The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok Book 3)

by Alice Coldbreath

  He frowned. Too well-spoken for a tavern wench, though there was a faint accent running through it. Northern, he thought with surprise. You didn’t find many Northerners in Caer-Lyoness. His eyes opened wide and he tried to focus on the pale, oval face that now hovered over his with an expression of concern. Fuck. He didn’t remember her.

  “I’ll get you some water,” she said and scrambled from the bed. Naked as a jaybird, he noticed with interest, despite his wretchedness. She was tall and well formed, with nice thick thighs, a neat waist, and a curtain of dark auburn hair that hung down to her waist and swished about her in a pleasing fashion. As she crossed the room, her bare feet padding across the floor, he admired her rounded backside, which had dimples on either side of the base of her spine.

  Then something more pressing pushed to the forefront of his consciousness. “A basin,” he intoned hollowly. “I need a basin.” He grimaced, sitting up in alarm. He was going to spew his guts up. She hurried back and thrust a basin into his hands and he retched over it, bringing up a good deal of the strong, sweet wine he’d overindulged in. He would never drink it again, he vowed as his throat burned and a wave of misery and self-pity swept over him.

  “Here,” said the obliging female, hesitating as he retched again, but there was nothing more for him to bring up. Then he spat and she wiped his mouth with a damp cloth. “You’ll feel better now,” she said briskly. “Here, let me take that.” The basin was removed from his grasp and Armand collapsed back against the pillows feeling sick as a dog. “I’m dying,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut again.

  “Drink this water,” she said, holding a cup to his lips. Definitely not a tavern wench, who’d have been kicking him out of her bed at this point and cursing him soundly. Armand took a hasty swig of water and then pushed it away. He felt her hand smooth back his hair. Who the fuck was this ministering angel? Tentatively, he squinted up at her again. She had a faintly anxious look on her face. “You must go back to sleep now, Sir Armand,” she said politely. “Then wake upon the morrow feeling refreshed, yes?”

  He eyed her doubtfully. He liked her optimism, but not the fact she looked so grave. She wasn’t his usual type. He liked them on the petite side and saucy, but he could see why he’d picked her alright. She had a sweet, full mouth and a nice round pair of tits with large nipples so dark they resembled autumn berries. He hoped he’d enjoyed her charms fully, because he knew he wasn’t going to remember a damn thing in the morning.

  With a groan, he rolled toward her, grasping her about her waist and hauling her against him. She gave a faint gasp but did not struggle or pull away as he rested his brow against her soft, deep bosom. She made a damn fine pillow, he thought as his burning eyes drifted shut. After a moment, he felt one hand tentatively stroke his hair. Nice, he thought wistfully. He hoped he’d at least given her his mouth the night before, as he doubted he’d been able to stay hard for long considering the amount of liquor coursing through his veins.

  *

  When next he woke it was daybreak. Someone had thoughtfully kept the shutters closed, but he could see the light that was filtering into the room around the edges.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, clasping hands to his head and rolling onto his back. “My head.” He cast about the room, his thoughts jumbled. Someone should be here with him, he was sure of that much, though the identity of his bedpartner for the moment eluded him.

  Slowly, his senses returned to him. He had been competing in that damned fool competition the King had put on as part of the May Day festivities, though everyone knew it was really a ruse to get that ugly cousin of his off his hands. Armand remembered that he and Fulcher had determined he should lose in the very first round, in order to earn the fattest purse, for lately he had been performing well.

  Then … His memory faltered. He had been dragged back into the ring and that damned fool jester had given some speech about the man in last place winning the princess. He blinked, and even that seemed to make him feel dizzy. He had won the princess as some sort of twisted consolation prize. They had been swiftly married in the King’s private chapel and after that, his memory grew hazy.

  There had been a woman jumbled up in it somewhere, a woman with a sweet mouth and a nice pair of thighs, but she was not the princess. What the fuck had he done with the princess? He sat bolt upright and almost immediately wished he had not. His head swam alarmingly. At his groan, someone moved at the opposite end of the room.

