The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok Book 3)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “No, of course not,” she spluttered. “You worry far too much about that encounter, you know.”

  “Of course, I do,” he said gruffly. “I can’t remember it and you were a virgin.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Weren’t you?”

  Una gazed up at him, speechless for a moment. “Of course, I was,” she said shocked, and meeting his hard gaze unflinchingly.

  He drew back from her. “Did you have any lovers before me, Una?” he asked, and Una saw a faint color rise to his cheeks. She shook her head. Where was this coming from? “Then how did you know men like that?” he asked.

  She hesitated to tell him her knowledge was gleaned from the ribald talk of soldiers. “I … heard things,” she admitted. “You forget I was surrounded by rough soldiers for a good deal of the time. They were not coy when they discussed women.”

  Armand’s brows snapped together. “They surely did not discuss such things around their princess!”

  “Well no, but … They weren’t allowed to converse with me, you see,” Una said. “And the campaign was so dreary and long, of course they wanted to speak of their wives and mistresses. In the end they sort of became inured to my presence. I think they forgot I was a real person.”

  Seeing his thunderstruck expression, she flailed around trying to extricate herself from the hole she had inadvertently dug herself into. “I ought not to have listened, of course. It was wrong of me, but I could not help but be curious about such things. Especially when they talked about how even ugly women could please a man.”

  Armand stiffened. “Why should that interest you?” he asked sharply.

  Una’s face fell in dismay. Clearly, she was just making things worse. “Armand—” she reached out toward him tentatively. “I-I did not put my mouth on you, on our wedding night, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He huffed out a breath. “That’s not—” He broke off frustratedly. “Gods!” He ran his hand over his face. “Forget it. Of course, you were a virgin.” She read the regret in his expression and nodded. “I was insulting,” he added and moved away from her. For one horrible moment, Una thought he would get out of the bed, but he was only leaning toward the candle to blow it out.

  When he resettled next to her, he slid his arm around her waist and drew her close against him. “I’m sorry, Una” he murmured, and she closed her eyes as her throat worked hard to contain the sob that rose up in it. She had meant only to please him. Gods, what had she been thinking of? She lay wracked with self-doubt for a long time before she drifted off to sleep.

  12

  For once Armand woke first the next morning, while Una still slept the sleep of the virtuous. He felt consumed with burning guilt, shame and confusion. He crept out of their room and dressed in an empty one next door before making his way downstairs.

  He was being a jackass. Worse than that. He was being a jealous, suspicious prick, and he had no right to be. Reacting angrily when your lover is better in bed than you expect her to be is ridiculous, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He had never been the jealous type. The best of his past lovers had been either married or widowed. Not for him fair blushing maidens who’d expect him to fix his interests. Usually any passion he felt for a woman burned out after the novelty of a new partner wore off. He’d always been a fickle bastard.

  She’d said she was a virgin before him, and he believed her. If he hadn’t seen the bloodstain on the sheets the morning after their marriage, her clear, untroubled gaze would have assured him sufficiently on that score. But that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t have taught her a few tricks along the way and that thought enraged him. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself he had no right to feel this way. For all he knew, she’d been betrothed a dozen times to foreign princes who’d be far worthier bridegrooms than him.

  He felt a twisting, burning feeling in his chest when he thought of Una in someone else’s arms. He had no earthly notion why. He’d never begrudged his previous lovers their experience, and he was angry that this time he felt different. He knew nothing about the men in Una’s life before him. She could have been in love for all he knew, with some fine upstanding Northern hero. He gnashed his teeth at the thought. Some principled, noble type who’d never put a foot wrong in his life and deserved to win the hand of a princess.

  Not like him, who hadn’t even had the sense to be grateful when she’d landed in his palm like a ripe plum. No, he’d looked a gift horse in the mouth and pulled a face. Hemmed and hawed about how inconvenient it was for him to take a wife right now. He had expected her to bargain and plead with him to even take her rightful place at his side. He turned cold inside, when he remembered how he’d tried to wriggle away from his obligations and just leave her there in that nest of vipers. He felt so full of self-loathing that it stung. Gods, he was a fucking asshole.

