The Black Prince: Part II (26 page)

Understanding, therefore, what a man dismissed as unworthy of attention in his own life told Hart a great deal about him.

Some of the men had been lax in their personal grooming; Hart had had them thrown into the horse troughs. Those who didn’t wish to scrub themselves on their own time could do so before the jeering of their fellows. Hart, himself, was never lax. In anything. He was a firm believer in the maxim that one should never expect more of one’s men than one expected of oneself. In truth, one should expect a great deal less of others, not pushing but leading by example.

It was a leader’s duty to inspire. Sometimes fear, but always to inspire. To show that there was more. As Tristan had showed him, what seemed like lifetimes ago.

Then he met with Bossard who, freed from his previous lord’s restrictions, was reviewing the castle’s books. They shared a light supper in Bossard’s office, during which they discussed both Bossard’s thoughts on his findings and Hart’s thoughts on the improvements that had to be made.

Then he’d saddled Cedric and ridden, alone, across the bridge and into the woods.

For time with his own God.

Though he might not be what most men would recognize as religious, he took his devotions seriously.

When he returned, at long last, to his own chambers, he half expected to find that his bride had gone missing. Which, while vexing, would not have been such a tremendous setback. At least not for him.

But there she was, still dressed, standing with her back to him as she gazed out the window.

She must have heard him, but she gave no sign. He didn’t mind. He walked through their sitting room, into the solar proper, and saw that her things had indeed been brought. And put away, quite neatly. A job for her women, had she let them help. Solene must have done it all herself; the painful neatness had her stamp. Fires were lit in both rooms, but no fragrant incense or pinecones had been added. No herbs.

He removed his cape. His boots. His gloves. He put his own things away neatly as well. And then, still standing in front of his dresser, he partly unlaced his shirt. Down to where it met his vest. But went no further. He left the rest of his clothes on. He flexed his fingers. His signet ring winked in the low light. His nails were neatly trimmed and perfectly clean, their beds manicured. Some might have said, like a woman’s.

He returned to the sitting room. Solene still hadn’t moved. At the sideboard, he poured himself a cup of the dark, powerful brandy that Chad favored. That he rather favored, himself.

He was taking his first sip as she spoke. “Have you ever been forced to do something you didn’t want to do?”

He made himself comfortable before answering. In a chair, before the fire. There was a small couch opposite, elaborately carved and with embroidered cushions. Intertwining quatrefoils, gold on red. She could sit down, if she wished.

“Yes,” he said.

“Never in the bedchamber.” There was bitterness to her tone. “Men never are.”

“Not so.”

“As you consider yourself forced, because you hate me.”

“No.” The first word was curt, but then his tone softened as he continued. There was much she didn’t understand. “Men suffer as well. Some women—and men—enjoy humiliating them. Hurting them. Whether they wish it or no.”

She turned. “You?”

“Yes.” He kept his eyes on hers. “My introduction to the art of love was…not pleasant. I did not wish what happened, nor whom it happened with. But I was given no choice.” He let the words sink in. “Not all the scars I bear are from battle.” Which was true. Apple had enjoyed burning him.

“What did you do?”

He had the feeling that Solene was asking in spite of herself. That she couldn’t help being interested. “I learned to enjoy it.”

“I see.”

He sipped his brandy.

“Does she still live?”

Hart nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Because killing her had never occurred to him. But he decided that, since he and his wife were now having the beginnings of a conversation, that he’d elaborate a little more in his answer. It was a strangely intimate moment. “Because she sees me often. And sees that she’s irrelevant to me. And that, to her, is the worst pain of all. Far worse than being dead.”

“You sound certain.”

“She wanted me to love her.”

“So she—tortured you?”

Torture was as apt a word as any, Hart supposed. “Some connect to others through pain. They know no other means.”

She turned back to face the window.

“Is there someone else?”

She was silent for so long that he didn’t think she was planning to answer. And then, “as if it would matter, if there were.”

“It would.”

She turned. Walked over to the couch. Sat. Her movements were stiff.