  “Sir Armand, are you well?”

  He turned his head and saw the attractive piece he had spent the night with. She was bent over a basin of water, washing and clad in a scandalous scrap of a translucent fabric that would normally have his full attention, but right now he had more important things on his mind. Where the hells was the fright of a wife he’d just bound his lot to, he wondered with a stab of anxiety? He was no expert on wedded etiquette, but spending the wedding night with another woman did not sound like acceptable behavior from a groom.

  The King would likely be after his hide for this. Looking about the room, the fact it was decked out like a flower bower was not lost on him, despite his blunted senses. He turned cold. Had he thrown the bride out of her own bedchamber for a more alluring prospect? What if the princess had gone running to the King to lodge a complaint against him?

  “Gods,” he uttered in growing panic. “Where is she?”

  His companion watched him in consternation. “Where is who?” she inquired, as he flung back the covers and lurched from the bed, peering into the adjoining dressing room and then a recessed cupboard. He even stooped to peer under the bed, until he felt his head reel alarmingly.

  “Maybe you should lie down, Sir Armand?” the woman suggested, looking concerned.

  He recognized her soothing voice too, from the previous night. “Can’t,” he gasped, raising a hand to his brow. “Got to think.”

  “About what, pray?” she asked crossing the room to gently take his arm and steer him back toward the bed. “Just rest now, you’ve done everything you ought.”

  “What did I do with her?” he asked in faint desperation. “I can’t remember.”

  She bit her lip, a pucker appearing between her brows. “With whom may I ask?”

  “The princess, of course!” he muttered in anguished tones.

  She blinked at him, looking suddenly concerned. “You mean me?” she asked gently.

  “You?” he stared at her. “What?”

  “Am I the one you’re looking for?”

  “You? But you’re not …”

  “I am Una,” she said simply. “Your wife.”

  Armand stared at her. “No,” he said uncertainly, then his eye fell on the mattress, where she drew back the covers and his face fell, noticing the telltale smear of blood on the sheets.

  His eyes leaped to hers, and she colored faintly. “As I said, you did everything you ought,” she said in that reassuring manner of hers and gave his arm a small pat. “I will just change the sheets and you must get right back into bed. After a few hours, you’ll feel a good deal better. No one will expect us to raise before noon after the excesses of yesterday.”

  Before he could respond, she stripped the bed in a very methodical, unhurried fashion. He stood like a useless clod while she redressed it and then pulled the top covers back and patted it invitingly. “Come and take your ease now, Sir Armand.”

  His brains felt too addled to do anything but obey her. He hesitated a moment after sliding under the cool silky sheets. “Come and join me,” he said, holding back the covers and moving into the middle of the bed. He watched the surprise flit over her face before she acquiesced. He hoped like hell he had been considerate of her last night, he thought, watching her climb in beside him.

  She showed no fear of him, which was something, but he did not trust he had shown the deference or tenderness she would have expected from a bridegroom. Even sober, he knew nothing of bedding virgins, and inebriated, the gods alone knew how he had treated her. He could
only wince at the thought of the clumsy coupling she must suffered.

  “I did not recognize you,” he said awkwardly as she settled on her back beside him, resting her hands on her stomach. “You look … very different.”

  “It must be very confusing,” Una agreed. “But as I am no longer a princess, I don’t have to wear the wig or the costume anymore, you see.”

  He looked bewildered. “Wig?”

  “Yes.”

  His brows puckered. “Costume?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “Your Southern royalty does not follow the same practice, but in my family, we were required to don such garb as befitted our station. It showed at a glance, you see, that we were royals. My father wore a wig such as that one his whole life.” He cast an uncertain glance at her, to find her expression was perfectly serious. “I presume somewhere in the beginning we Blechmarshes must have had very distinctive, fair curly hair. It had advantages on the battlefield, I suppose,” she reflected. “Our forces knew to rally round us.”

