Bride by Command (16 page)

She would not be happy, though, not for a while. He’d likely have to pay for his insincerity for weeks after a proper wedding ceremony. Morgana would eventually forgive him. He caught her eye in the foggy mirror. Wouldn’t she? When she found that she would have everything she might ever desire in addition to this fine partnership, when he gave her jewels and fine gowns and flowers and scented oils, she would be glad that he was the emperor and not a poor sentinel.

That all sounded very well in his mind. In truth, he could not be sure that she would ever forgive him. Pity. He liked this alliance; he enjoyed coming home to this small, rough room. At the moment it truly was home, a home such as he had never known. He was happier here, warmer, more content than he had ever been in the palace.

Jahn was not ready to say that he might love Morgana, but he was definitely feeling something unusual and unexpected. Women had pleased him before. Women had thrown themselves at his feet and begged for his favor. Even before he’d become emperor, he had not lacked for the adoration of the opposite sex.

And yet, he had never felt anything more than gratitude toward them for what they offered. Gratitude and an entirely physical yearning for their fascinating bodies. He had never wished to protect any one of them with his life; he had never been delighted to see them smile. He had never longed to open a door and catch a glimpse of a woman who was truly glad to see him. He had certainly never been afraid of losing a woman’s affections.

When he told Morgana the truth, his newfound happiness was going to go away in the blink of an eye, and he was not ready to give it up. Not yet. Her affections could not be replaced.

When Jahn was clean shaven for the first time in more than a month, he turned about. Morgana very naturally and easily perched on his lap. She was light as a feather, delicate and fragile. His eyes fell on the red spot on her chin. He had not seen it in the darkness of this early morning, when he’d left her lying satisfied and returning to sleep. He would not hurt her again.

She smiled. “You have a lovely chin,” she said, touching the body part in question with loving fingers. “It’s not at all weak or misshapen. Why did you hide it beneath that awful beard?”

“My beard was not awful.”

Morgana nodded gently. “Yes, dear, it was most dreadful.” She studied his entire face. “You are unexpectedly handsome,” she said, moving her hand from his chin to his cheek. “There is a strong beauty about you. You’re lovely.”

“I am not
lovely,
” he argued without heat. “Whoever heard of a lovely sentinel? A man can only be handsome or manly or, in rare circumstances, attractive, though such a word should be reserved for those less-than-masculine men who prance about in lace and pointy-toed shoes and douse themselves in sweet perfumes.”

Morgana laughed, as he had intended. “Like the emperor?”

Jahn’s good humor died quickly. “Has someone accused the emperor of prancing about?”

“No, but he is that type of man, isn’t he?”

“No,” Jahn said decisively. “The emperor is as manly as I am.”

Morgana sighed. “I doubt that very much.”

Now would be the perfect opportunity to say, “Here I am. Surprise, love, you’ve claimed the emperor as your husband. Won’t you be happy to move from this small room to a fine suite of rooms in the palace?” But he said nothing, because he knew Morgana felt as he did. This room was home. She was happy here, as he was. The truth would ruin everything for a long while, perhaps forever.

She leaned forward. “You may kiss me now,” she said sweetly, and he happily obliged.

 

 

DANYA
had thought her first glimpse of the palace in Arthes would be wondrous and filled with gladness and hope for the future, but after eight long days of travel she looked upon the fascinating structure as if it were a cold prison. What would the cold, hooded man insist that she do in order to save herself and her son? Would he really expect her to kill? Yes, she imagined he would.

She would be empress as she had hoped, but there would be no gladness in winning that position. As they rode toward the tall palace, Danya felt as if she were being pulled into a dark, swirling hole from which there would be no escape. As if the hooded man were still standing behind her, she felt a brush of icy wind that chilled her neck where he had touched her with his lips. That touch had been wicked—she had felt the evil of it to her bones—and the coldness was a reminder that he was always watching. Somehow, some way, he was with her.

