The Winter King

by C. L. Wilson

  “You’re awake.” The look in those eyes made Khamsin shiver and squirm. She’d always thought herself immune to the intense sensual passions that afflicted most Summerlanders. Until now. Just the sight of him made her body melt as if she’d eaten arras straight from the tree.

  The flare of his nostrils and the faint, satisfied curve that lifted one corner of his mouth told her he knew it.

  Damn him for finding it so amusing. And damn her for not being able to look away.

  “Where are we?” she asked, forcing a coolness she was far from feeling.

  “About two hundred miles south of the Rill. We set up camp here when you fell ill.”

  The Rill was the border river that separated Wintercraig from Summerlea. If they were still two hundred miles away, they’d barely traveled ninety miles north of Vera Sola. “How long have we been here?”

  “This is the fifth day. The night before last, your fever came to a head. You’ve been sleeping ever since.”

  He walked towards her. She stared, fascinated, at the ripple of muscle in his legs and the hard, carved definition of his chest and flat abdomen. The front of his loincloth bore a very distinctive, very large bulge. She licked her suddenly dry lips. The bulge twitched and grew visibly more pronounced. Oh. My.

  “Have a care, woman.” His voice was a low, throbbing growl. It vibrated across her skin and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. “If you didn’t need food more than I need a good fucking, I’d flip you over right now and fill you ’til you scream and beg for mercy.”

  She should have been shocked by his raw coarseness. Spring and Summer would have gasped in outrage. Autumn would have slapped his face. But she, wild, mannerless heathen that she was, only shuddered with helpless lust. Images from her wedding night flashed across her mind on a hazy rush. Silken skin, unexpectedly soft and fragrant, sliding against hers. Broad hands skimming across her, touching her in ways that made her gasp and quake. A burning mouth, raining fire upon her flesh.

  She wrenched her thoughts to the present and her eyes away from all that dangerous, seductive skin and that impressive jut of flesh straining against his loincloth. She forced her gaze back up to his face.

  Then wished she hadn’t. The look in his eyes was stark and stunning, as powerful and elemental as any storm she’d ever conjured from the skies.

  His gaze dropped lower, and she could have sworn blue flames leaped to life in the center of his eyes. She glanced down and realized her hands had slipped from their protective clasps over her breasts. The burnished bronze of one nipple was peeking out between her fingers.

  She gasped and snatched a fur, bringing it up to cover herself.

  “Don’t.”

  The simple command made her freeze. Then scowl. She cast him a defiant glance and pulled the fur higher.

  “We both know I’m only going to take it from you before you leave this tent.”

  She’d never backed down from a challenge in her life. Not even when retreat served her best interests. Her fingers tightened around the pelt, and she arched one dark brow in return. “You can try, Winterman.”

  “I’ll do more than that, Summerlass.” He drew closer and sank to his knees beside her in a single, fluid motion, setting pot and kettle on the ground before him. The long, thick muscles in his thighs bunched and flexed as they absorbed his weight. He smelled of wind and snow, fresh and clean and brisk. Power, a mix of magic and male, swirled around him with dark mystery, deepening his scent with an underlying core of danger. Even without his magic, he would be a formidable man. One to be wary of.

  “Here.” The rounded top of the kettle was a removable bowl. He plucked it free and poured a stream of steaming liquid into it, then offered it to her. “Drink. You’ve been too long without food. And be careful. It’s hot.”

  The liquid was a rich brown broth of some kind, and the scent of it made Khamsin’s stomach growl. Suddenly, she realized how famished she truly was. Securing the pelt beneath her armpits, she reached for the bowl and brought it to her lips. The first sip nearly scalded her, but pride wouldn’t let her gasp and fan her mouth to cool the sting.

  He removed a cloth from the pot to reveal a deliciously scented, stewed meat of some kind. “This is borgan,” he said. “A mix of venison, wild boar, and fowl, flavored with basil, wild onion, and sweetberry and stewed until the flesh falls apart.” A small spoon hung from the edge of the pot. He freed it and handed it to her. “It’s flavorful, but easy to digest. Try a bite.”

  She was too hungry to refuse. She dipped the spoon into the borgan and brought it to her mouth. The meat was meltingly tender and slightly sweet. “It’s delicious,” she said, dipping her spoon a second time.

  Wynter sat back and watched her eat. He missed nothing. Not the graceful play of her slender fingers. Not the way her pretty lips closed around the spoon or her fluttering pleasure as the sweet flavors of the borgan burst on her tongue.

  The sight of her made his cock twitch. Ah, gods, he lusted. The need so fierce it was a living thing inside him, a hunger like nothing he’d ever felt before. Not for just any woman. His hunger had a name: Khamsin Coruscate Atrialan, his wife.

  Her hair spilled in unkempt ringlets down her back, threaded with those shots of white that fascinated him so. The warm brown skin of her bare shoulders and neck was creamy smooth, the delicate bones more pronounced after her days of illness, lending her a frail air.

  She was fragile. He knew she didn’t think so. Many fools might agree with her, because her spirit was so fierce she seemed more formidable than she was. But he could crush her bones to dust with one glancing blow.