  He shrugged at that, forbearing to point out that the North had suffered ignominious defeat four years ago, and rolled onto his side, slinging an arm around her waist. He felt the impulse to rest his aching head against her bosom but suppressed it. If that was what he had done the previous night, she was probably suffering from a lack of decent sleep, as much as he was. His eyelids burned as he let them drift shut. He just wanted to wake up and find this had all been a bad dream.

  *

  When next he woke, his head was admittedly sore, but he found he could string two thoughts together without pain. He reached for a cup of water on the side and gulped it back in a few swallows. The princess was missing again, but he could hear noises from the adjoining dressing room and guessed where she could be found. He lay a moment, feeling sorry for himself. His usual good luck had abandoned him. No one could have foreseen such a fate lay in store for him. Shackled to a wife he could scarcely abandon without reprisal, and from royal quarters at that. Then, with a sigh, he climbed out of bed to face things squarely.

  A steaming bath was awaiting him in the far corner of the room. He approached it gingerly. He supposed it must be his. Drying cloths and soap were laid out next to it, and with a shrug Armand stepped into it and gave himself a good wash, though he did not lie and wallow as he usually did when chance afforded him such a fine, large tub. Instead he stepped out of it and rubbed himself briskly, first his body and then his freshly washed hair.

  His clothes had vanished, but folded neatly on a chair a new suit awaited him, comprising of a burgundy tunic with gold detail on the sleeve and chauses to match. He paused a moment to look at them. One leg was gold and one burgundy. Doubtless, fashionable courtiers would not hesitate to wear such garb, but Armand felt a marked reluctance to do so. Left with little option, he dutifully dressed in the clean clothes. At one point, Una peered out of the dressing room and found him frowning down at his mismatched legs.

  “Do you need anything, Sir Armand?” she asked politely, coming back into the room. “Ah, I see you have taken your bath.” This morning she was dressed in a burgundy gown with gold sleeves, presumably to match his own ensemble. The gown was elegant in cut, showing her tall, straight figure off to advantage. Admittedly, he had not paid her much attention the previous day, but he was sure she now looked nothing like the peculiar foreign princess who had watched proceedings from the royal box.

  Seeing her tip her head to one side, he remembered she had asked him a question. “No, thank you,” he replied. He was also surprised by how obliging Northern royalty seemed to be. It was almost like she could not do enough for him.

  She smiled at him encouragingly. “You look very fine. There is a hat and a cloak to complete the outfit.”

  Armand winced, but seeing the worried look that stole over her face, he immediately gave her a reassuring smile. “My head,” he said ruefully, and she relaxed.

  “Oh, of course. These are our going away outfits,” she explained almost shyly, then hesitated. “Do you think you are sufficiently rested and recovered for us to set forth today?” He could see she was anxious about his answer to this, though she was striving to hide the fact. “If not, we could wait until the morrow, of course.”

  “Gods no, I cannot stay!” He almost shuddered at the thought. “There’s a tournament in five days’ time I mean to compete in, and it’s a good four-day ride from here.”

  Surprisingly, she seemed more pleased by this than not, for the color rushed to her cheeks and he was surprised to see how different she looked when her eyes lit up. Slowly it dawned on Armand that this royal bride of his had some expectation of his taking her away from court with him, which did not suit him at all. His heart thudded in his chest and the inquiry he had been about to make died on his lips. Gods, what the hells was he supposed to do with her?

  Clearly, she did not expect to be left behind. In vain, he tried to remember the precise terms of the marriage the King had offered with his royal cousin, but in truth he had paid scant attention. He had not intended winning her, after all. He cleared his throat. “What were you doing in there?” he asked, nodding toward the adjoining room, stalling for time for his sluggish brain to think.

  “Packing,” she told him. “I shall be ready to set forth when you are, Sir Armand.”

  He blinked. “Princess,” he said heavily. “We need to talk.”