  It didn’t help that he’d always felt guilty as hell for the wedding night he must have given her. Drunk and practically unconscious, he supposed, was marginally better than drunk and rampaging with lust. But was it though? At least if he’d been in the mood to swive, he’d have given her his tongue or his fingers first. She must have been dry as dust and he must have hurt her a good deal. He swore again. And then, to crown his folly, he’d gone and practically accused her of feigning her virginity!

  He was appalled that Una could think she needed to learn additional tricks as she was not pretty enough to hold his attention. Surely it was obvious that he was wildly attracted to her? Having said that, the poison of court had likely wrought some damage even before their disastrous wedding night. He only hoped she had not done anything she found distasteful, in the belief he needed added stimulus to bed her. Had she even wanted to play that damned dragon game with him, or had she felt duty-bound?

  Could it be that Una still thought she had to be amenable in all things where he was concerned? He felt gnawed by doubt and closed his eyes a moment, feeling overwhelmed. There was no way he could put all this to rights. The only thing he could promise now was to start treating her with the respect she deserved and should have commanded from him from the very beginning.

  “Bad head?” asked Otho with sympathy, and Armand saw his brother-in-law was sat in the great hall buttering bread. Armand grunted and joined him. “You’re up early,” Otho commented, and Armand surveyed him with disfavor. Otho pushed the platter of fried fish toward him. “Help yourself.”

  “Is no one else yet up?” Armand asked, glancing about with surprise.

  Otho shook his head. “Just you and I.”

  Armand eyed him speculatively as he loaded fish onto his plate. “You prepared this meal?” Otho assented. “Why are you up so early?”

  Otho set down the loaf and poured two cups of weak ale. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, just as Armand had given up all expectation of a reply.

  “Why?” Armand asked, glad of a distraction from his own worries. As soon as he asked, he realized his mistake. Of course, Otho was worried about the approach of suspicions Northerners. Hearing that would only serve in making Armand feel even guiltier for not focusing on their real concerns right now. He scowled.

  “I … er … had to speak to Rose yesterday,” Otho admitted, avoiding his gaze. Armand’s eyes widened. He took a bite of bread and butter. The fact he made no verbal reply seemed to unnerve Otho into speaking further. “I may have been a bit too harsh,” he continued in a voice that rasped.

  “She’s still chasing after you, then?” Armand asked shrewdly.

  Otho colored furiously. “Of course not!” A telltale flush was spreading right up his neck. Una’s brother wasn’t very good at lying, Armand thought wryly. “She’s not that sort of girl. She just—she doesn’t know what she’s about, that’s all!”

  “She does seem a bit backward,” Armand agreed.

  Otho’s eyes shot daggers back at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well …” Armand shrugged. “Just that she lives in a bit of a dream.”

 
Otho’s shoulders relaxed. “Precisely,” he rapped out, but he still looked deeply uncomfortable, and after pushing his food around his plate a moment, thrust it away from him uneaten.

  “Has Una ever been betrothed to anyone but me,” Armand asked heavily, before he could change his mind or Otho fling off in another mood.

  Otho looked startled. “What? Why?”

  “Answer the question.”

  Otho scratched his close-shorn head and Armand wondered not for the first time why he wore it like that. He wasn’t a pilgrim, so was he performing some kind of penance? “There was some talk of pledging her hand to some prince of the Western Isles,” he said slowly. “But that was years ago, when she was just a girl.”

  “No one since?” Armand asked quickly.

  Otho shook his head. “Once we embarked on war, there was precious little time to devote to royal alliances,” he said with a shrug. “Our father had other worries on his mind.”

  “What about unofficially?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know, champions, admirers, that sort of thing.”