  He remembered the cold fury that had filled him the morning after their wedding, when he’d seen the state of her back and realized the crime her father had done against her. He could still feel the icy rage that made him want to flay the skin from Verdan’s bones in retribution and freeze his bloodied corpse in a block of ice so thick he would never thaw, so he would remain an eternal warning to corrupt cowards who would turn their gods-given strength against the women and children they were born to protect.

  “How many men died?”

  The sound of Khamsin’s voice ripped him out of his dark thoughts. He realized he was still kneeling there beside her, his hands gripped in bloodless fists against his thighs, his muscles bunched tight with suppressed fury. A distinct chill was emanating from him. “What did you say?” he asked.

  “When I summoned the storm that caused that”—she jerked her chin up, towards the tattered canvas roof overhead—“how many of your men did I kill?”

  He glanced up, then back at her. Perhaps if he had never swallowed the Ice Heart, he would not have recognized the look in her eyes. But he had, and he’d lost count of the times he’d come back from battle with that same bitter dread in his eyes, wondering how many friends his power had slain, how many innocent lives were extinguished because of him.

  “None, Khamsin. All live.”

  Her eyes widened. “None? But how is that possible? I know what my storms can do, and judging by the state of this tent, the storm I summoned was a bad one.”

  “It was a bad one,” he agreed, “but I stopped it.”

  “You—” Her voice broke off, then she whispered in astonishment, “How?”

  “I starved it into submission.” Her brow furrowed, her gray eyes filled with disbelief and suspicion. “I use the Ice Heart to steal its heat and moisture,” he explained, “so it had nothing to feed on. It died away before it could harm anyone.”

  “You . . .” She closed her mouth. He saw her absorb what was obviously an astonishing possibility, saw wary disbelief battle the fragile bloom of hope in her eyes. “No one’s dead? No one’s even harmed? You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I—” She dropped her head, lashes shuttering down to veil her gaze. Her jaw worked. When she finally s
poke, her voice was a low, strained whisper. “Thank you.” She looked up suddenly, her eyes fierce. “Thank you,” she said again. This time her voice was firm and fervent. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

  He smiled sadly because he’d only just realized what similar creatures they truly were. “Yes, min ros, I think I do.” Like him, she despised the destruction she wreaked. The difference was, he’d chosen to wield his deadly magic. She’d possessed hers since birth.

  He rose to his feet. He wanted to comfort her but knew enough about wild things not to be so foolish. “No doubt you’d like a bath.” He didn’t give her a chance to refuse. He simply stepped outside and motioned to his men. She’d been asleep for one full day, out of her mind with fever for three days before that. He’d never met a noblewoman yet who could stand to go so long without the feel of warm water and soap against her skin.

  Khamsin, still sitting on the pallet of furs and clutching several of the pelts to her chest, scuttled back when four soldiers entered carrying in a large, beaten-copper tub. They set it near the fire burning in the iron stove and left. Another four men entered, carrying pails of steaming water. They formed a line leading out through the tent flap. Outside a longer line wound all the way to the large cookfires burning in the center of the camp. Pail after pail of water passed down the line until the tub was well filled. The last of them handed Wynter a stack of linens and a small wooden pail filled with soap, a bottle of fragrant oil, and a washcloth.

  Wynter found himself fighting back flares of aggression as he waited for them to finish. The wolf in him was getting snarly about having so many men near his female.

  When he was finally alone once more with his wife, the tension of Wynter’s protective, territorial instincts faded, but a new tension, sultry and simmering, rose to take its place. He reached for the bottle of oil, unstoppered it, and poured a thin stream into the bath. The scent of mountain jasmine rose up on wisps of curling steam.

  “Come, wife.” He stretched out a hand towards her. “To your bath.”

  She didn’t move. She continued to clutch the pelt to her chest as if she truly thought he would let her leave this tent before he reacquainted himself with every inch of her skin, every intimate detail of her body, and every breathless nuance of her pleasure. He had an heir to sire, both to ensure the continuation of his line and to free him from the Ice Heart, but even without that, from the moment he’d realized his wife was the intriguing little firebrand he’d not been able to erase from his mind, he’d known he would spend every day of the next year learning her pleasure and teaching her his.

  It began now.

  “Come,” he said again. “I’ve already acquainted myself with everything you’re trying to hide. I’ve spent the last several days nursing you back from the brink of death, tending every need of your body. There is no part of you I have not seen.”

  “That is different,” she snapped. “I wasn’t aware of what you were doing.”

  “And what of our wedding night? You were aware then. I drank the same arras you did, but I still remember everything. I remembered learning the taste of your skin on my tongue, the weight of your breasts in my hands, the feel of your sex gripping mine. I know you remember it, too. There is no place between us for false modesty.”

  She still didn’t move. “I am not bathing with you here, and that is final.”

  “You will,” he corrected. “If I have to strip those pelts from you and drop you kicking and screaming into the tub, you will.”

  Her eyes narrowed, beginning to swirl with silver. “You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”

  “Oh, min ros, I would.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Wrestling a beautiful, naked woman out of her furs and into her bath? What Winterman worth his stones would pass up a chance like that?”

  “I’ll fry you before you lay a finger on me.”

