers wearing less than you do now, intending on more than I do at this point in time.” Again, he patted the bed. “Sit.”
Her limbs woodenly obeyed, positioning her on the bedding. The mattress shifted under Lucias’ weight. She stiffened before realising his attention had turned to a crystal wine decanter and matching goblets sitting on the bedside table. Gifts from Farris, no doubt.
“My dear, you simply must relax.” He twisted back around, a goblet in each hand. Candlelight glittered off the rims. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I’m not about to turn into some senseless beast. I won’t break my word.”
She knew that. But knowing didn’t help unravel the massive knot nerves had made of her stomach. “This is new to me,” she murmured, graciously accepting the wine.
“I know.” The top button of his shirt popped with the slightest touch of his fingers. “And if there was a way I could ease your concerns, I would. It pains me to think you are uncomfortable in my presence.”
But there was a way, was there not? She ran a finger around the goblet’s rim. “Would compelling not work, then?” He had stopped her from being captivated by her fear when the barbarian invaded the Citadel, surely it worked on other emotions.
His nose wrinkled in disgust. “It would all too well. Is that what you believe I would do?” Loathing warped his features for a moment before shifting back into concern. “I’ve no desire to trap your true feelings behind such a mask. If I could come to you without a drop of magic in my veins, I would, and gladly so if it quelled your unease.”
“So… under my own power or not at all?”
He inclined his head. “Precisely.” He unbuttoned more of his shirt and flapped the fabric. Dark hair peeked through the gap forming in the linen.
Clara swiftly turned her head. Seeing him throw off his shirt to spar with his men and watching this gradual removal were two completely different things. Her hands itched to run across his bare chest, to dig her fingers into his hair, to feel the heat rolling off his skin.
She didn’t think her face could get any hotter, but her cheeks made a valiant effort. She stared into her goblet, hoping her thoughts would grow neutral. “That outfit…” It was not his usual attire. There was too much soft cloth and not nearly enough leather.
“This?” He plucked at the shirt, loosening another button. “I did not wish to try scaling the castle walls in armour.”
“You—” It was quite the drop from her window sill. If he had made one wrong move on the way up… Her mouth was suddenly too dry. She took a sip of wine. It didn’t help. Nor did the several gulps that followed.
“Clara? Are you—” He took the empty goblet from her unresisting hands and set it back on the bedside table. “You’re trembling.” His thumb ran along her bottom lip. “Like a cornered little rabbit. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Clara shook her head. Whilst his appearance at the window had shocked her, she’d already recovered from the scare. “We’re meant to be intimate tonight,” she whispered.
“Are you afraid of that? Of me?”
Her gaze lifted to stare right into his rich, dark eyes. Genuine concern creased his face. “I’m not scared of yo
u.” A touch nervous, perhaps. She was allowed that, given the circumstances. Wasn’t she?
His concern melted into quiet amusement. “You should be. I’m a dangerous man.”
“But you’re not a bad one.” She eyed the sleeve of her dressing gown. His fingers had worked the fabric down her arm until her entire shoulder was bare. “Just a little naughty,” she muttered, deftly hoisting the sleeve back where it belonged.
He chuckled. “And you are far too lenient with me, Miss Weaver.”
“You won’t be able to call me that come tomorrow.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “No, I guess not. Such a pity when it rolls off the tongue so deliciously well. It’ll be a shame to have you saddled with my name, but I guess that can’t be helped.” A single brow arched high. “I should endeavour to call you Miss Weaver as many times as I can tonight.” His gaze slid down to her mouth. He wet his lips, drew closer and tentatively kissed her.
Clara flung her arms around his neck, surrendering herself. This she was used to, although her actions were met with an intensity that she hadn’t anticipated.
He pulled her against him, gently slipping the dressing gown from her shoulders to pool around her wrists. She let the fabric continue its tumble onto the bed before gliding her fingers up his chest. How was it that he could have her heart pounding and craving his touch with a simple kiss?
Her fingers continued the task he’d started on his shirt, undoing the rest of the buttons and sliding the dark linen off his shoulders. His chest heaved beneath her fingertips. The hot breath of his whimpering moan heated her skin.
He clasped her hands and withdrew the fabric from her grasp. “As much as I would like to go further… Truthfully, I’m not sure how well I could contain myself in that circumstance and I’d rather you didn’t find out the hard way.” He took up his goblet, taking a sip. “Let us just spend tonight enjoying the wine, the food and…” Smiling, he indicated her with a tilt of his goblet. “…the exquisite company.” Even so, he shrugged out of his sleeves and tossed the shirt aside.
Try as she might, Clara couldn’t keep herself from staring at the vertical scar running along his abdomen. His torso had always been covered in faint scars from his days scrapping in the training grounds. Likely even before then. This particular mark was about a handspan in length, just right for a broad sword blade. She already knew it had a matching one on his back.
“What are you—?” His gaze dropped. One hand wandered across his belly, disturbing the dark hair. He ran a finger down the scar. “I don’t think it’ll heal further.” Like a tear in fabric sewn back together, the healing magic within the Citadel’s training grounds might do a decent job in fixing whatever ailed those within the circumference of the glyphs, but it couldn’t undo what had been done. “I thought I was going to die that day.”
She recalled the amount of blood he’d lost on the way to the training grounds. So much. Any more and that would’ve been the end of the Great Lord. And of the kingdom.
“You gave me a second chance at life. I don’t think I could ever thank you enough.” His breath escaped in a husky sigh. “My dear Clarabelle,” he purred, her name rolling across his tongue and sending a hot jolt down her spine.
She opened her mouth to object to him using her full name. He was aware of her dislike for it.
