by Aldrea Alien
Clara swung her gaze from side to side as Poppet continued her chatter, hoping to spot Lucias amongst the crowd. If she could get a moment alone with him, then he might be able to help locate the other children with little fuss.
Sadly, it seemed he was just as absent from sight.
She widened her hunt for Farris and the group of old men wishing to speak with their Great Lord, but the count was nowhere to be seen. She’d even settle for Brenna’s presence, for pregnancy seemed to have mellowed the once haughty woman.
Snippets of other people’s conversations reached her ears as she squeezed by small, gossiping groups. People speculated on the small child in her arms. Not really hers, surely. All of them? Maybe the younger ones. Couldn’t be the Great Lord’s, though. What an utter disgrace she was to flaunt the children of past lovers. And at her wedding, of all things.
Clara shook her head. Had their brains fallen out their backsides? How could anyone even entertain the suggestion?
Still, each new group she passed whispered their version of the tale.
She felt thoroughly hounded by the time she finally found Lucias. He stood amongst a group of older noblemen, quietly sipping from his goblet and nodding to the men, who chatted away with all the eagerness of washerwomen.
Clara wove past servants bearing trays of food and pitchers of wine to dive into her husband’s surprised, but no less accepting, grasp.
“Hello love.” He grinned at Poppet. “And a good evening to you, little lady. You haven’t been running your dear mother ragged, have you?”
Poppet shook her head, her curly hair bouncing and swinging in all directions. She seemed as oblivious as Lucias to the sideways glances and whispered words spoken behind fans and palms.
“Come here.” Lucias held out his arms. “Give your poor mother’s arms a rest.”
Like a fearless kitten, Poppet wriggled out of Clara’s grasp and vaulted into Lucias’ embrace.
Around them, the hushed chatter increased. She couldn’t be the only one to notice. What did they gossip about now? Did none of them have the brains to realise that she, a woman of seventeen years, could not have given birth to these children? Was the kingdom really run by such vapid minds?
“Clara?” Lucias whispered, tipping their heads together. “Is something wrong?”
She focused on smoothing her features into a neutral expression, not entirely certain she had succeeded. “Not at all.”
“Are you sure?” He cupped her chin. “Forgive me if I choose to not believe you, but you’re crying.”
She sniffed and fluttered her lashes. The moisture brushing her cheeks was merely sweat. “I’m not,” she insisted, noting the shimmer in his eyes at the outright lie. Now wasn’t the time to be concerned of such things. She refused to show any weakness whilst others hovered within earshot.
She was the Great Lady, sworn as Lucias’ shield before the altar and the Goddess. Nothing could be seen to upset her.
His thumb ran across her cheek, disturbing the warm wetness lingering there. “Well then, my dear, your tears are lying to me.”
“Stop it.” She stumbled back a step, wrenching her head from his hands. “You’ll smear the rouge.”
The ghost of a laugh escaped through his lips. “I don’t care about that.” He took her by the elbow, leading her away from the group and towards the nearest marble pillar. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Please? Let me fix it.” He pulled her into his embrace, squeezing her tight.
Poppet’s little hands joined in the hug, patting Clara’s shoulder.
“It breaks my heart to see tears when you’re supposed to be happy,” Lucias whispered against her hair.
“I’ll be fine,” she mumbled into his shoulder. Already, the mortifyingly strong urge to crumple into a weeping ball of silk and flesh ebbed with being in his arms. “Just a few silly rumours getting to me.”
He leant back enough to shoot her a quizzical look.
Clara explained the past half hour of her search for him, briefly relaying the chatter about her and the children. Hearing the words from her own mouth served only to make them sound even more absurd.
He laid a silencing finger on her lips. “I… I get the idea.” His gaze slid across the court. “Utter foolishness. None of them look a thing like you and…” Lucias combed his fingers through his hair, disturbing the coronet. “I could almost believe this little one was yours.” He bounced Poppet in his arms. “Although you would’ve been very young and the thought of anyone being with a girl of such an age makes me a little sick, to be honest.”
Clara pressed her lips together. Keeping her mouth shut on that topic was likely the best course of action. Was Lucias aware there were a few mothers in Everdark as young as thirteen? Most had been kicked from their homes, left to struggle on the streets or do the jobs no one else wanted for a pittance, but they existed.
“The rest is just—” He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a word for how inane a thought that is. Has anyone said anything to you directly?”
“Not yet.” She had already steeled herself for when someone did find themselves bold enough to ask.
“All this talk will die down as soon as the court has something of greater import to speak of, don’t worry about it. I—”
“There you are!” a voice pierced through the indistinct chatter of the hall. Woden came barrelling through the crowd. He skittered to a halt at the sight of them, relief sagging his shoulders. “Poppet,” he puffed. “Derek told you to stay close.”
She clung tighter to Lucias. “I am.”
“I’m pretty sure he meant sticking with the rest of your brothers and sisters,” Clara said, garnering a sheepish smile from the girl.
“And he’s right that you should,” Lucias said, setting the girl onto her feet. “Even if you did stick with us. This is a big place and I don’t want a single one of you getting lost in it.”
