The Winter King (37 page)

Kham shivered under him—not from the cold ice against her back, but from the heat that boiled inside her with each devastatingly erotic, slow-motion thrust of his body against hers.

“Take this off.” She yanked at his vest. “Take it off. Now.” He pulled back to shed the furred vest, but she was too impatient to wait for him. She reached for the soft, woven-silk shirt beneath, gripped the sides of the reinforced yoke in her hands, and yanked. The silk ripped with a satisfying noise, baring a broad expanse of silky-smooth golden skin stretched across temptingly well-defined muscle.

Her mouth found his skin. She licked the salty-sweet flavor of his flesh, bit at him, found the hard, tightly gathered coin of his male nipple, and drew it into her mouth. He groaned, and the sound rippled inside her. Her muscles clenched and released and clenched again. She bit down on the pointed tip of his nipple. He gave a guttural roar, and his hips slammed forward, driving her up and back. Stars exploded, bright, blinding flashes of light, and she screamed as wave after wave of sensation crashed over her. Her hands clutched at his shoulders. Her legs locked around his waist, shaking in helpless abandon.

Wynter held his wife on his chest, his clothes wrapped around her. He’d longed for a long, hot soak in a steaming tub, but this was so much better. The weariness, the irritability, the anger and frustration had all melted away from him the instant he’d buried himself in his little Summerlass.

He ran a hand across her hair, marveling at its soft texture, the way the ringlets curled around his finger, loving the little threads of white shot through all that darkness. Midnight Storm.

“Why did you come here, after promising you wouldn’t?”

She glanced up, her gray eyes still touched by passionate silver, looking like shining moons against her dusky skin. “I wanted to know what you were hiding. And I thought you’d broken your own oath, so I saw no reason to keep mine.”

“I don’t break my oaths. At least until this year is up, the only woman to share my bed will be you and you alone.” He could have reassured her again that there was nothing between Reika and him, nor ever likely to be, but he found he liked that hint of jealousy in his hot-tempered wife. No woman had ever felt the need to warn other women away. Elka had known he would never stray and taken his fidelity as her due. He had assumed she was just as faithful, and he’d grown . . . complacent.

“So why did you keep coming when you knew the Atrium contained nothing of value to anyone but me? Oh, yes,” he admitted in answer to her look of surprise. “I know you’ve been here every day for at least the last week.”

“You have someone spying on me?” She rolled her eyes. “Of course you have someone spying on me. Probably every person in the palace.”

Of course he did. He’d given his foreign bride all the freedom she could desire, or rather, all the rope in the world with which to hang herself. He’d been a blind fool for a woman once before. That was a mistake he would never make again.

“Why did you keep coming back?” he pressed. “What were you expecting to find?” If she was the one sending messages to her brother, she’d had an entire palace to search, places with far more valuable caches of information. According to Fjall, she’d never gone near any of them. She’d come here and kept coming here.

“What was I looking for?” Khamsin’s curling black lashes swept down over her eyes, as she surrendered the truth. “The same thing you were looking for when you had this place created, I imagine.”

Wyn frowned in bemusement. “What do you mean?”

Her slender fingers trailed across his chest, stroking his skin and stopping over his heart.

He waited, but when no answer was forthcoming, he rolled to one side. She slid off his chest and into his waiting arms. He covered her body with his, bearing his weight on his forearms. The long, unbound strands of his hair fell around his face and hers, secluding them in a veil of silvery white.

“What do you think I look for when I come here?”

She looked up at him. She had only to lift her head a few inches to cover his lips with her own. For a moment, he thought she might try to distract him with a kiss, but instead she only lifted a hand to his face and ran a thumb across his lower lip.

“Love.” Her voice was so low, he had to strain to hear it.

He caught her thumb between his teeth and touched his tongue to its tip. “You think I come here looking for love?”

“For the memory of it, yes.” She met his gaze directly, and the clear, unwavering honesty in her gray eyes stilled him. “I’ve been coming here to imagine what it must have been like.”