“Brandy?”

She shook her head, the barest movement. No. Which was unfortunate; a drink or two would help to calm her nerves.

“There was—is—no one. Oh, I had an idea in my mind.” Her laugh was mirthless. Just a short bark, that sounded almost more like a cry of pain. “It all sounds so stupid now.” She made a noncommittal gesture. “Some gallant knight in shining armor, who of course had a second title as well. A duke, ideally. Or the son of one. But only if he was the heir. And, of course, someone who supported Maeve and the true aristocracy. Not…someone who dined with peasants.”

“Your church’s Saint Venceslav did.”

Solene said nothing.

“Doesn’t that lie at the root of your Maeve’s divine right of kings? The notion that the king’s power comes from his having been blessed by the Gods and that this special privilege is demonstrated through his piety? That his piety, and not the fact of his birth, is what truly marks him?”

Solene’s mouth firmed.

“And didn’t the great chronicler Cosmas write that
no one doubts that, rising each night from his noble bed, with bare feet….
How does it go?” Although Hart knew perfectly well. “He went around to the Gods’ churches and gave alms generously to widows, orphans, to those in prison and those afflicted by every difficulty, so much so that he was considered, not a prince, but a father to all the wretched. Yes? Your church celebrates his feast day on our day of Mabon.”

“Venceslav was a good king,” Solene allowed. And then, “why did you kill my father?”

“A cleaved head no longer plots.” That was Northern saying. And a true one.

“He wasn’t a bad man. Neither was my brother.”

“Your father was planning to murder a child.”

“Who?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

“My nephew. A child of barely more than eleven winters who’s harmed no one.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Her brother, of course, had murdered a number of children. Whether by his own hand or at his word, Hart held Balzac responsible. His will had been the deciding factor, either way. But let Solene discover that particular truth on her own. She would, soon enough. Even she couldn’t shut out all the gossip, forever. And there was gossip, especially now that Balzac was no longer around to wreak his revenge. Rotted fruit decorated the outer wall, as more than one missile had been lobbed in his direction. Some by former subjects with very strong arms.

“Your nephew….” She shook her head. “I can’t agree that he’d deserve it.”

“But you were about to say that he must have, for your father to take that action.”

“I…Maeve is right.”

“I prefer right to be determined by my own assessment of another’s actions, rather than by their explanations of them.” His eyes held hers. “My nephew is Maeve’s own son.”

Solene’s eyes widened.

For a moment he thought he’d reached her, but then she burst into tears. “You are taking everything from me!”

“I am telling you the truth.”

“Then let me believe a lie!” She threw herself face down on the couch.

He didn’t comfort her. She wouldn’t welcome the intrusion. So instead he watched. As her chest heaved, and her sobs slowly turned into hiccoughs. Then sniffling. He finished his brandy. He’d been in this chair for some time, but there were hours to go until sunrise. The night was still young. He could wait. And by waiting, too, he observed. And learned more.

Eventually, she turned to face him. Her head was still on the cushion. “I suppose now you intend to rape me.”

Hart was unmoved. “I intend to exert my rights as your husband. Your willing participation is appreciated, dove, but not required.”

“Then get it over with.”

She appeared to expect that he’d leap up and begin raping her at that very moment. When he remained seated, her eyes narrowed. He wondered if she were one of those women who’d never even seen a stallion mate, much less been privy to any sort of verbal explanation, and thus had no real concept of what a husband and wife might do. Only that it hurt, and was awful, and caused sin.

Somehow.

“First, dove, we should undress you.”

She colored.

“The act is done without clothes.”

She sat up, pushing those errant strands of hair that had gotten caught in her tears back into place. “I…it’s not that. My sleeves. The ties. I need help to undress.”

“I am familiar with the particulars of a woman’s wardrobe.”

“Are you going to give me a disease?”

“No.”

He stood up and held out his hand. She stared at it for a long time before taking it. He helped her to her feet. He led her into what was now their shared bedchamber. And would be, for the foreseeable future. Other challenges would arise, later on, but for tonight there was only one challenge.