“But the city’s heaps bigger,” Poppet countered. “I never got lost there.”
“That’s because we were all there with you,” Woden said.
“But I wanted to—”
The first screech of a bow against strings reverberated through the room.
“—dance!” Poppet shrieked over the sound. “Derek said there’d be dancing soon and you were all stuffing your faces. And he said no one could dance after they’d eaten, but I didn’t eat anything. So I can dance.” She jabbed a finger at her own face before turning the digit on Woden. “And you can’t.”
“It’s a dance you want?” Lucias interjected as the jangled chords settled into a harmony that was easier on the ears. “I’m sure I can accommodate you there.” He lifted her off the ground, the faintest cinch of her dress at the waist the only hint that his magic cradled her.
Whilst a few nearby people gasped, Poppet merely squealed in delight. They twirled across the dance floor with Lucias taking the proper steps whilst Poppet floated along like an angel.
“That—” Woden mumbled, his pale face drained completely of colour. “That’ll take some getting used to.”
“Would you like to dance?” Clara asked.
“D-dance?” Immediately, the boy’s pallid cheeks flushed a spotty red. “I don’t know how.”
“That’s all right.” She took up his hands, holding him at arm’s length. “I didn’t know the steps to begin with either, but my dad used to say that we all have to start learning something new at some time or another. Just watch my feet and follow. Can you see them from there?” With the bulk of her skirt in the way, she certainly couldn’t.
He nodded.
She took the first step to the side. “The important thing is to not stand on your dance partner’s feet.” Thankfully, the tune lent itself to a simple four-step, something that they could shuffle to without any trouble.
Woden smiled shyly up at her before dropping his full attention to the floor between them. “I think I can manage that.”
They circled their little corner of the room in
carefully-measured steps. Woden slowly grew a touch more confident with each rotation. He stopped staring at his feet and his back straightened, allowing his movement to grow more fluid. If I could get a sword in his hand. Clara shook the thought free. There’d be time enough for sword training. For all of her children.
The song eventually petered out and Clara led him into the final steps before curtsying. “See? You got the hang of it.”
The boy puffed out his chest, his cheeks glowing with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. “I did!”
The soft notes of another song began. The tune was a little slower than the last and just bordering on audible.
Clearing his throat, Lucias returned to their side. “Why don’t you and your siblings see if we can’t get some livelier music for proper dancing?” he asked of Woden, setting Poppet down.
The pair dutifully trotted off. Poppet scampered at the fore with Woden struggling to remain at her side. With the musicians playing in earnest, Clara saw no chance of the children convincing anyone to play something different.
Still watching the children, Lucias held out his hand to her. “Care for another dance in the meantime, my lady? Although, I’m afraid I shan’t be as spry as your last partner.”
She sagged gladly into Lucias arms, following the same slow steps she’d walked with Woden. It seemed Lucias also preferred the seclusion of their little section of the lesser hall rather than swinging them into the midst of the crowd. Thankfully, her husband also favoured not striking out for any intricate steps as the train of her dress had yet to be tied up and would’ve made moving quickly a bit of a challenge.
A thought came to her as the last notes drifted across the room. Something he’d said that had fled her mind until now. “What does having you drink my blood do, precisely? Why would it be worse than me drinking yours?”
“It—” Lucias frowned. “It’s been a long time since I was told about it, but I believe it would’ve formed an unbreakable bond between us. I’m not entirely certain how much is required, but one drop could’ve been all it took for me to have known where you were at all times.” He shook his head, disgust twisting his lips. “My ancestors used to do it with their wives.” He muttered, his eyes unfocused and staring at whatever dark thought his mind had taken him into. “My father probably did it with my mother.”
Clara numbly followed his steps. What better way to ensure they knew where their heir was at all times than to bind themselves to the walking vessel carrying the child? “You could’ve done that to me back in the citadel whenever you wanted,” she whispered. She never would’ve known.
“But I don’t want—” Sighing, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “To bind you to me in such a fashion. You—” He tightened his embrace. “You are your own person and to place such a beacon above your head for the rest of your life… that wouldn’t be an equal marriage.”
She clung to his jacket. One drop. He might’ve claimed it as pure speculation, but there’d been a note of chilling certainty in his voice. “When we return to the Citadel, you’re telling me everything your magic is capable of. No more surprises.”
Lucias chuckled. “Whatever my lady asks.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The sun set and the music played on into the night, stuffing her head with enchanting trills and thumps. Clara twirled her way around the grand floor of the lesser hall, letting herself become lost in the heavy rhythms and the various, intricate steps.
She’d changed dancing partners a number of times over the course of the evening, mostly older men of the upper nobility. Their idle chatter was welcome and mercifully distracting. No one brought up the incident with Marie except for Farris and she could’ve done without him peppering apologies and explanations throughout their dancing.
A few people in the crowd had dispersed, either to bed or other places around the castle, whilst the larger portion preferred to prance their way across the room in time to the music. The temple bells had struck the midnight hour some time back, she was certain of it. Who could possibly mistake their muted clanging?