“To love?”

“To be part of a family. To belong.”

It had been a very long time since Wynter wanted to gather another person up in his arms and offer them comfort. But the wistful sadness in that hoarsely whispered confession tore at the gentleness he didn’t realize still existed in his heart.

As if regretting the vulnerability she’d just revealed, Khamsin pushed against him and tried to wriggle free. He didn’t budge.

“You have a family.”

“Do I?” Her lips curved in a sad smile. “My mother died when I was three. My father hated me from the day I was born. My sisters and brother harbor some measure of affection for me, but that doesn’t mean I’ve ever been part of a family. Not really. Not like what you’ve preserved here in this room.” Her voice grew husky. She clamped her lips closed and turned her head away, but not before he saw the shimmer of tears spangling her lashes.

The sight of those tiny, glittering drops filled him with both icy rage and terrible, consuming sadness. What miserable excuse for a man would deny his own child, as Verdan Coruscate had denied his fourth daughter?

Wynter brushed his wife’s tears from her lashes. She could not be the traitor Valik suspected. No one could be so convincing. He’d been blind to Elka’s perfidy because he loved and trusted her. But Khamsin was and had always been the daughter of an enemy king. She’d deliberately deceived him into wedding her when he thought he was marrying her sister. He wasn’t blinded by love or trust this time. And when she said she’d come here because she wanted to know what it was to belong to a family—a loving family—he believed her.

He rolled off her and got to his feet, pulling her up with him. He took a few minutes to help her rearrange her clothing and draped his furred vest around her shoulders.

“I made this place for my brother,” he admitted. “He was only five when the Frost Giant killed our parents. I didn’t want him to grow up not knowing who they were or how much they loved him. It started as just a single sculpture of our parents, but Garrick liked it so much I made more.”

He had succeeded in surprising her. “
You
made this place? You’re the sculptor?”

He shrugged. “Ice carving is something of a national pastime in Wintercraig. I started when I was very young and got fairly good at it.”

“Fairly? Wynter, there are famed artists in the Summer Court who couldn’t match what you’ve created here.”

He flushed a little at her praise, then corrected her misconception that he alone was responsible for the Atrium’s sculptures. “They aren’t all mine. Garrick did his own carving when he was old enough. It was something the two of us did together.”

She gazed around the crystalline world of ice and snow. “Would you . . . tell me about them? Your family?”

A hand squeezed his heart, and Wynter found himself wishing Verdan Coruscate was standing here before him now, so he could choke the life out of him.

He was careful to keep his voice calm as he said, “It would be my pleasure,
min ros.
”

He walked his wife through the numerous trails of the extensive ice forest that he and his brother had created, pausing often to point out a particular piece, or tell her about the memory that had inspired a particular scene. He’d brought Elka here once. She’d admired the beauty of the place, the skill of his and Garrick’s sculpting, but she’d never felt the love. She’d never drunk in the memories with eyes that shone like silver moons, or paused so often to laugh over funny little details. Nor had she ever come here on her own to enjoy what he and Garrick had spent so many years sculpting. But Khamsin’s enthusiasm and her obvious appreciation for their work was too honest, too compelling, to be false.

What would Garrick have said about Wynter’s Summerlander queen?

Khamsin stopped by a sculpture of his laughing father holding an infant Garrick over his head. Young Wynter and his mother were holding hands nearby, dancing in the grass.

“Tell me about this day,” she begged. “What was it like? You all look so happy.”

Garrick would have liked her, Wynter decided. He would have liked her very much.

C
HAPTER 18

A Surfeit of Snow

The next morning, as Wynter sat in his office reviewing the documents that had stacked up in his absence, it occurred to him that he’d never gotten either the long soak in a steaming tub nor the night of undisturbed sleep he’d been looking forward to. The soak had been shared and short-lived, with most of the steaming water ending up on the floor of his bathing chamber before it had time to cool. And his sleep—what little he’d gotten—had been in Khamsin’s bed rather than his own.

