The Queen's Consort (20 page)

             
She was more beautiful than he'd remembered. Time had dulled his memories of her green eyes and chestnut hair, features she'd gifted to him. Her face was lovely with delicate features and full lips. He must have gotten his square jaw and thin lips from his father.

             
Ansel reached out but didn't touch his mother’s cherished face. In the portrait she smiled gently, happily, the way she'd always smile when she looked at him.

             
He remembered that expression but also remembered that, when Beaumont visited, her smiles had grown increasingly strained and unhappy.

             
He didn't want to focus on the bad. Right now, if only for this moment, he wanted to think about the good in his life. Memories of his mother—and Nanny Pella—were the happiest of his life.

             
Until Clairwyn pardoned him and gave him new memories to treasure. He pushed that thought away and looked at the portrait.

             
Such a gift. Such a treasure. A startling lump threatened to choke off Ansel's voice. He cleared his throat, trying to swallow the pain and thank Nanny Pella for this gift.

             
Her arms closed around him again and for a long time she just held him, rocking him as if he was still the seven-year-old boy who had bid her good-bye more than twenty years ago.

             
And she still possessed her uncanny ability to sense what he needed most. Now she gave him another, precious gift: the gift of silence. 

Twenty

             
They lingered at Renworth for more than a week as Highland warriors flowed into the city. Ansel read his mother’s journals, lingering over the passages that described her joy in him and skimming over her increasingly troubled exchanges with Beaumont. Her last entry, written in a weak, spidery hand, declared her intention to retrieve her son and leave her husband.

             
Ansel stared at the blank pages that followed. Even though he’d grown increasingly abusive towards her, Beaumont would never have let Melinda just walk away from him. And he would never have let her take his son.

             
Clairwyn left him in peace to read the journals at his own pace. Her duties weighed on her and she spent a great deal of time with her advisors and generals, handling the details of mobilizing a large force.

             
But, with increasing frequency, she left her advisors and generals to handle the details on their own. She often slept in, surprising Ansel, and then took afternoon naps. He started to worry when she declined an invitation to ride up into the mountains, and began to fret in earnest when she left a state dinner to retire early.

             
Although he peppered her with questions, she declared that she felt fine, just tired. Perhaps the long journey wearied her. They’d been on the road for…it took Ansel a moment to calculate how much time it had passed since they’d left Haverton.

             
Almost seven weeks, he concluded. But that couldn’t be right, could it? A lone horseman, riding hard and with good roads and fair weather, could travel from Renshaw to Haverton in six weeks. An army, moving at the plodding pace of the slowest foot soldier, should take at least three times as long to cover the same distance.

             
The details were surprisingly vague in his mind. An important part of commanding armies and planning campaigns involved accurately calculating distances and the movement of troops. Four months from Haverton to Renshaw, even without the delays at every major town, was a very reasonable amount of time.

             
He and Clairwyn had left Haverton in late June. It should be fall here in the mountains, but the calendar and his own eyes showed him the height of summer. Something was wrong.

             
But nobody else seemed to notice it. When he asked General Perry and Tristam how long ago they’d left Haverton, the men’s eyes glazed over and they couldn’t answer. Worse, they didn’t care—or even seem to notice—their confusion.

             
Ansel sought out Clairwyn and found her napping in the garden. She looked as beautiful as a fairy-tale princess, and he didn’t have the heart to wake her. He waited, content to just watch her, until her eyes drifted open.

             
“Clairwyn,” he asked gently, “how long ago did we leave Haverton?”

             
“Almost seven weeks ago.” She yawned and stretched.

             
Ah-hah! “And how did your army reach Renshaw so quickly?”

             
“I tampered a bit with time and distance,” she admitted, “to help us get here faster.” She blinked sleepily at him. “That might explain why I’ve been so tired lately. I should ask Gladnys to do the spellcasting for me.”

             
Clairwyn thought she could change time and distance? Perhaps the pressure of the march and her concern for her peopole were driving her mad.

Ansel watched as she
leaned back again and closed her eyes. Worry shot through him, replacing his concern over the time/distance dilemma. Clairwyn had slept well last night and napped for hours already today. How could she still be tired? She must be ill.

             
The fey was an adept healer. “Let us summon Gladnys now,” he urged.

             
Clairwyn didn’t stir. “My aunt has already gone ahead to the Castle in the Clouds,” she said.

             
“Then let us go, too.”

             
“You’re right. We need to get on the road.” She shifted a little, never opening her eyes. “Just give me a minute.”

             
In the end, Ansel made all the arrangements for them to leave Renshaw.

             
The Sunlit Valley was almost fifty miles long and twenty-five miles wide. Renshaw guarded the eastern pass, and the Castle in the Clouds controlled the western pass. In between, hundreds of smaller canyons and north-west passes led to the grassy, rolling hills that bordered the Sun Valley River.

             
The Valley was the heart of the Highlands. Here they could find winter forage for their herds and shelter from the brutal cold. The clever Highlanders had no permanent residences on the river valley. Numerous buildings to store hay and grain dotted the perimeter of the valley, and snug cabins for the herders were set back in the sheltering south-facing canyons. Several natural springs were kept ice-free to maintain the herds and the men who watched over them in winter.

