The Winter King (13 page)

“The wedding cannot be annulled,” Khamsin pointed out. “That was the entire point of last night—to ensure the knot was permanently tied.”

“But the things he said . . . what he thought to do . . .” Her face flushed bright red. “He tried to kiss me! Right there, in the hall!”

Kiss?
“You didn’t let him, did you?” There was a fierce snap in Kham’s voice that made Autumn look at her in surprise. The very thought of the Winter King and her sister locked in an intimate embrace sent a violent shudder down Khamsin’s spine. The brush she was holding in her hands grew hot, and with a hiss of pain, she dropped it into the half-filled water pail beside her bed. The hairbrush—bearing the imprint of her clenched fingers melted into its metal grip—sizzled when it hit the water.

“No!” her eldest sister exclaimed. “Of course, I didn’t. I was terrified if I showed the slightest encouragement, he might flip up my skirts and ‘pleasure me’ as he called it, right there in the hallway! He’s a brute! A barbarian!”

“He’s my husband,” Khamsin corrected. On her left hand, the heavy, beautiful diamond ring winked up at her, its platinum band a cool circle undamaged by the heat that had melted the hairbrush moments ago. “And he thought you were me—or rather that I was you. How did he find you? What did he want?”

“How should I know how he found me? Someone must have seen Summer and Spring leaving earlier and figured it out. As for what he wanted—I’d say it was you! Or me, because he thought I was you, pretending to be me. Oh, you know what I mean!” She threw up her hands. “Your wounds bled on the sheets—quite a bit, apparently—and he came to make sure he hadn’t sundered you in his great lust last night. I told him he hadn’t.” She peered uncertainly at Storm. “He didn’t, did he? Because you didn’t say, but I hoped the blood was from your back.”

“No, he didn’t hurt me.” Khamsin reached into the water pail to retrieve the now-cooled brush and dried it off before brushing her hair into some semblance of order.

He’d worried that he’d wounded her. He’d set her on fire, showered her with gift after selfless gift of pleasure, shattered and remade her time and time again in a crucible of devastating ecstasy—and he worried that he’d been too rough. She’d deceived him—was deceiving him still—and he, the supposedly heartless ice man from the north, had come to make sure he had neither harmed nor disappointed her on their wedding night.

She lowered her eyes to hide the vulnerability and guilt that one simple gesture of kindness made her feel.
Oh, Khamsin, why must everything you touch get so wrong-headed?

She rolled the length of her hair into a knot and pinned it to the back of her head, wincing a little as the gesture pulled the still-tender new skin on her back. Several more hours of sunlamps and herbs had provided enough healing that she could at least dress without needing drugs to keep her standing. She’d eaten earlier, her belongings were packed, now all she needed to do was don her veils, and she would be ready to go.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Was she different? She felt different. Her face was wan beneath its rich, Summerlander brown. She pinched her cheeks to add color and touched the raised ridges on her cheekbone where her father’s heated signet had burned her, branding her with the Summer Rose. Tildy had wanted to heal that, but Kham hadn’t let her. She wore it as a badge—a reminder of her home, and of the Summer King who despised her.

What would Wynter do when he learned the truth of their deception? Would he kill her? Freeze her on the spot with that deadly Gaze of his? Or would the devastating passion they’d shared last night stay his hand?

She tossed the remaining few personal items from her room in a small satchel and pinned the heavy veils in place over her hair. “It’s time,” she said. This continued deception was a farce, but one she was committed to carrying out. If she could just make it to the carriage without being unmasked, then she would have some hope of making it past the city gate before she was discovered. And if she could make it past the city gate, she had a chance of reaching the first posting stop without being discovered. The farther they got from Summerlea before Wynter realized how he’d been tricked, the less likely he was to kill her on the spot and return for a different princess.

Or so she told herself.

“Storm,” Autumn murmured. Tears welled in her eyes. “It should have been me. I should have told father I would be the Winter King’s bride. I was the one his eye settled on first.”

“Don’t torment yourself. This was my choice.” Khamsin forced a smile, trying for brightness, hoping that at least she’d avoided terrified. “You know how I’ve always dreamed of the ancient heroes who saved Summerlea. Well, this my chance to play Roland Triumphant.”