“Vile bastard,” she whispered with heartfelt venom.

“What’s that?” Rainer guided his horse nearer to hers.

The deputy minister was an odd man, disdainful and caring at the same time, curious and relentless, kind and cold—no, not cold, distant. Set apart. Cautious. She still carried the handkerchief he had given her, for some reason she could not fathom. Usually it was tucked into her modest bodice, but on occasion, when no one was watching, she took it out and clutched the linen in her hand.

“I was simply mumbling about my joy at being out of this saddle at last,” she said, putting her own distance in the words even though her heart was pounding and she longed to tell him everything and ask for his help. In her heart she knew that there was no help for her. If she said anything, if she confessed all her sins—as she had confessed a small portion on one pleasant night of their journey—the hooded man would know. Perhaps Deputy Rainer did possess magic enough to make a snake like Ennis run, but the hooded man would be different. The hooded man would cut down this loyal and kind and pleasant man without a second thought. She owed Rainer nothing—well, little—but she could do him the favor of pushing him out of the sucking danger that was her life. “I want a hot bath straight away,” she said in her most petulant voice. “And proper tea with a hot meal, all served upon the emperor’s finest dinnerware. I would like to see a dressmaker first thing in the morning. The provincial gowns I have brought from home will not do, not at all.” She spoke as if she were already empress, issuing demands.

“I will see to it,” Rainer said with a nod of his head. His fair hair was so fine that the strands that had escaped his braid caught the wind and danced a bit.

“No,” she said sharply, “you will not. Your job is done.” She sighed tiredly. “Honestly, if I do not ever again see anyone to remind me of this dreadful journey, I’ll be quite content. I’ll require a servant, of course. A woman with some years of experience in the palace will do nicely.” She looked back at Fai, who had been exhausted by the journey. The girl deserved better than to be drawn into the world Danya was about to create. She deserved better than to be dragged into a firestorm she did not understand. “There is one last thing you can do for me. Find a room for Fai for the night, and then arrange an escort for her in the morning. I want her on her way at first light.”

Rainer looked confused. “I believe she intends to remain here and serve you.”

“Perhaps she does,” Danya said crisply, “but I do not intend to keep her. I prefer a maid who has some experience with palace life, a well-trained woman who can serve in Fai’s place
and
in yours. Otherwise, how am I to acclimate myself quickly to this new place?”

Women usually didn’t like Danya, and with a stranger she would not run the danger of confessing too much in a moment of weakness, as she would with Rainer or even Fai. One look into Rainer’s pale and piercing eyes, and she might collapse and tell him everything. He had made himself too accessible in days past, too understanding and compassionate and strong. She could easily confess to him, and for her weakness her son would die.

Ethyn, nearly two years old, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s hair, was depending on her.

“I demand that a proper servant report to me immediately. Do not make me wait.”

“As you wish,” Rainer said distantly, and there was such distaste in his voice that Danya knew her job had been done well.

 

MORGANA
settled into an agreeable routine of wedded bliss, and the days flew past too quickly. She did what she could with the room which was her home for the moment, and planned for even better days to come. Though she had never been particularly interested in the arts involved in making a home, she did find herself spending hours mending her torn blue dress—a tedious task—and turning this plain room into a better place.

Jahn worked very hard, he was a fine and loyal sentinel, but surely he could do more with his life and livelihood. He was intelligent and strong, but not particularly driven to succeed.

When they had children, that lack of drive would surely change. They would need more when their family grew. More room, more food, more furnishings. They could always return to her childhood home, where with grandchildren to appease her stepfather, forgiveness would be offered, along with all the comforts one could imagine. But not only had Jahn declared to her that Arthes was his home and always would be, Morgana found she did not want to go back to the site of her former self. She had killed there. She had taken a life and she’d lied to protect herself. For a short but torturous while she’d lived in fear that someone, anyone, would discover her curse. Since so unwillingly leaving her home in Jahn’s company she had known little fear—and signs of her curse had remained dampened, showing a hint of its existence only when she’d been so foolish as to think of running away from the inevitable. No, there would be no returning to the place she had once called home. She and Jahn would make a go of it here, in Arthes. This was home now.