For now, Clara was content being in her husband’s arms with his cheek pressed to her temple as they gently swayed on the spot to the lulling notes of various string and woodwind instruments.
“Are you hungry yet?” Lucias asked, his breath tingling across her ear.
She shook her head. After the first few dances, most of the crowd had excused themselves to the adjoining room where they partook of the lavish feast the cooks spent hours preparing for this occasion, then returning here to chat or dance further. Clara had sat at her husband’s side as was proper, but done little beyond nibbling on some fruit before abandoning the idea of eating altogether. Her appetite just wouldn’t come and, the later it got, the more her stomach knotted.
He kissed her forehead and led her through a few slow, twirling steps. “As you wish.” There was a definite tinge of concern in his voice. Although she’d stopped all attempts to starve herself within the first few days of being confined to the Great Lord’s Citadel, Lucias still seemed intent on ensuring she ate what he considered a decent meal.
If only he believed her about the little she survived on whilst living in the village with her mother, then he’d realise she already consumed far more than she was used to.
The room continued to spin long after her body had stopped moving. A sudden flush of heat engulfed her face, sliding across her skin to pool in her gut. For a moment, she thought her stomach sought to reject the meagre amount she’d eaten.
Then, with less warning than its arrival, the queasiness dissipated. Was this some side effect of the tiãpe? But she’d barely taken a sip of the wine. “I feel strange,” she mumbled. “Hot.”
Lucias pressed the back of his hand to her cheek and then, as his brows lowered in a heavy frown, her neck. “It is quite warm in here. We can leave, if you want?”
Clara nodded. Going somewhere less conspicuous would be nice. She certainly couldn’t dance any longer and the nearby balconies were already far too crowded with other couples seeking relief from the heat.
With his hand settling in the small of her back, he gently guided her towards the exit. The cooler air beyond the lesser hall caressed her skin. “Would you prefer a stroll through the gardens or going to bed?”
She snuggled against him, pillowing her head on his shoulder. “Bed sounds good.”
He was silent whilst they crossed the anteroom and began winding through the hallways. Just as she was beginning to wonder if she’d said the wrong thing, Lucias’ caressing touch on her jaw coaxed her head up. The smile he gave was soft, but a hint of mischief tweaked the corners and sparkled in his eyes. “You mean sleep, don’t you?”
Clara blinked and frowned up at him. What else could she have possibly meant?
Lucias shook his head, chuckling. “Of course you do. Let us go to bed, then.”
The chill air did little to banish the fresh inferno dancing upon her cheeks. “Us?”
“Well, yes. Where else am I to sleep if not at my wife’s side?”
Wife. So easily he spoke the word, seeming to relish in the way it rolled off his tongue, as if he’d waited his whole life to declare he’d found his equal. She rocked onto her toes and planted a kiss upon his cheek, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth.
Silvery-blue light flashed across his eyes. The delicate grip his arm maintained about her waist tightened, pulling her hard against him, whilst his lips greedily consumed hers. They staggered across the hallway until their path was blocked by the cool, smooth curve of an alcove cradling her back.
Only then did he relinquish his hold.
“Forgive me,” he huffed. His face was as flushed as hers felt and lacking in anything resembling remorse. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.” The words escaped his lips in a voice rough and low, heavy with the passion he clearly struggled to keep in check.
“Me too.” Clara closed her eyes, revelling in this awareness as it soaked through
to her core. She didn’t need anyone to tell her how great his desire for her was. It blazed across his face like a second sun.
Lucias gave a gloriously booming laugh, which only served to heat her further. “Have I been remiss in my husbandly duties so soon?” His hands slapped the smooth brickwork either side of her. He leant on the wall, pinning her up against the stone with the full length of his body.
It was just as well that he had, for when their lips met again, she was certain her knees would’ve preferred to dump her at his feet.
His kisses came harshly at first, a feverish crush of lips that screamed of a desperate need to consume all. Her fingers slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, where she was then able to coax him into gentler, but no less fervent, kisses. He moaned into her mouth, the sound guttural and dark, and pulled her tighter against him.
Her restraint slowly melted away as she found herself held fast to her husband’s firm body. She clung to his shoulders, his flesh trembling beneath her fingers as she sought a way to relieve the pressure of the brickwork at her back.
Lucias’ trembling hand snaked down her side to grasp at her skirts. The fabric lifted.
Although she knew, in some far-off manner, she was still covered with copious amounts of silk, the sensation of his knee slipping between her thighs overpowered all thought. Her mind spun, barely able to comprehend what was happening, and for one irrational moment, her leg lifted, seemingly of its own accord, yet with her full consent.
A tendril of cooler air wound its way about her legs, chilling the small gap between bloomers and stockings, and sharply reminding her they were still in the public hallways. Clara slammed her foot down, the jolt bringing her fully back into herself. And still, he had not let her mouth go.
Just when she thought she’d have to push him away or allow things to slip into the realm of indecent, he released her lips and pressed their foreheads together.