The Rose Bride (21 page)

In silence, the pair continued their progress around the pool. She knew he would leave when they reached his starting point and she felt a deep pang.

All too soon they were there.

“It’s late. I will be missed:’ He moved his hand as if to pet her, then stopped himself.
‘Adieu.”

Don’t speak of me to her
, she begged him. But of course he couldn’t hear her.

She watched as he walked toward the castle. Darkness closed over him like the cover of a book, and she returned to the forest, where she slept alone by her rosebush, trembling in the night.

When Jean-Marc returned to the palace, he found Claire Marchand waiting quietly for him in the shadows, a cloak hiding her condition from polite society. When he saw her, she stepped forward, attempting a curtsy although she was so big with child that it was beyond her.

“Non, non,”
he said gently, leaning forward and taking her wrists. “Is aught amiss? Your husband, is he well?”

She caught her breath. “I am not sure, Your Majesty” She twisted the edge of her shawl. “I beg of you, sir, please let me speak to you honestly without fear of punishment,” She swallowed hard. It was clear she was very frightened.

“Alors
, what is it?” he asked. “Come to our apartments. I’ll have some wine brought.”

“Non, s’il vous plait,”
she said in a rush. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I shouldn’t have come. Forgive me, sir:’ She bobbed at the knees.

“Claire,” he said, “I give you my word that you may speak to me honestly.”

She took a deep breath. “Reginer says that Her Majesty’s appearance seems to have altered in some way. He can’t explain it, but he says that when he compares her face to that of the portrait that he painted, it is different.”

The king considered. “Perhaps over time, he has come to observe her more closely and sees that he didn’t quite capture her likeness.” He chuckled. “Such are artists.”

“Oui, that’s what I said to him as well. But he insists that she has changed:’ She exhaled. “There. I have said it.”

That gave the king pause. Hadn’t he just said as much to his little pet doe?

“In what way?” he persisted.

She spoke in a rush. “Her hair and eyes are darker. Her features sharper. He even thinks that she’s taller.”

“Indeed? She’s growing? What a miracle.” When
he realized how upset Claire was, he grew more serious. “Pray continue.”

She licked her lips and touched her swollen belly. “It was said that the Pretender looked exactly like your father in his youth. But I saw his body after it was brought in from the battlefield. He looked nothing at all like His Majesty. Perhaps his appearance was changed in a similar way....”

“Are you trying to tell me that you believe the queen is using magic to appear like my dead wife?”

She shook her head wildly, her face pale. “I have not said so.
Je vous en prie
, I have not.”

He understood her terror. Charges of sorcery against the queen of the realm were a serious matter indeed.

“You have not,” he assured her.

There was a fluttering of wings in the eaves above their heads. It sounded like a bat to Jean-Marc; Claire took it as her cue to leave.

“My husband doesn’t know I came to see you,” she said. “Please don’t tell him. He would be angry.”

“It stays between us,” Jean-Marc promised her. “I don’t take it amiss.”

“Merci. Merci bien,”
she said feelingly. He waved off another awkward attempt at a curtsy and took his leave, bemused and thoughtful. What a strange conversation, and how ... unsettling.

Desirée was waiting for him in their private sitting room. A fire crackled in the hearth. The draperies
were pulled back from the balcony, and he thought he saw a large bird flit across the moon as she turned. In her hand she held a steaming goblet.

She brightened and said, “Well met, my love. I was worried about you.”

He took the wine. “I always go out walking this time of day. To sort my thoughts.”

“You have much on your mind.” Her voice was warm and sympathetic. She looked down at the goblet and said, “I prepared this for you. I need to speak to you, if you would be so kind.”

The word “kind” jarred him slightly and he felt a tiny jab of guilt over having unburdened himself to the little doe. He had made no mention of the creature and he wasn’t certain why he kept her a secret. Perhaps because he had been indiscreet; he knew she might be an emissary of the goddess. The Rose Bride had been a gift, and if he was honest with himself, tonight he had been finding fault with her. It smacked of ingratitude.

Coupled with his conversation with Claire Marchand, it smacked of something else altogether.

He studied her face carefully. Her hair was still silver and gold; her eyes, the most arresting starry midnight blue. And he knew very well how tall she should be and so she was. Reginer was looking for trouble where none existed. Perhaps it was nerves caused by impending fatherhood.

Desirée sat down on a divan covered with soft furs, inviting him with a sweet smile to sit beside her. The goblet was steamy with mulled wine, and he
took a hefty swallow. It went down easily, warming his bones. Purring like a cat, she wrapped herself around him, laying her head on his chest. He knew her. He knew she was his Rose Bride. He let the conversation with Claire slide away, like the other cares of his long day, and settled in with his wife.

“I can hear your heart,” she said. Then she leaned back and gazed up at him. “Two hearts beat inside my body.” She waited a moment for her words to sink in.
“Mon
amour, we are going to have a child.”

He nearly dropped the goblet. He stared at her. Every bit of joy in him, every shred of happiness, froze, held. He was afraid to be happy. Afraid to let in her wonderful news.

“How do you feel?” he asked carefully.

Confusion furrowed her brow. “What do you mean? Did you hear what I said?”

“How do you feel?” As if in slow motion, he put the goblet down on a small ebony table at his elbow—or at least he thought he did. He had gone completely numb.

“Oh,” she said as if she understood his meaning. She cupped his chin, forcing him to gaze steadily into her eyes. “I’m well, Jean-Marc. And I’m strong. I will have this baby, and I’ll be there to raise him.”

Him
.

He closed his eyes and drew her into his arms. He was terrified. He had lost her once before. He must not lose her again. “We must do everything to keep you safe. We must thank my Father Zeus.” His
voice broke. “And you must go to bed and stay there until the baby comes.”

