The Winter King (7 page)

Valik cleared his throat again. “Enough, Wyn,” he chided. “Let the girl go.”

Wynter felt his nostrils flare with an instant stab of aggression, and his upper lip curled back to bare his teeth. He even growled, low in his throat, like a snow wolf warning another male away from his female.

His response shocked him. Rationally, Wynter knew Valik was right. He was many things, most of them unpleasant, but one thing he’d never been was rapist. He had to let the girl go. But another, far more primitive and fierce, part of him refused. He had to touch her. Just this once at least. He couldn’t explain the compulsion, but he couldn’t deny it either.

He caught her hands and pinned them over her head, against the wall. He lowered his head towards her soft, parted lips. His lips claimed hers, his tongue plunging deep to conquer the sweet cavern of her mouth, while his free hand swiftly released the top few buttons at the front of her bodice. Her skin felt hot to the touch, as if fire burned just below the flesh. He started to slide a hand inside her loosened bodice, but she tore her mouth from his with a cry.

The window at his back exploded with a deafening crash.

Wynter cursed himself roundly and released her. He staggered back two steps and shook his head until the strange, almost hypnotic sexual compulsion faded, and his normal, cold clarity returned.

Fool! Idiot!
She wasn’t the assassin. She was the diversion sent to lower his guard!

He spun around, reaching for his power. It leapt at his command with crackling, lethal force. To his right, Valik’s sword flashed free of its scabbard with a familiar, deadly hiss.

Khamsin dove for the bower doors. It wouldn’t take either Winterman long to realize there were no attackers, that there was only a broken tree branch, lying on the floor amidst a sea of scattered glass shards, flung into the room by a fierce gust of wind.

Outside, it was storming for the second time that day, the sky dark with clouds. The wild strength of the tempest matched her own mad, riotous feelings. Anger, fear, and—Halla help her—lust roiled in a fierce tumult in her belly. The skies echoed her emotions as they always did when temper or other strong feelings made her lose her grip on the powers of her giftname, Storm. Lightning flashed, and the first, deafening booms of thunder rattled the windows in their panes. Wind howled through the shattered window, and gusts of still-snowy air whirled inside.

The bower doors burst open before Kham reached them. The crash of the window had brought the guards running. She ducked to one side as the guards rushed in, then slipped out behind them and ran for the tower steps.

Time to leave, before she landed in even bigger trouble than she already was.

Halfway to the stairs, she stopped dead in her tracks. Too late.

The large imposing figure of Maude Newt, Mistress of Servants, blocked the only path of escape. She stood at the top of the stairs, flanked by two young maids who’d obviously come to tend the very tasks Khamsin had used as her excuse to get past the guards.

Kham instinctively reached up to pull her cap tighter over her telltale hair, only to plunge her fingers into bare curls. Her cap!

Newt’s beady eyes narrowed, and her face pruned tight with triumph and naked loathing. “You!” she exclaimed. Her hand shot out to clamp around Khamsin’s upper arm, the meaty fingers almost as strong and viselike as the Winter King’s earlier grip. “I knew I’d seen you skulking around here earlier. What are you about? You have no business up here.”

Her hard gaze swept over Khamsin, missing no detail of her disheveled appearance, not the loose, wild tangle of hair, not the flushed face, and definitely not the bodice unbuttoned low enough to bare the cleft between her breasts. A sneering, speculative look entered her eyes. “Or did you? Aren’t you the sly one. Come to do a little negotiating of your own, eh?”

“You know this girl?” The White King approached, straightening the cuffs of his silk shirt. He’d obviously realized there were no assassins lurking outside in the storm, and he’d leashed his terrible power. His steward Valik followed close behind, rubbing his jaw where it had met the hard edge of Kham’s shoe.

Newt gave the White King a tight, obsequious smile. “Indeed I do, sir. A wild, mannerless tatter who hasn’t yet learned her place.” Her fingers squeezed so tight Kham knew she’d wear a collection of bruises come morning.

She didn’t need the warning to hold her silence. The last thing she would do was let the White King know who she really was. Even facing her father’s wrath was a more welcome prospect than admitting she was an heir to the throne the Winter King had vowed to destroy.

“I hope she didn’t . . . upset you . . . Your Grace?”

Newt looked rather hopeful when she posed that last question, but to Kham’s surprise, rather than admitting he’d caught her stealing from the solar, Wynter Atrialan merely gave the Mistress of Servants a chilly look, and asked, “Do I strike you as a man who could be upset by some slip of a servant girl?”

The woman blanched and hurried to recover from her gaffe. “No, Sire, of course not.” She bobbed a rapid series of bows and curtsies. “Not in any way, Your Greatness. I never meant to imply any such thing. Please accept my apologies.” She started to back away, dragging Kham with her as she went. “Forgive me for allowing this girl to intrude on your privacy. It won’t happen again.”

He looked at Khamsin, and murmured something she could have sworn sounded like, “Pity.” But then his ice-pale eyes flicked back to Newt, and he said, “See that it doesn’t,” in a voice so cold she was sure she must have imagined the other.