He should have been exhausted today. Instead, he felt more invigorated than he had in months. The few hours he had slept, with Khamsin draped over him, had been deep and dreamless and utterly restorative. Despite a second bath they’d shared again this morning, he could still smell her on his skin, and the scent kept distracting him as he attempted to plow his way through the mountain of papers awaiting his review.

The fifth time his mind went wandering while attempting to read the same single paragraph in a report, Wyn gave up. The paperwork would have to wait. He pushed back from his desk and summoned Deervyn Fjall. After explaining what he wanted and sending Fjall to see it done, Wynter went in search of his wife. He found his Summerlass in the grand dining room with Lady Melle Firkin and a dozen ladies of the court.

Wyn paused just outside the doors to observe them. Though the ladies were sitting scant feet away from his wife, there was an invisible but distinct gulf between them. The ladies chatted amongst themselves, never addressing Khamsin except when prodded into conversation by Lady Melle, and even then their voices were cold and clipped. Khamsin’s lovely, expressive face was drawn in a blank mask, all her bright vitality and passion tamped down and hidden away, leaving a lifeless, wooden caricature of Wyn’s wild summer Rose. The sight made his hands clench, and he had to wrestle his temper and his magic into submission before he stepped into the room.

“Your Grace!” The gathered ladies jumped to their feet and dropped into swift but graceful curtsies.

“Your Grace.” Khamsin executed her own, much slower but equally graceful curtsy. “I wasn’t expecting the pleasure of your company this morning.”

“Were you not?” He bent down and dropped a kiss upon her upturned lips, aware of the ladies watching with avid interest and no small surprise. “I spent the better part of the last two months staying away until you were fully recovered from your illness. I am resolved to make up for lost time. I thought we might go for a ride.”

“I—of-of course. I would like that very much.”

Clearly, he’d shocked her. Wynter discovered he liked shocking her. He liked the way darker color flooded her cheeks, turning that beautiful brown skin a dusky rose.

“Go change into your riding habit. I’ll meet you by the stables. Ladies.” He bowed to the women of his court.

The gossip was buzzing before he even left the room. Good. His queen, who had been an outcast in her own home all her life, would not be an outcast in his.

Yesterday, Khamsin had accused him of sabotaging her efforts to fit in with his court and his people. He hadn’t deliberately set out to do so, but he couldn’t pretend that his determination to avoid her hadn’t resulted in precisely that outcome. And Galacia was right, too. He had failed in his duty to look after Khamsin properly. He had contributed to her alienation and misery—he, who was bound by the laws of Wintercraig, to put her well-being before his own.

That disgraceful lack of care ended today.

Over Valik’s objections, they rode out alone, without a single guard in attendance. Not the King and Queen of Wintercraig, but Khamsin and Wynter, husband and wife.

Thanks in no small part to the storm, he and Khamsin had generated yesterday, Wintercraig lay buried under three feet of fresh snow. Tree boughs sagged under the weight accumulated on their branches. Travel was possible only because crews of men had been working around the clock since the end of the storm to clear the main roads. Piles of packed snow six feet deep lined the thoroughfares.

Khamsin eyed the wintry scene with open dismay. “Did we do this?”

Wyn hesitated. Even though the ferocity of their storm had faded when anger turned to passion, he hadn’t thought to disperse it until hours later. The new accumulation of snow was definitely their fault. He wouldn’t lie to her, but neither did he want her fretting all day over something they could not change, so he said, “Winter storms have swept the Craig long before you or I were born. It’s the price of living in one of the most beautiful lands in all of Mystral.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Noticed that, did you?” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “All right, yes, the storm
we
called—you and I together—brought the snow. But it would have come on its own some other time. Blizzards far worse than the one we called are commonplace in the Craig. And we need the snow, Khamsin. We thank Wyrn for sending it. Come spring, the waterfalls will flow from the mountaintops, and our land will turn green and lush and more beautiful than any place in the world.”