“Roland died, Storm.”

The bright smile faltered. “Yes . . . well . . . maybe Roland isn’t the right example.” She drew the veils down over her face, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Downstairs, the court had gathered. Spring and Summer were waiting at the top of the stairs, and they took up flanking positions at Khamsin’s sides as she grew near, threading their arms supportively through hers. Together, they descended the palace steps.

The Summer King was there, too, looking pale and pained. Too much drink, Kham thought, then remembered how Wynter had forced him to share the wedding cup. Ah, that explained it. But judging from the worn, unhappy look about him, he’d not spent his arras hours gorging on shattering pleasure as she had.

There was no remorse in his eyes, only fierce loathing, which he tried to hide with a false paternal smile for the benefit of his court. “Daughter,” he murmured, and stepped forward to embrace her. “Enjoy your life,” he taunted on a hiss meant for her ears only. “What’s left of it.”

She stood stiff and suffered the peck to her veiled cheek. She wanted to taunt him back, to sneer and inform him she had survived the worst he could dish out and would survive Wynter as well. But that had yet to be seen.

Metal clanked against stone. A cold, harsh wind swept into the palace, sending Summerlander skirts and doublets swirling. Several ladies cried out and clutched at fashionable curls tossed into disarray.

Outfitted once more in full plate mail with Gunterfys strapped to his side, Wynter strode into the marbled greeting hall. Temper snapped around him like crackling frost. He caught sight of Khamsin, and his mouth flattened to a grim, bloodless line.

“Veils again, my queen?” he sneered. He approached her with such scarcely contained force, she was surprised his boots did not strike sparks against the ground. His gaze flickered down to her hands. The sight of the large blue-white diamond glittering on her left hand made the line of his mouth soften slightly. “So, you
can
follow directions. That’s something, at least.” He caught her hand in his, and the now-familiar flash of energy leapt between them at the point of contact. His pale brows drew together, the golden brown skin furrowing, winter blue eyes narrowing.

Oh no.

Her fingers curled, and she gave her hand a tug, trying to free it from his grip. He would not allow it. He lifted her hand, examining the ring of faint bruises and the even fainter abrasions from where he’d pinned her hands to the headboard in one of their more passionate moments last night. His thumb brushed across the Summerlea Rose burning on her inner wrist. He splayed her hand against his, threading his fingers through hers as if measuring how her hand fit in his.

Slowly, inexorably, he brought her hand to his lips, and on the pretext of pressing a kiss to her hand, he breathed her in, drawing her scent deep into his lungs. A faint shudder rippled through him, followed by absolute stillness.

His eyes flashed up, bright and piercing, burning through the thick layers of her veils. Khamsin froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. He knew. He’d touched her hand, breathed in her scent, and without the potency of arras to muddle his senses, he’d deciphered the truth in mere seconds.

His hand shot out. Fingers curled around the corners of her veil and gave a swift yank. The pins holding the veils in place pulled loose. The unanchored layers of cloth slid free and fluttered to the ground. Cool air swirled around Khamsin’s bare head, tugging at the white-streaked curls dislodged by the sudden removal of her veils.

“The little maid,” he muttered, sounding dazed. The moment of shock didn’t last long. His other hand shot out. He grabbed her by the throat and dragged her close. His eyes flared with ice-bright magic, and frost crackled on every surface of the room, leaving Khamsin and all the Summer King’s court shivering with the icy force of Wynter’s fury.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “And no more lies.” His voice was so cold and throbbing, the chandelier shivered overhead, and several of its frozen crystal drops shattered.

Khamsin forced herself to lift her chin, forced her eyes to meet his with as much calm as she could muster. “I am the princess Khamsin Coruscate. Your wife.”

Wynter paced the gleaming, intricately inlaid parquet floor of the luxuriously appointed private parlor Verdan had led them to after Khamsin’s unveiling. All three of the Seasons—Autumn included—stood pale and silent, ringed protectively around the little storm-eyed maid who bore the Rose and claimed she was Wynter’s bride. Verdan stood off to one side, smug and arrogant despite the pallor that testified to the torment he’d suffered last night. Valik guarded the door, silent and watchful. He knew how close his king’s temper was to breaking, and he knew what that would mean.

