Bride by Command (15 page)

Lady Danya he saw quite well, inside and out. She was frightened and selfish and desperate. She was shallow, easy to understand and manipulate. It could very well be her desperation which would benefit them most; it might be her desperation which would bring down an empire.

“Do not cross me,” Kristo whispered, and then he leaned down and placed his cold lips on Lady Danya’s neck. She felt like fire to him, and he knew that on her flesh his lips would sting like ice. He held her in place while he allowed his lips to linger. He was not drawn to her—she was not strong enough to entice him—but he did enjoy the fear she emitted as he held her. She did not know what he would do, what he would demand. She only knew she could not refuse him anything.

He released her and whispered, “Don’t look at me, Lady Danya.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, terrified and unaware that he was backing silently into the woodland which offered him cover.

It was time for him to go. There was so much to be done, so very much. First and foremost—where was Lady Morgana?

 

 

STRANGELY
enough, married life—which she had fought against all her adult life—agreed with Morgana. The room she called home for the time being was inadequate by any standard. She now had only one dress to call her own, since Jahn had reduced the other to rags in a moment of impatience. She had not complained as he’d cut it off her and she would not complain now, but the yellow dress which had been packed for her as she’d left home was not her favorite. And yet she wore a smile more often than not, and she looked forward to the end of each day in a way she never had before.

Though she had tried on several occasions during the past four days, using all her newly discovered wiles, she still had not convinced her husband to shave off that awful beard, which was mostly light brown but also sported every color of hair under the sun, including a few disturbing streaks of bright red. When Jahn was working at the palace, guarding the emperor who had once asked her to vie for the position of empress, she missed him in a deep and unexpected way. He felt so much like family. Yes, he belonged to her in a soul-deep way.

When he’d claimed her she’d been so incensed, so horrified. Now she was grateful that he had been there on that day, that he had heard her stepfather’s vow and taken advantage of it.

At least Jahn was no longer working at night, as he had at first, but was gone for several hours during the day. Then, when his workday was done, he was here in this room to share a bed with her. To share so much with her! Perhaps her life was not as she’d ever imagined, but since falling into Jahn’s care she had never lacked for food or drink, and thanks to his friends, whatever she expressed a desire for was presented to her. Tea. A hot bath. Curtains for the uncovered window. A new pillow. Somehow, they always managed to obtain what she asked for, and though none of it was of the quality she had come to expect from life, everything was more than adequate. She had all she needed, and more. Sex was a wonder to her, and every night Jahn showed her something new. She craved him. That was not the same as love, she knew, but what she felt was deep and undeniable. There was a connection she had not expected. It was the sex and more that brought them together so well. He was a friend, and she had not had a true friend in a long time.

Her mother had been wrong, sad to say. It was not love she’d waited for but friendship. Companionship. Trust.

At this rate there would be a child soon enough, and then they would be forced to find better accommodations. Though this room had become more than tolerable, it was not fit for a child.

Jahn’s touch, his presence, his protection continued to keep the curse at bay, and there were moments when she wondered if it might be gone for good. Perhaps what had happened on that horrible night had not been a curse at all, but an isolated incident that would never repeat. She could almost make herself believe that what had happened had nothing to do with her at all, if not for the chill she’d felt when she’d run away from this room and had found herself on the streets, thinking she was being followed. Like it or not, she could not deny that the destruction had come from within her.

There were rare times when she felt as if she should tell Jahn everything. These impossible feelings usually arose after sex, while she was lying naked in his arms. The fabulous sensation of belonging she had never dreamed of experiencing weakened her somewhat. Jahn’s imagined response was what stopped her. How would a man who served the emperor react to the news that his wife was a murderer? What would he think of the fact that when she was afraid or angry, she exploded and destroyed everything and everyone in her path? Since that afternoon when she’d so foolishly left the tavern on her own, she had not experienced even a sliver of ice in her veins.

Maybe she was cured. Maybe she would never have to fight off the curse again. If that was the case, then why should she tell anyone anything? It wasn’t as if Jahn didn’t have secrets of his own. He did. Several times in the past few days he had started a conversation with an ominous “I have something to tell you” that quickly turned into a pursuit much more pleasurable than talk. If what he wanted to divulge was important, he’d say it sooner or later.

As she had on more than one occasion, she met him at the door with the straight razor in her hand. She was determined to see what was hidden beneath all that horrid facial hair!

“Not again,” Jahn said as he came through the door, unfastening his belt and the sword hanging there with nimble fingers. “I like my beard. It’s very manly, don’t you think?”

With the hand that did not hold a blade, Morgana pointed to a raw spot on her chin. “Beard burn,” she said simply. “From this morning. Your lips are wonderfully soft, but that bristle is not. Shave off the beard or you will have to go kissless.”

“Kissless,” he repeated.

“Yes.” She sighed dramatically. “You cannot expect me to live forever with a rash on my face.”

“Why not? You’re still pleasing to look upon.”

“It hurts, Jahn,” she replied with a laugh.

He looked surprised. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Oh.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, but he did not attempt to kiss her. Just as well, since she was prepared to turn her head and refuse him—for a little while, at least. “I missed you today.” There was truth in his words, and they warmed her heart.

“I missed you, too.”

“Palace life is tedious without you. The palace itself is dull compared to this small room with you in it.”

“Are you trying to sweet-talk me into giving you a kiss?” she teased.

“Of course not. Though it is quite nice, kissing is not strictly necessary.”

“I beg your pardon?” Kissing had quickly become necessary for
her.

She recognized the fire in his eyes and he smiled down at her; she knew this expression well. He wanted her. “I can please you quite well without our lips ever touching.”

“I’m sure you can, but that’s not the point . . .”