  Otho snorted. “You’re thinking of the Southern court,” he said flatly. “We had no fripperies like that on our battlefields. My father jealously guarded his heir in any case. None of his generals were permitted to grow too close to her. Her personal guard was rotated every seventh day.”

  Armand considered Otho’s words suspiciously. Their side had been losing, he supposed, but he still thought Una’s brother rather naive if he thought a man still wouldn’t notice an attractive woman, even in the midst of battle. Armand knew he would notice. Well, if it was Una he would. Besides, there was a general she had been close to. The one who had told her about the hidden treasure troves. “What was the name of your father’s general killed at Kettelbrooke?” he asked, recalling suddenly where Una said the man had fallen.

  “General Brunold,” said Otho in startled tones.

  “What was he like?” Armand demanded. “Young? Handsome?”

  Otho stared at him. “He had a hunched back and was sixty-five if he was a day.”

  “I must be thinking of someone else,” Armand mumbled. Yes, jealousy definitely needed adding to his ever-growing list of faults as a husband. “Una’s not fond of that housekeeper you hired,” he said, in a swift change of subject.

  “I know,” Otho answered glumly. “She’s made no secret of the fact. Hasn’t liked her from the start.” He looked pained. “That might have been my fault too.”

  “How so?”

  “I didn’t consult her,” Otho admitted. “She felt I went over her head and left her out of the decision-making.”

  Something was definitely amiss with Otho today, Armand reflected. He seemed filled with self-doubt and misgivings, not his usual brusque self at all. It was at that point that a sober-faced young woman appeared before them in a grey headscarf and gown. Had they hired a new maid?

  “Good morning, masters,” she said in a colorless voice. “There’s a traveler at the door asking to speak with you, Sir Armand.” Otho made a choked noise, and Armand glanced quickly in his direction to find him staring at the girl transfixed. He looked back to the maidservant and was astonished to see that it was Rose. She was almost unrecognizable with her hair scraped back and covered and clad in such drab clothes. “Shall I let him in?” she asked when neither of them responded.

  “No,” Armand said, rising quickly to his feet. “I’ll first go and see who this stranger is.” He half-expected Otho to join him, but his brother-in-law sat staring after Rose, who had bobbed a curtsey and disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.

  Armand paused in the passageway to strap on his sword belt and then made his way to the front entrance, where a bearded man of medium build dressed in a brown tunic was waiting for admittance. Instead of letting him in, Armand stepped out to join him outside. “You have business here?” he asked, warily sizing the stranger up. He wore no sword at his hip and looked far from threatening with his mild expression. “I would ask what that is?”

  The man smiled pleasantly enough and showed Armand his hands first and the fact there was nothing concealed up his sleeves, then he reached slowly into a pouch attached to his belt and drew out a folded and sealed document. “I have here a letter of introduction, from Lord Vawdrey,” he said smoothly, as he handed it over.

  Armand’s eyebrows rose, as he inspected the seal showing the well-known insignia of the Vawdrey panther with the Earl’s distinctive coronet. He motioned for the stranger to follow him and they walked around the side of the house. “I am not going to read this letter now,” he said shortly. “What is your name and who the hells are you?”

  “It’s Walker, sir,” the other answered readily enough. “Though who I am is not important. I am a mere agent of Lord Vawdrey’s in this business and by extension, the King’s.”

  Armand stopped short and turned abruptly to face him. “What the devils does the King want with me?” he barked. “I fail to see why he should have any outstanding business with me.”

  Walker’s eyebrows rose at this and he cleared his throat. “I am sure you have heard tell of Lord Vawdrey’s reputation, sir,” he said dropping his voice and Armand’s eyebrows snapped together. Everyone knew the King’s chief advisor was also his spymaster.

  “He is a cautious man, Sir Armand. Naturally when you set forth from Caer-Lyoness with a certain personage of close relation to the King, he sent others to watch over you from a safe distance.”