“You know, your very presence has consumed my thoughts since the day we met. I’ve never wanted to be with anyone as badly as I crave you at my side. You and no one else.”
“You mean the naive young woman with hair as red as freshly-spilt blood?” she teased, recalling precisely how he’d described it the day he picked her as his mistress. She was used to standing out from the crowd, but it was her hair that drew people’s attention, not herself.
“Your hair may have caught my eye to begin with, but such superficial attributes would mean little to me if you were anything less than your charming, tempestuous self. And you aren’t as naive as you believe. If anything, I underestimated how much you knew of the world.”
She snorted, disbelieving both points. “I’m certain you’ve met women you have misjudged before.”
His attempt at stifling a laugh trumpeted through his nose. “Only on how far I could trust them. They’re all paint and perfume and will belong to any man who can pay.” He slumped forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Believe me, I know exactly how petty some people can be.”
She laid a hand on his shoulder. How many times had he been lied to, been used, just because of who he was? Of who he would become? A mantle he’d no choice in taking up.
“But you.” Lucias sat back, his head almost colliding with hers. “When I’m with you, nothing else in the world feels as real.” His lips brushed the corner of her mouth. “And come tomorrow,” he murmured in her ear, his breath hot on her skin. His arms slid around her shoulders, the gentle embrace of his magic keeping her from slipping off the bed and onto the floor. “I place the future of the kingdom in your hands.”
She shivered and pressed against him, seeking the warmth emanating from his bare skin. “I love you,” she whispered.
He jerked back, his mouth dropping open before his lips became broadly skewed.
“Why are you grinning like a halfwit?”
Still beaming, he tucked a wayward lock of her hair behind an ear. “That’s the first time you said it.”
She closed her eyes, nuzzling his palm. “Said what?”
“That you love me. You’ve never told me that before.”
It was her turn to stare incredulously at him. He was mistaken. Had to be. This couldn’t be the first time she’d admitted it. “I must have.”
He shook his head. “Not once. I’ve told you countless times, but you’ve never replied in kind.”
“So you doubted my feelings when I chose to stay?” She leant closer, laying a hand on his chest. “We are to be married tomorrow, do you doubt it still?”
Lucias shrugged. “People all over the world marry each other without being in love. Some even go on to have children. I’m a prime example of a couple not requiring even fondness for them to create life.”
Yes, she’d heard in great detail—from both him and the Great Lord’s men—what had transpired before Lucias’ conception. If the former Great Lord had ever held any capacity for love, it’d burnt out long before he’d kidnapped the young Lady Lenora and forced her to bear his heir.
“I’m not one of those people.” She clasped his head. Nose to nose, she glared at him. “I would not have stayed if I didn’t love you.”
His eyes closed at the declaration. The years, the strain of his position, seemed to drop from his features.
Their lips met and Clara sank into his arms, surfacing only when she felt his fingers entwining with the laces of her corset. “If you will permit me,” he breathed, the heat of his words slinking along her neck. “I would like to remove this.”
Clara nodded. She could hardly sleep in the thing and, even without the corset, she still wore a chemise. Like the rest of her clothes, they were in black and dark red. Far more clothing than he wore and yet… she felt as if she were naked.
He worked diligently at the laces, threading through enough for her to wriggle out without unthreading the entire thing.
“Now,” he said as she resettled on the edge of the bed. “If I can remember rightly enough, this should help you relax.” His hands fell upon her shoulders, his fingers moving in soft, slow circles.
Her skin tingled. She leant against him, her bare arms tickled by the hair on his chest. His lips fell upon her neck and worked their way up, brushing her earlobe.
Giggling, Clara shied from the touch. His breathy laughter puffed into her ear.
The loose short sleeve of her chemise slid off her shoulder. She hauled it back where it belonged only for him to work the sleeve back down. “Stop that.”
“But I just want to do this.” He kissed her bare shoulder. “And this.” His lips once again brushed her neck. “A
thought comes to mind.” The heat of his breath shivered its way along her skin to settle in her cleavage. He slithered off the edge of the bed. “Come with me.”
Clara trailed after him as he vanished into the bathing chamber. “Just what are you planning?” She huffed and rubbed her hands together. Strange how she could forget just how cold it was when in his arms.
“I’m going to run a bath for you.”
She eyed him, then the empty tub. Whilst she wasn’t aware of the full extent of his magical talents—a conversation she would definitely need to have with him once they were married—she did know that conjuring water out of the air wasn’t in his power. “Won’t calling for someone to fill it create more talk?”
Lucias indicated one of the clunky taps at the base of the bath. “Did no one tell you these are functional?”
She shook her head, curiosity shuffling her closer.
“That would explain why you had them do it manually last time.” Lucias grinned at her. “Observe!” He turned a tap with the deft twist of a hand. The pipes rattled and clear water poured from the spouts. In a very short time, steam also rose from the taps.
Clara crept closer. “I’ve heard of this.” She lightly traced the pipes with a forefinger. The pipe beneath her finger was cold and steam did not rise from the water it supplied. She didn’t dare touch the other. “Plumbing, right?” There’d been snippets of gossip about ways to bring hot water inside without having to heat it, but as far as she knew, it hadn’t yet caught on anywhere within Everdark, not even the more expensive houses.
Lucias nodded. “Farris likes to latch onto everything new. He’s had the kitchens, laundry and his family suites all piped for a good year now. This—” He patted the bath as if it was a favoured pet. “This is the newest installation. Just a few months old.” With a few firm twists of the taps, the water flow was shut off. “Now, then. If you’d be so good as to hop in before the water cools.”
She clutched at her chemise. “I’m not taking this off.”
He bowed low and offered her his hand. “If my lady wishes.” He glanced up. “Be quick, my dear, before I toss you in.”