  It was all he could do not to laugh at her outraged expression. She was so fierce for such a tiny woman. Rebellious, headstrong, and so sure of her own power. She probably thought she could take on Frost Giants single-handedly. She definitely thought she could best him.

  She couldn’t. Her power, no matter how impressive, was no match for the Ice Heart. Trouble was, he didn’t want to force her. Her father had already brutalized her enough for two lifetimes. Besides, he wanted her bathed, yes, but afterwards he wanted a warm, sweet-smelling, willing woman in his arms, not an angry firebrand determined to shoot a lightning bolt up his tender bits.

  “I hadn’t thought you such a faithless coward. You are a princess of the Summer Throne, wedded Queen of the Craig, and my wife. You swore an oath, before a priest and your father’s court, to accept my counsel and my care. You swore to offer me all the fruits of your life. And now, you would deny me that which you swore to offer? Do you have so little honor?”

  The accusation stole the silver from her eyes, leaving them pure, plain gray filled with shock and dismay. “I . . . No! Of course not! I’m no oathbreaker.”

  “Then come to your bath. Accept my care, as you swore you would. Offer me the fruits of your life, that I may dine once more on peace instead of war.”

  CHAPTER 9

  A Fragile Truce

  She’d been outmaneuvered.

  She knew it, and the brief flash of triumph that lit his pale eyes when she rose to her feet confirmed it.

  But what was a woman of honor to do? He’d used the one weapon against which she had no defense. She’d sworn an oath. He demanded she fulfill it. Even Roland would have laid down his weapons and accepted defeat under such circumstances.

  Her chin came up. Very well, then. She’d known this time would come. She’d known from the moment he had not slain her for her deception, that he would demand she fulfill the obligations of their marriage. And by agreeing to wed him, she had accepted his right to claim and use her body for his pleasure and the conception of his heirs.

  He’d not been an unkind lover that first night. Driven, yes, but except for that first, wild coupling, he hadn’t just leapt on her, shoved her legs apart, and stabbed. Even burning with arras, he’d taken the time to ensure her pleasure her first.

  Of course, he’d still believed she was Autumn then.

  She walked towards the copper tub with its swirling cloud of jasmine-scented steam, towards the man she had accepted as her husband and king. The pelt still clutched in her hand covered her from breast to knee, shielding her from his view but leaving her back bare. Chill air whispered across naked skin, underscoring her vulnerability.

  He watched her approach, his unblinking stare cold as ice yet, paradoxically, where it touched her body, her skin felt hot and tingling.

  At the tub, she stopped and gathered her courage. His gaze never wavered. He was waiting to see if she was a woman of her word, all but challenging her to prove her cowardice. Her chin lifted and she met his fixed stare with a haughty, defiant one of her own.

  She had come. She would obey. But she was neither cowed nor coward.

  Khamsin forced her fingers to open and her hands to fall to her sides. The fur slid down her body. It whispered with tormenting friction across the tips of her breasts, then spilled down in a puddle at her feet. Cool air swirled around bare flesh. Already-tight nipples drew even tighter. Her muscles began to shiver, tiny uncontrollable tremors that had less to do with the cold of the air than the sudden flare of heat in Wynter’s eyes.

  His gaze swept over her with near-tangible intensity, and she was glad she’d waited until she’d reached the tub before releasing the pelt. He had a clear view of her breasts, but little else. Still, that was enough in its own right. The touch of those bright, piercing eyes felt like physical hands skimming across her flesh.

  “Your bath, my queen.” His voice had gone low, and a raspy edge had further deepened it so that his words came out on a rumbling growl.

  Her shivers intensified. Summer Sun, what wa
s it about him that drove all reason from her?

  Bath, Khamsin, some tiny, still lucid part of her mind urged her. Get in the bath.

  With some effort, she tore her gaze from Wynter and glanced down, then frowned in consternation. The copper tub had been made to fit Wynter’s near-giant height. The edge of the rim reached higher than her waist, and there were no chairs or stools for her to use as stepping blocks.

  “Come here,” he commanded in that soft, low growl of a voice, “and I will help you in.”

  “Come nearer, and I will help you,” said the wolf to the foolish little lamb. The words from one of the old fairy fables Tildy used to read to her when she was a child popped into Khamsin’s head, the story of a headstrong little lamb who had so wanted to be free of her belled collar that she’d trusted a wolf’s offer of assistance rather than heeding her instincts and fleeing to the safety of the flock.

  Feeling very like the little lamb, Kham silenced the inner alarms clanging their desperate warning and walked with slow deliberation around the perimeter of the tub. As she rounded the curved corner, she lost the last veil of protection hiding her body from Wynter’s gaze.

  He examined her with slow deliberation. Pride kept her arms at her side when what she really wanted to do was cover herself and run for shelter. She was slight and had always been. After the last week of illness, she was even thinner now than she’d ever been, but if he found her wanting, he did not show it.

  His broad hands slid round her middle, spanning her waist with inches to spare. He lifted her with the barest flex of the heavy muscles bunched beneath his skin, and she rose. When her feet lost contact with the ground, she instinctively clutched his wrists for balance.