That mollified her enough to wipe the dreadful guilt from her gaze. She leaned back in the saddle and gazed at the breathtaking scenery around them.

“I can’t deny it is beautiful.” The mountains of the Craig towered into clear, cloudless blue skies, their jagged black peaks now entirely covered in flows of white. The valley and forested lowland mountains sparkled in the sunlight like the pristine crystalline perfection of the Atrium’s ice forest. “You’re sure we didn’t hurt anyone? No one got caught out in the storm?”

“Winterfolk know how to survive blizzards,” he assured her. “No one goes out at this time of year without protective gear and supplies enough to weather a bad storm. And that includes me.” He patted the saddlebags and blanket roll tied to the back of his saddle.

“What about the snow on the mountains?” She eyed the towering peaks. “Krysti warned me about the danger of avalanches when we were out riding.”

“They are always a danger,” he admitted, “but since before my grandfather’s time, we have sent teams of men in the mountains to keep the snowpacks under control.”

“How do they do that? Are they weathermages?”

He smiled. “No. They’re ordinary Wintermen who climb the mountains after every storm to measure the ice packs, and when necessary, start smaller avalanches to clear the snow.”

“And that works?” She looked plainly skeptical.

“There are still deadly avalanches, of course, but far fewer than before.”

They had reached Skala-Holt, the furthest distance west of Gildenheim Khamsin and Krysti had ever ridden. The villagers Khamsin had been trying so hard to win over stopped in their tracks when she rode in with Wynter at her side.

“I’m hungry,” Wynter announced. “How about you? The pub here serves a delicious venison stew.”

Khamsin hesitated. Liese, Skala-Holt’s pubkeeper who’d lost her husband in the war, had made it clear Khamsin wasn’t welcome in her establishment. Oh, Liese had never outright refused to serve Wintercraig’s queen, but her thinly veiled hostility and curt tone had made Kham and Krysti’s few visits to the pub very uncomfortable.

“It’s already getting late,” Kham hedged. “We should be heading back.”

But Wynter had already brought Hodri to a halt beside the pub’s front door. “We’ll eat here,” he said. He dismounted and came around to help Khamsin down. He handed the reins of their mounts to a waiting stablelad and, with a cool nod to the gathering villagers, put a hand on the small of Kham’s back and escorted her into the pub.

A fire burned merrily in the hearth. Half a dozen villagers were seated at the bar and tables. Liese, the pubkeeper, started to scowl when she saw Khamsin walk through the door, then froze when Wynter ducked in behind her and straightened to his full height. All conversation in the room ceased.

“Your Grace.” Liese came around the pub’s bartop. Her gaze darted nervously to Khamsin’s face. “Your Grace.” She dipped an awkward curtsy.

“Good day, Liese,” Khamsin murmured.

“I was just singing the praises of your venison stew to my queen,” Wynter said. “We’d like two bowls and a loaf of your fresh bread. And two pints of mead.”

“Aye, Your Graces, right away.” The pubkeeper served them with more deference and alacrity than she’d ever shown Khamsin, and within minutes, they were enjoying a hot, simple meal of truly delicious stew and fresh, fragrant bread slathered with creamy butter.

Wynter chatted with the other patrons as they ate, making a point of including Khamsin in the conversation. Several times, he reached across the table to lift Kham’s left hand and press a kiss against her wrist, a gesture not missed by his audience.

When the meal was over. Wynter dropped a handful of coins on the table, thanked Liese for the excellent food and service, and ushered Khamsin out the door.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said as she stepped into his cupped hands for a boost into the saddle.

Wynter played dumb. “I don’t mind helping you into the saddle.”

She gave him a look, in response to which he arched a single, silvery brow and smiled a challenge. She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t need you fighting my battles.” She laid the reins across Kori’s neck, turning the mare back towards Gildenheim.

“Wrong way, wife,” Wyn said as he swung into his saddle. “We’re headed west.”

She frowned. “Shouldn’t we start back? We’re already going to be riding most of the way to Gildenheim in the dark.” It was mid-November, and the days were short, the sun setting by four o’clock.