             
Clairwyn's army of farmers found a warm welcome in the Sunlit Valley. It was haying time and every hand pitched in to help with cutting and storing hay for winter. With a haste that disgusted Ansel the farm boys dropped their swords and picked up scythes.

             
The curious lethargy that had gripped Clairwyn in Renshaw continued as her army crossed the Valley. She rode in the carriage and slept a great deal.

             
Ansel fretted and stayed close to her. “She is not well,” he told Tristam. “We need the healer.”

             
Tristam seemed untroubled. Clairwyn rode inside the carriage, and that soothed his anxious heart. “Gladnys rode ahead to the Castle,” he reminded Ansel. “It is just a few days' ride from here.”

             
Although Ansel wanted to press forward and leave the army behind, Tristam insisted on traveling at the plodding pace of the footsoldiers. Fuming, Ansel dropped back and swung off his horse and into the carriage.

             
A bed had been fashioned for Clairwyn's comfort and now, even though it was nearly noon, she slept. He studied her face and saw no trace of illness. Her pale skin was smooth and cool, her breathing easy.

             
He picked up her hand, pressing his fingers to her wrist, and she roused. “Good morrow, my prince,” she said, blinking sleepily.

             
“Good morning.” Her pulse felt normal. “How do you feel?”

             
“Thirsty.” She sat up and accepted the cup of springwater he handed to her.

             
He settled more comfortably next to her. “I asked Tristam to pick up our pace,” he said casually, “so we could ride ahead to the Castle in the Clouds.”

             
“Hmm.” She frowned into the cup. “Are there any more toasted pecans in the bag?”

             
Reining in his impatience, he gave her the bag.

             
She leaned back and looked at him. “Truthfully, my prince, I am in no great hurry to reach the Castle.”

             
“Why?”

             
“As in all things, there is a time and place. We need to be at the castle in three days, so there is no need for haste.”

             
“Three days?” he echoed.

             
“Three days,” she confirmed. The carriage hit a bump in the road, making her bounce. “And these roads are bumpy enough without increasing our pace.”

             
He didn't understand. She'd been eager enough to move ahead of the army before. Perhaps she really was ill.

             
Ansel eased down on the bed beside her, holding her against his chest. “You are not unwell?”

             
“No.” Clairwyn relaxed against him, nuzzling his throat. Her fingers slid between the buttons of his tunic to caress his skin. “I feel fine, I assure you.”

             
A button slipped free, then another. She leaned over to press butterfly kisses over his chest.

             
“I didn't come here for this,” he said, catching her wandering hand. “I'm worried about you.”

             
“How sweet.” She caught his nipple with her lips and tugged gently.

             
He sucked in a breath.

             
She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I must admit, though, that I do feel a trifle warm.”

             
“Perhaps you're overdressed.” His voice was a husky rasp. “I often think that you wear too many clothes.”

             
“You might be right. And we could get you out of your tunic and breeches, my prince.” She smoothed another button open, skimming her fingers over his ribs as she pressed slow, wet kisses over his skin.

             
He writhed under her sweet torture, craving more. His hands caught the edges of her bodice.

             
“No, you don't,” she said firmly, catching his hands. “I have no other dress to change into, and I would not wish to exit this carriage looking as if I've been ravished.”

             
He released her quickly. Memories of Andromeda's blank eyes and torn dress nearly overwhelmed his libido.

             
Thankfully, Clairwyn didn't share his memories. She unlaced her dress, letting the edges part slowly to gradually reveal her bosom.

             
With an effort Ansel set aside his grim thoughts and concentrated on the woman in front of him. Her smooth skin cast out his morbid memories and the soft flush of her arousal brought him firmly back to the present.

             
He closed his eyes and kissed her, desperately wishing that he could change the past and repair the history between them. Her parents and brothers, dead by his father's orders. Her sister, dead at his hands.

             
If not for Beaumont's unceasing hostilities she would not be Queen. Then again, if Beaumont had been the peaceful sort there might have been a lasting peace between their countries. Ansel and Clairwyn might have met in the course of diplomatic relations and married to seal the union between their countries.

             
She might truly have been his.

             
He pushed her dress over her shoulders. The whole of her army marched on the other side of the thin, swaying walls of her carriage, and he didn't give a damn. The entire scope of his world shrank down to this time, this small place, and the girl in his arms.

             
She met the increasing desperation in his touch and responded with an urgency of her own. She accepted him eagerly, her soft cries urging him on.

             
Perhaps she felt the way he did, as if this time they shared together was fated to pass too quickly. What they shared was too wonderful, too fragile, to last.

             
Ansel was a soldier. He was used to living in the moment and not worrying about the future. A soldier knew that he might not have a future.

             
But he had her here and now, and he set aside his doubts and worries. If all they had was today, well, he'd take everything he could get.

             
In the calm after the storm Clairwyn rested against him, her breathing slow and deep. Again, she slept. And, again, Ansel worried. There was already so much for him to worry about that he felt utterly overwhelmed.

             
He knew in his heart that this time with Clairwyn would not last long. But he couldn't bear the thought of losing her a moment before he had to. And, even if he couldn't have her, he had to protect her.

             
That fierce protective feeling welled within him, filling him over-full. He should be used to it by now, but the intensity always took him by surprise.

             
Something ailed Clairwyn, he was sure of it. And the knowledge filled him with helpless dread.