“Is it not?” Jahn spun her about and lifted her skirt with talented hands, stroking her thighs a bit and then letting his strong hands rest on her bare hips. He pulled her against him, and his hard length pressed against her backside. Morgana felt a thrill of excitement, as she always did when Jahn touched her. She closed her eyes and savored the way he held her, they way they fit together so well.

“We don’t even need to be face-to-face. You don’t have to study my offending beard and wonder whether or not there’s a proper chin beneath.” He guided her to the window, their steps small and in unison, and she looked down upon the people who walked on the street, all of them in a hurry to be somewhere. She didn’t want to be anywhere but here.

“I’m sure I will love your chin, even if it is puny,” she said.

Jahn did not join her in teasing. “Grab the windowsill,” he whispered.

She did as he asked.

“Bend forward.”

She did, thankful for the window coverings Jahn’s clever sentinel friends had managed to obtain. The fabric was gauzy, but it did offer some semblance of privacy.

Hand still beneath her yellow skirt, Jahn reached around and found her most sensitive and sensual spot. He stroked, and she was immediately wet. He slipped a finger inside her, and she almost found release then and there. She held on, yearning for more but not wanting this to be over so quickly.

He stroked her slowly with fingers that had learned her well, knowing how and where to touch her to keep alive this remarkable feeling of standing on the edge. It was like flying, and she half expected her feet to leave the ground at any moment. There was nothing cold about her when Jahn held her, not inside or out. He kissed the back of her neck and his fingers danced. He aroused her gently until she craved more; she craved all of him. Morgana trembled and held her breath; she moved demandingly against his stroke.

And then he was inside her, just a little bit, pushing into her dampness while he continued to arouse with his fingers. The afternoon sun hit her face through the curtains. Jahn was relentless. He was in her and all around her, he was
everywhere,
fingers moving against her as he pushed deeper inside and held himself there for a moment before resuming the slow, rhythmic movement.

Life went on around them, outside the window, beneath their plain wooden floor, and yet there was nothing else in her world but this. A joining. A search for pleasure. A marriage, the way a marriage was meant to be.

Morgana arched her back and took him deeper; she fell into a primitive rhythm that guided her body and wiped every thought from her mind. Every thought but Jahn and the way he felt inside her. She began to tremble, to glide back to meet his thrust, to move faster and with demand, and then she shattered. As she trembled, she felt his hot release. He trembled as deeply as she did. Did he feel as if he could fly?

A thought teased her brain, words lingered on her lips, but she quickly pushed them aside. This was not love, it was the warmth of sexual fulfillment. They were soldiers, she and Jahn, taking on life together in the best way they knew how. They were partners in all ways, and that did not require an element so fleeting and insubstantial and indefinable as love. If they found a remarkable physical connection along the way, that was just an additional and extraordinarily pleasurable—and lucky—benefit.

“See?” he said in a gruff voice, lowering his head to kiss her neck. “No kissing necessary.”

“You’re kissing me now,” she argued weakly.

“Not on the mouth.”

“Stop that,” she ordered with a laugh. “I said no kissing. I did not specify mouth only.”

“What a shame,” he said, turning her about and touching her lips with tender fingers and then lowering those fingers to her breasts to tease her tender nipples through the fabric of her plain yellow frock. Thank goodness the fabric was a thin one, as that allowed her to feel his caress very well. “I rather thought you liked my kisses.”

“I do, but . . .”

And then his gentle fingertips were on the raw place on her cheek. “Does it really hurt?”

“A little,” she confessed.

“I did not intend to hurt you,” he said with a fierce honesty.

“I know.”

“I would rather hurt myself.”

“You are a good husband,” she said with a smile.

“I take care of that which is mine.”

“You do.” She rose up and kissed his throat, allowing her lips to linger.

“I thought you said no kissing.”

“I don’t have a beard. I may kiss as I please.” She teased his throat with the tip of her tongue. “You taste so good.”

Jahn held her close and sighed. “I relent. How could I not? Have you ever shaved a man?”

“Of course not!” she answered indignantly.

He took her face in his hands, and she felt so small and yet so wonderfully safe.

“You watch,” he said. “I’ll do the shaving.”

 

 

THE
beard had made a nice addition to his disguise in weeks past, for traveling and for the short trips to and from the palace. He truly did not care about proving to Morgana that he
did
have a chin beneath it. But the rough and wiry hair scraped her delicate skin, and for that reason it had to go.

Jahn sat before a cloudy and cracked mirror and cut away the longest strands, then lathered his face well. Not so long ago he had marched into the room intent on telling Morgana the truth and found her standing there with this very blade in her hand. Many times since then he had approached her, determined to tell all, but she always managed to distract him and they ended up engaged in more pleasurable pursuits than confession. Now it was too late, by his way of thinking. She would be furious when she found out he’d lied to her.

He didn’t have much time. There was little more than five weeks left before the First Night of the Summer Festival.

Jahn had decided that without question, Morgana would make a fine empress. She had all the qualities any man—or country—could ask for. Not only would she make a suitable empress, she made him happy. They were compatible. Good fortune had been with him when he’d decided to go north in his venture from the palace and his structured life as emperor. He had run from the palace and the inevitability of marriage, and in the end had found a true wife.

He could not wait to give Morgana the gifts she deserved, to dress her in crimson and drape jewels around her pretty throat.

She watched closely as he shaved—he could feel her eyes on him—and he pondered what might happen in the weeks until the Summer Festival began. He could be totally honest with her here and now and give up these pleasing moments, or he could pretend to be Jahn Devlyn, sentinel and husband, until the last possible moment. He would, of course, choose Morgana as his empress when the proper time came. That had been decided the moment they had taken up residence in this room as man and wife. As it was very possible that she would be carrying his child by then, she couldn’t refuse him.