Jean-Marc, my dear love. With you near, I am safe,” She kissed his cheek. “I will be the mother of a king.”

“Oui, and he will mend two broken hearts,” he whispered too softly for her to hear.

“You’re holding me too tightly,” she protested.

“Alors,”
he murmured. Then he rose and scooped her up in his arms; the familiar mixture of joy and grief seeped into his veins as he carried her to her bedroom. He was more seasoned now and humbled by life. He knew she was waiting for evidence of his unbridled happiness. This was her moment of triumph as a queen. This was the beginning of her greatest journey, into motherhood.

“I am happy,” he whispered. “I am.”

“I know” Her voice was a little shaky. “I understand why you’re nervous. Truly, I do.”

“You are my treasure.” He laid her down on her bed and cupped her hands underneath his chin. “This explains why you haven’t been yourself lately.”

“Oui. To add to it, I’ve been sleeping badly. I’ve been having nightmares,” she confessed. Then, with great reluctance, she added, “I’ve been dreaming that someone is trying to harm my baby.”

He prickled with alarm. “Tell me,”

“I—I didn’t know at first that I was with child,” she murmured. “It was my mother who guessed. She overheard some of my ladies-in-waiting. There is a
ritual in your court, where we are to appear before the priests after the runes are cast. But we have not done it:”

“We were married so short a time ago,” he said. “Less than three months. I didn’t want you to feel pressured. So much has happened.”

“Indeed, so much.” She managed a weak smile as she laid his hand over her flat stomach. Tears glistened in her eyes. “In the dream, there is a shadow that leans over his cradle.”

He tensed. A man?”

“I can’t be sure,” She looked away. “One has heard that the kings of the Land Beyond outlive many wives.”

His mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious. You can’t imagine that I—

“Non, non, mon amour,”
she said in a rush. “I meant only that some say the royal wives are cursed. That something is at work that takes us from our husbands. Something evil.” Her enormous blue eyes searched his face, Perhaps I am dreaming of that.”

“We must investigate this,” he said. His thoughts moved back to his conversation with Claire Marchand and the strange coincidence of Reginer’s meeting with his half sister. It occurred to him that the court painter could have lied about who he was. Perhaps he wasn’t a Marchand at all. How odd that he would never visit his father, no matter the rift. Apparently the man had died and Reginer had never heard of it. Wouldn’t someone at the
château
have contacted him?

She moved slightly so he could settle in beside her. She rolled on her side and propped her head on her hand. Drawing a lazy swirl on his cheek, she said, “The followers of Artemis consult with wisewomen, as you know. May I have permission to send for one to help us with this matter?”

“Of course. I’ll give you whatever you want.” Lucienne had never asked him for anything. Maybe if she had, she wouldn’t have died. He kissed her forehead and then her nose, and lastly, her mouth. She put her arms around his neck.

“What I want most is your heart,” she murmured against his ear.

“That you have already,” he replied. He lay down beside her. “Sleep, my love. I’ll guard you through the night.”

Yawning, Desirée stretched her arms over her head. Jean-Marc lay wide-eyed beside her, on alert. Finally she fell asleep, her soft breath tickling his neck.

Then he rose, closed the bedroom door, and leaned against it. His hands shook. He shouldn’t have found fault with her. He had tempted fate.

He strode back into the sitting room and finished the wine. Then he went into his dressing room, threw on a heavy cloak, and grabbed up his sword. He pulled the hood over his hair and left the palace via the servants’ stairway, which he used for privacy and to elude his bodyguards. The temperature had dropped and his blood chilled as he strode across the dewy grass.

He took no lantern; the moon was his guide. The statue of Artemis was gauzed in moonlight and he walked right up to it and fell to his knees.

“Goddess,” he began, and he took a breath. It felt so wrong to speak to her directly. And he should be at the temple of Zeus, asking the priests to intercede on his behalf. But he didn’t want anyone beyond the family to know that the queen was with child. Not immediately, not until she was further along. He would have to tell her that when she awakened.

If she dies, I will die
, he thought. I
couldn’t bear it again
.

Propelled by his fear, he got to his feet and half ran to the burial vault. He took a torch from one of the sconces in the courtyard wall, pushed open the mausoleum door, and made his way downstairs to Lucienne’s tomb.

He held the flickering light over his head and gazed down on her serene features. So she had been, always, in life.

“Lucienne,” he said, kneeling beside her sarcophagus. With his free hand, he clasped the cold hands. The floor was frigid against his knees. Perhaps the first frost of age was on him.

“Lucienne,” he said again. He fell silent because he didn’t know what else to say. And then almost like a whisper, he thought he felt her hand squeeze back.

The words poured out of him. “I am afraid. I’m afraid,” He lowered his head. “I am the king. I am the favored of Zeus. But I’m afraid.”

He thought he heard the flapping of wings, but that would have been impossible unless some hapless bird had followed him inside.

He got to his feet and went back toward his palace. On the way he stopped again at the statue of Artemis, to discover a purple rose lying at the goddess’s feet. He looked left and right, wondering if the little doe had left it for him.

Bemused, he lifted the blossom to his nose and breathed in the heady perfume. Then he thought he heard a soft whisper, as if it came from the rose itself. Blinking, he listened. There was nothing. He pressed the blossom against his ear.

It was only the sighing of the wind.

After he returned from the tomb, Jean-Marc stretched across the bedroom door to guard the Rose Bride. He had bundled his heavy cloak beneath his head for a pillow and pulled one of the furs from the sitting room over himself to keep warm.

His men of the bedchamber arrived to bathe and dress him for the day. Then it was time to eat the morning meal with the queen. He went to their private sitting room, where the table was laid and the hot tea was poured.