  A look passed over her face, which if he had not known better he might have thought was stark terror. The color draining from her face, she walked over to a chair and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Watching her, Armand wished to the gods he had his full faculties about him. Something seemed “off” to him, though he could not put his finger on what. Why would the princess be so scared of his reactions this morning?

  Was she afraid of him? Guilt washed over him again as he faced the foggy memory of his wedding night. Had he been rough with her? At some point, he had been confused as to her identity. He hoped to gods he had not confused her willingness. He looked at her so hard his head ached but recalled frustratingly little. She swallowed and lifted her gaze to meet his.

  “I am ready,” she said, and he could see her hands trembling even from where he stood.

  He lowered himself onto the bed and sat facing her. He needed her to think this decision was as much her own, as his. It didn’t do to piss off royalty. Even disgraced royalty might have the King’s ear. “I apologize,” he said forthrightly. “But I think we need to be plain with one another.” He watched her fingers clutch as he considered how best to proceed.

  “Sir Armand,” she said, swallowing convulsively again. “I am laboring under no illusions, I promise you. I am well aware that you did not—could not—have expected to win the prize yesterday.”

  His brows snapped together at that. Clearly the princess did not have the most flattering views of his abilities. He was surprised to find that needled him, considering his livelihood depended on such misapprehensions. He took a steadying breath. “Well, no,” he agreed cautiously. “I can’t say as I did.”

  She gave him a direct look. “Can we please be frank with one another?” she asked boldly.

  Gods, that was the last thing he wanted! In his experience nothing good ever followed such words. Several unpleasant conversations with his father sprung to mind. He steeled himself for the worst and gave her a grim nod.

  “Sir Armand,” she said with only the faintest tremor in her voice. “All I want or desire from you, is that you take me away from this court and give me the protection of your name. As for the rest of it, I promise I will make no demands on you. I care not if your estate is naught but a tumbledown hut, so long as I can be set down there, and left in peace to make it into my shelter. Into my home.”

  His eyebrows rose at her speech. Though she was striving to make her voice calm and measured, the emotion underneath vibrated through her words. Peace and shelter? Not what he had been expecting to hear. For some reason, the words “tumbledown hut” also pricked some
sense of family pride he had long thought was dead in his bosom.

  “I’m a second son,” he answered cautiously. “But my family name is a venerable one. I do have some lands. There is a house my godfather left me.” He paused seeing the optimism that had flared in her eyes at his words. Clearly, it was more than she had dared hope for. He needed to extinguish that spark right now.

  “Then—”

  “Wait,” he said, raising a hand. “I am ill-prepared for this. I had not thought to take a wife, and the timing is not good for me to take a wife right now,” he started. Una’s face fell. “I have obligations and they don’t involve returning home right away—”

  “But that’s absolutely not a problem,” Una assured him, an edge of desperation to her voice. “I am used to travel, indeed, I am used to uncomfortable quarters and being on the road.”

  He halted at that, as the fact sunk in this was one obligation he was not going to be able to wriggle his way out of. It was all very well saying it was not convenient for him to take a wife, but the fact of the matter remained that he had taken one. And ultimately the King must not want her cluttering up his court, or he would not have married her off as a mere consolation prize.

  “My home will take both time and money to get the place habitable. I cannot simply take you there and leave you to camp out in a …”

  “But yes, yes, you can,” she urged. “I am not what you think me,” she said beseechingly. “I have camped in caves, amidst ruins, and yes, in abandoned, falling down shacks and outhouses. You forget, I lived a large part of my life being pursued by enemy forces—” She broke off, realizing he had probably once formed a part of the Southern army. “If your house is damp, beset by rats, or has no roof even, it will be nothing I have not encountered many times before.”

  “With a wealth of servants and followers, no doubt,” he interrupted dryly. ”I keep none. The roof could well have fallen in, for all I know,” he warned, realizing his arguments did not hold the weight he had expected. “I am not on good terms with my family,” he added, starting to feel like he was swimming against the tide. “They are nearby but would not raise a finger to help you.”