She could help to improve their situation, she was sure of it, though she was not yet sure how. Looking from the window and occasionally venturing into the tavern below or onto the nearby streets—with Jahn’s friends as escort, of course—she had seen women working as diligently as men. They sewed and cleaned and cooked for others, but Morgana did not fool herself into thinking she was talented enough at those womanly arts to call them a profession. Some of the women she saw on the streets obviously performed other wifely duties for coin—it was clear by their shocking dress and their outrageous manner what they were willing to do—but Morgana would not even consider earning a living in that way. She shuddered at the thought, and felt a rush of pity for the women who did not know what she had found in her marriage.

It was too pretty a day to remain inside, so as she had often in days past, she walked the stone streets of Arthes and soaked up the sun, watching people pass by, listening to their laughter, and wondering all the while what she could do to improve her circumstances. She was always drawn to the children at play when she passed them. Their laughter was infectious, and it touched her heart. One day she would have her own children, Jahn’s children. Together they would create a family. She had never dreamed of such simple pleasures until she’d discovered them here.

Jahn’s friends, eight of them who were always around in groups of four, were incredibly attentive. They must be very good friends to be so relentlessly dedicated to a woman they barely knew. The men didn’t talk much to her, but they were always close and considerate. She had argued more than once that she hardly needed so many men to keep her safe, even in a bustling city like Arthes, but Jahn insisted. They were all sentinels like Jahn, she knew, but in their hours spent guarding her they wore plain, nondescript clothes. They were always armed.

Iann, who was one of the more talkative of the lot, increased his pace until he was walking beside her. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he began almost shyly, “how do you get your hair to be so smooth and silky?”

She looked up at him in surprise, and her step faltered.

Iann’s eyes went wide and he offered a meaty hand of support. “For my wife, you see,” he explained. When it was clear Morgana was steady on her feet, he dropped his hand. “She’s a pretty enough lass and sweet as honey, but her hair is always wiry and tangled as that of the stray dog that begs for food out back of the tavern.”

Morgana laughed, but not for long. She had seen the stray dog. “I use egg yolks in my hair, when I can.” Which had not been often lately, since she and Jahn ate most of the eggs they could afford to purchase. “But some hair types require rose water or specially made oils.”

“Oh,” Iann mumbled. “I thought maybe there was one womanly trick which would work for all, and no one had told my Emilia. Her mother died when she was very young, so . . .” He shrugged his shoulders. “It was a silly idea, though I suppose she could try the egg yolks a time or two and see if it makes a difference.”

Morgana’s spine straightened as an idea came to her. The women who sold their baked goods were experienced cooks. Those who worked as seamstresses were talented with a needle and thread. Those who sold their bodies . . . well, she didn’t want to ponder their expertise. What did she know? She knew pampering. She knew beauty. “Have your Emilia come to see me tomorrow afternoon,” she said thoughtfully, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Truly?” Iann said, beaming.

“Truly,” she responded, wondering if she had finally found a way to improve her financial situation.

The conversation ended abruptly as an uproar commenced at the end of the street. In an immediate and smooth maneuver, the four men who accompanied Morgana surrounded her, instinctively placing their bodies between her and danger. She heard a sharp shout from the direction of the palace, then a bloodcurdling scream.

Her head snapped around. Jahn was there, in the palace. “What’s happening?” she asked.

Iann and the others turned her about and they all rushed back toward the tavern. One of the men—the stout Maril—left them, rushing toward the excitement. Whatever had occurred was already over, or else for some dire reason had gone silent. There were no more screams, no more jostling of crowds and shouts of alarm.