  Armand stared at the man who gazed impassively back. “He set spies on me?” he asked hotly.

  Walker cleared his throat. “A rather harsh word,” he said reproachfully. “For the task entrusted to us.”

  Armand suddenly remembered Fulcher’s mention of a black-hooded figure who changed horses frequently and dipped in and out of view. Professionals. “Just how many of you are there?” he asked hollowly. Fulcher had thought there was only one man on their tail, yet Walker spoke now as if there were several.

  Walker shrugged. “The number is immaterial at this point. We were given specific orders to follow your progress and ensure you reached your home safely.”

  At this point Armand suffered another unpleasant realization. If they had been following them, then they must be aware of what had occurred at The Merry Wayfarer. He regarded the man narrowly. “If that is so, you must know we were nearly slaughtered in beds at one point,” he said damningly.

  For the first time, Walker looked a little uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Alas, we suffered an unforeseen setback and lost some time en route. When we arrived the next morning, we had a hell of a jolt at the scene that met us.” He lowered his eyes discreetly. “We were, however, happily able to tidy up the after-effects. Perhaps you made inquiries? It was put about that the landlord and his staff fled into the night after the untimely death of a pilgrim on his premises.”

  Armand colored slightly. “I made no inquiries,” he admitted. Perhaps if he had done, this would not come now as such a shock to him. “What did you do with them? Shallow graves?”

  Walker looked shocked. “Certainly not, Sir Armand. They were decently buried as plague victims some fifty miles away from that spot and without hint of scandal.”

  Yes, they were professionals alright. Armand eyed him warily. “So, you followed us here,” he said abruptly. “Why did you not return then to Caer-Lyoness, once the task was done?”

  Walker scratched his beard. “Following you here was only half of the job,” he admitted and gave Armand a wry smile.

  “Half the job?”

  “Once you were settled, we were to ensure you continued that way. Untroubled, shall we say, by any who would ‘unsettle’ you.”

  “You mean Northerners who might want to snatch my wife,” said Armand forthrightly. He was tired of beating around the bush.

  Walker sucked in a breath as one unaccustomed to such plain speech. “In short, sir, yes.”

  Armand was silent a moment. “Have you
had many to deal with?” he asked harshly. Had he been living in some sort of fool’s paradise? Otho was right. He had not had a clue what he was getting himself into.

  “One or two,” Walker said with a shrug. “Nothing me and the boys couldn’t deal with.” Armand found he could well believe him, despite the apparent affability. He looked sturdy enough and carried himself with a quiet assurance Armand was starting to think others would be foolish to overlook. “Any interested parties have dwindled away to a mere trickle now,” Walker said easily. “We’ve been kicking our heels for the most part.”

  “Why have you made yourself known to me now?” Armand asked. That was the only part he couldn’t fathom. Why had they come out of the shadows?

  Walker scratched the side of his face. “For two reasons,” he admitted. “The first, it seems to me you aren’t as guileless as you make out, Sir Armand.” Walker’s gaze flickered over him speculatively. “Been taking on a few soldiers of your own recently, haven’t you? As such, I reckon you might as well take some of our number in among your ranks. We’re doing much the same job. What’s the point of us sneaking around the vicinity, when you’ve enough muscle gathered at your own table?”

  Armand shot him a look. “Well, that’s plain-speaking enough,” he said dryly. “What’s the second reason?”

  Walker hesitated. “Has your lady wife ever mentioned her surviving siblings to you, sir?”

  “She only has one left, he acts now as my steward.”

  “I do not speak of the bastard Otho Fitzroy,” Walker replied swiftly.

  Armand swung around to look at him in surprise. “Who then?” When Walker did not reply at once, Armand stared at him keenly. “Una told me she had four illegitimate brothers. Two born to noblewomen and two to commoners.”

  “True enough,” Walker agreed. “Forwin and Waleran were born to noble houses. Otho and Umrey to obscurity.”