She stopped near the bed. She chewed her lip. She didn’t know what to do.

Her dress was simple: a square-necked bodice and skirt with a pair of matching sleeves. All raw silk. All black. The chemise underneath was also black. Linen. Carefully, he began to undo the ties. He took his time, focusing on his task, listening to the music of her rapid breathing. She was terrified. He slid one sleeve off and then, a few minutes later, the other.

He pressed a hand to her breast bone, just above her heart. It was racing. Like that of a rabbit in a snare.

Stepping behind her, he began to unlace her bodice. He’d undressed enough women, but helped them dress as well. His sisters, when they were younger; Lissa. There was nothing overtly sexual about the act. It could be a simple expression of caring.

He removed her cap, and began pulling pins from her bun. Her hair flowed down, curling around her shoulders and down her back. He ran his hands through it. So soft, so well cared for. She shuddered. Slowly, so slowly, he eased her gown down over her shoulders.

It pooled on the floor, leaving her in her chemise.

He brought his mouth close to her ear, her neck. Breathing in her perfume. Her fear.

Roses. She wore attar of roses. Which he liked. He wondered what she put in her hair, to make it so soft. Yes, sometimes helping someone could be a simple expression of caring. Other times, it was an intoxicating means of control. He felt himself growing hard, pressing against the front of his breeches. He wanted her. He might loathe her, but he wanted her.

“I don’t…have to spend the night on the floor, do I?” Her voice was small.

“Not if you behave.”

The words were barely a whisper. “Tell me what to do.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Turn,” he said. “Face me.”

She did, although she had trouble meeting his gaze. He doubted she’d ever been even this naked in front of a man before. He wondered if, in time, he’d be able to train her out of this modesty. Help her to gain an appreciation for her own form, as well as those of others.

“Remove my vest.”

“I…don’t know how.”

He waited.

Her fingers were hesitant on the buckles. She was trembling. But, because she was making the effort, he helped her. First his vest, and then his shirt. He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. She snatched it back, as if his skin burned.

He guided her hands to his belt buckle. He placed his hands on her waist, to support her. She looked as though she might faint. But she did as she was told, as difficult as it was. She was no tribeswoman, bred to independence. A lifetime of teachings, the church’s and undoubtedly her family’s, on the role and purpose of women had left their mark. She might rail against her lot, but in the end she knew nothing except how to be obedient.

Which almost made him pity her.

He undid the tie on her chemise. One quick movement, before she had time to react. And there she stood, fully exposed, before him.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“You are beautiful,” he told her.

“No.” That same barely audible whisper. “No, I am not.”

He leaned forward and, sliding his hand through her hair to cup the back of her head, kissed her. His other hand found the small of her back. He tasted her tears. “Be quiet, dove. It’s no one but your own husband touching you.” And touch her he did. Her skin was smooth. Lovely. Cold to the touch, now, because she was cold. But she wouldn’t be for long.

Reaching behind her, he threw the covers back. He guided her down onto the linen, the pillows. He kissed her neck. Her shoulder. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t have, he thought, even if she’d wanted to. Her church taught that the act was evil, even between husband and wife. And even if he was her husband, and therefore allowing him this was a necessary evil, he was still all but a stranger to her. A frightening stranger, who represented all that she abhorred the most.

“I am going to touch you,” he told her. There was pain for a woman the first time, but unless she experienced some degree of arousal the pain would be unbearable. “And you are going to touch me.”

And then he kissed her. Fully, on the mouth. His lips forcing hers apart, his tongue exploring.

She cried out a little when his hand slid lower, also exploring. Tried to struggle away from him. But he had her pinned. She bucked her hips, up and down and from side to side, attempting to escape his fingers. Which were light, still, but insistent. Only too late did she realize that she was helping him. Helping to bring about her own demise, as she worked herself into a state of unwanted arousal. He could tell when she stopped trying to escape his fingers and instead started trying to find them, pressing the warm mound of her flesh out.