Wynter stopped pacing. The sudden cessation of motion left the restless, wild energy of his magic with no outlet. He held himself still, letting the power gather and his anger grow so cold it burned.

“I offered you peace, Verdan,” he said softly. “You answered with deception.” In a sudden explosion of motion, he spun around and lunged towards the Summer King. Gunterfys whipped from its sheath in single, flashing moment, and the business end of the razor-sharp blade kissed the vulnerable skin right beneath the Summer King’s jaw. “Give me one reason why I should not separate your head from your shoulders right now.”

“I did not deceive,” Verdan retorted. The edge of his arrogance wilted a little, but he still met Wynter’s cold eyes head-on, without flinching. “You asked for a princess to wife—one of my daughters. I gave you one.”

“Liar! It’s well-known you only have three daughters.”

“It’s well-known I have only three? Or only three are well-known?” Verdan countered.

Wynter’s eyes narrowed. The girl bore the Rose. He couldn’t deny that. He considered trickery—that Verdan had somehow managed to fake the royal mark—but there was no way to fake the surge of energy that sparked whenever Wynter’s Wolf covered the girl’s Rose.

“A by-blow?” he asked. That would explain why he’d not heard of a fourth princess.

“I wish she had been. Then, at least, my wife would still be alive.”

“Father!” Summer and Spring exclaimed in unison. Autumn just curled her arm more tightly around the girl as if to ward off the king’s cruel claim.

The girl—Wynter’s wife—winced and extracted herself gently from her sisters’ protective clutches. Her chin lifted. “King Verdan has four daughters,” she said. “All of us are legitimate heirs to the Summer Throne, though until our wedding last night, he’d only officially recognized my three older sisters. He blames me, you see, for my mother’s death.”

Though she spoke softly, defiance sparked in her eyes. Wynter noted the pride, too, made obvious by the way she held her small chin so high. The pain, however, was so carefully shuttered he almost missed it.

“He couldn’t banish me outright,” she continued, “so instead he kept me confined to a remote part of the palace, away from the court, and away from him. Then you came.”

Images spun in Wynter’s mind like leaves on the wind. His first sight of the girl, standing in the oriel near the Queen’s Bower, garbed in cast-off gowns, as neglected as the tower around her. The way she’d snuck into his room—not a thief, just a girl retrieving her dead mother’s treasures. The gloating and open malice of Verdan’s toady, that Newt woman. The servants who claimed they knew nothing about her.

The corner of Verdan’s lip pulled up in a sneer. “You wanted a bride, Winter King. Well, now you have one. And may she deliver upon your House the same plague of misfortune and heartache she’s brought to mine.”

Wynter stepped back and sheathed Gunterfys before the urge to slay Verdan overcame reason. Though his bride was not the Season he’d come for, the terms of the peace had still been met. He would not be the first to break them, no matter how strong the temptation.

His enemy had outwitted him, he acknowledged grimly. He’d come to claim a beloved daughter, to make Verdan suffer as painful a loss as Wynter had when Garrick was slain. Instead, Verdan used the terms of peace as an opportunity to rid himself of a daughter he despised. The wedding was no punishment for Verdan. It was a boon.

Wynter turned to the girl. The lethal threat of the Ice Gaze burned at the back of his eyes, and he knew he looked frightening. “Come here,” he commanded.

The Seasons clung to her as if to hold her back and keep her safe from him. Verdan’s dark eyes gleamed with triumph. He was all but gloating. No doubt he and his daughters thought Wynter would kill the girl now. That was the reputation Wyn had spent the last three years earning. Those who deceived him died. Usually by ice, sometimes in a messier fashion.

But Wynter remembered other things about last night. He remembered the slow, careful way his bride had walked to the altar. The curious smell of poppies and herbs that had made him wonder if she’d sought courage from a potion. The flinch when he’d put a hand at the small of her back and the way she’d refused to surrender her gown in bed—even when the only thing it covered was her back. Most of all, he remembered the blood—too much blood—on the sheets of their bridal bed.

Khamsin stilled her sisters’ objections and pulled away from their fearful grips to approach him. He learned something else about his wife that moment. She was brave. He could see the paleness beneath her dark Summerlander skin, could smell the fear on her, but still she came to him, step after courageous step.