“We’re not going back to Gildenheim.”

“Where are we going?”

He smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

They rode west another three hours, stopping for the night at an inn in a small village called Riverfall. Khamsin had never met the villagers here, but with Wynter by her side, they were all smiles and warm welcome. They spent a pleasant night spooned together in a soft, warm bed whose rope springs squeaked so loudly Kham could hardly meet the innkeeper’s eyes without blushing the next morning.

They set off again at first light, leaving the main road to follow a winding, recently cleared switchback road that zigzagged up the mountain.

The forest was so peaceful. White, covered with pristine snow broken only by the occasional tracks of wildlife. Every once in a while, a flurry of snow would topple from the branches of the trees, disturbed by a winter bird taking flight. The serene quiet was broken only by the steady clop-clop of their mounts’ hooves and the chime of the bridle bells.

As they rode up the mountain, they passed a dozen Wintermen coming down, snow shovels strapped to their backs. The men murmured greetings and doffed their hats before continuing down the path Wynter and Khamsin had just traversed.

Thirty minutes later, the cleared pathway ended at a small, frozen mountain lake, which had also been completely cleared of snow, leaving a smooth, silvery surface of thick ice.

Wynter rode Hodri to the edge of the lake and tied his bridle to a tree next to a pile of hay that had been left atop a cleared section of snow.

“Wynter?” What was this place? Obviously, he’d arranged for the road and pond to be cleared so he could bring her here, but she wasn’t sure why.

He held up a hand to help Khamsin from the saddle.

“Don’t you recognize it?”

“No. Krysti and I never rode this far from Gildenheim.”

“My family has a hunting lodge about an hour’s ride further up the mountain. We used to come here often when I was a boy. The ice gets thick, and the waterfall freezes every winter.” He pointed to an incredible spray of what looked like frosted white stalactites tumbling down the side of the mountain.

The frozen waterfall looked strangely familiar though she was sure she’d never been here before. Then she processed Wynter’s comment about his childhood, and the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

“It’s the skating pond from the Atrium!” Now that she’d made the connection, she was shocked at how accurately Wynter had portrayed this spot. “Is there really a cave behind the waterfall?”

“Why don’t you go see for yourself?” Wynter turned to the saddlebags strapped to the back of Hodri’s saddle and turned back with two pairs of metal blades fitted with leather straps. He patted a large rock. “Sit here, and I’ll put on your skates.”

She eyed the skating contraptions with trepidation. “I don’t know how to skate.”

“It’s not that hard. I’ll teach you.” He patted the rock again. When she made no move to do as he said, he arched one silvery brow. “You aren’t scared, are you?”

That got her back up. “Of course not.”

“Then come and let me help you with your skates.”

Khamsin grudgingly went to sit on the rock. Wynter knelt before her and fitted the skating blade to the bottom of her boot. The blade itself was fastened to a hard layer of leather and metal. One set of leather straps tied around the toe of her boot, and another two sets crisscrossed around her heel, ankle, and foot to hold the skate securely in place.

When he finished buckling her skates, Wynter sat beside her to don his own. He stood up and reached for her hands to help her to her feet.

The skate blades immediately tilted sideways, and she fell against Wynter.

“Find your balance. Don’t let your ankles fold. Try to stand upright on the blades.”

She tried to straighten her ankles, only to have them fold the other direction. “Easier said than done.”

“You can do it.” He steadied her as she straightened up again. “Good. Now just stand there for a minute. Get used to the feel of balancing on the blades. That’s really the hardest part of skating. Everything else is simple.”

“All right.” She concentrated on keeping her ankles steady. It took a little effort, but all the riding and climbing she’d done with Krysti had strengthened the muscles of her calves and ankles and improved her balance significantly.

“Try to stand without holding on to me.”

When she felt steady, she loosened her grip on him, then let go completely. Her ankles wobbled a tiny bit, but she managed to retain her balance.