“Pansy and Leila will freshen your bathing chamber, sir.” Newt jerked her chin in silent command, and the two trembling maids standing behind her bobbed nervous curtsies and fled past into the bower, all but running as if they couldn’t wait to finish their work and leave.

Her hand still clenched tight around Kham’s arm, Maude dragged her towards the stairs. Khamsin cast one, last glance back through the veil of her hair, and found the Winter King watching her. He had the strangest look on his face, something oddly wistful and bemused. Then the look was gone. He turned to reenter the bower, and the doors closed shut behind him.

“I’ve caught you now, girl,” Newt crowed with swaggering glee. “Caught you red-handed.”

Kham waited only until they were out of sight of the bower doors before yanking her arm from Newt’s harsh grip. “Get your hands off me.” The idiot woman actually tried to grab her again, but Kham evaded her and gave her a fierce glare. “Touch me again, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t,” she vowed. Little sparks of energy popped and crackled at her fingertips. She was in no mood for further manhandling, especially not by the likes of Maude Newt.

“You won’t be acting so high-and-mighty when the king hears what you’ve been up to!” Newt snarled. But apparently the threat and the little show of power convinced her that Kham meant business, and she kept her hands to herself. “Get on downstairs now,” she snapped. “We’re going to see your father.”

Khamsin briefly contemplated the idea of running for it and leaving Newt empty-handed, but gave up the idea almost immediately. Newt didn’t need Kham in tow. She had witnesses. Half a dozen of them. Even if the White King kept silent, Pansy and Leila wouldn’t. They’d seen her distinctive hair, and their livelihoods depended on keeping in Newt’s good graces.

Her father was going to be in such a rage when he realized she’d openly defied him and entered the tower. Worse, that she’d been caught there by the White King.

Newt herded her down the tower stairs and through several levels of the palace towards the king’s private office. As they walked, Khamsin puzzled over the strange, unseemly twist her foray into the bower had taken. What had come over her? He’d touched her, and it was like electric flame—like the lightning she could summon—shooting sparks through her veins. She’d all but melted, boneless, at his feet. He was the Winter King, her enemy, a man feared for his killing coldness, yet when he’d touched her, she had not frozen. She’d burned.

Her face flamed just thinking about it. About him. His eyes, so pale, so foreign, piercing as if he could see into her very soul. His hands, commanding, callused from years spent holding sword and reins, capable of violence, yet also capable of rousing such . . . incredible sensations.

She shivered and felt the clenching in her loins that left her weak at the knees. Best she stay away from him from here on out.

Far, far away.

“What in Frost’s name that was all about?” Valik demanded as soon as the two skittish maids finished fumbling their way through their duties and departed.

Wynter stood beside the broken window, staring out at the storm-tossed sky. The maids had cleared away the broken glass, but the carpenters and glassmakers hadn’t yet arrived to replace the window. “I don’t know what happened, Valik. I can’t explain it.”

“I’ve known you since we were both infants, but I’ve never seen you act that way before.”

“I’ve never felt that way before.”

“What way?”

Wynter glanced down at the cap in his hands, surprised to find his fingers gently caressing the fabric as they’d wanted so desperately to caress the maid’s soft skin. He clenched his hands, crushing the cap, twisting the fabric in his hands.

“Driven,” he admitted. “Possessive. Enchanted, almost. I touched her and it was like . . . like fire in my soul.” He looked out into the roiling clouds. He could still see her in his mind, her flashing eyes and fierce temper, her hair like a night sky streaked with lightning. He could still smell the captivating, enthralling scents of her, the soft aroma of her skin, the heady perfume of her undeniable sexual response that even now made his body grow painfully hard just remembering it. He threw the cap on a nearby table and turned away from the window to pace the gleaming hardwood floor.

“I don’t like the sound of it, Wyn,” Valik declared, frowning as he watched his king pace. “You dined with the Seasons earlier. Think they spiked your food with arras leaf?” Summerlanders were infamous for their hedonistic ways, and arras leaf was one of their most powerful and renowned aphrodisiacs.

“To what purpose? So I’d plow a chambermaid? Or be off my guard for an attack that never came?” Wynter shook his head. “I’m not drugged, Valik. I didn’t leap on those little fawns Pansy and Leila.” He hadn’t felt so much as a passing interest in either of them even though he’d still been rock hard and aching from his all-too-brief interlude with the storm-eyed maid. “No, it was her. Something about her.”

He paced the length of the room again and paused beside the jeweled vanity set and the worn leather gardener’s journal Valik had removed from her skirts. Nothing about the girl made sense. Who was she? What was it about these trinkets that were so important? And what was that disturbing enchantment she’d cast over him?

“If the storm hadn’t crashed that tree branch through the window, I think I might have laid her down whether she willed it or no. Even with you in the room.” He cast a troubled glance at his friend as a new thought occurred. “Have I embraced the Ice Heart so long, I’ve become it?”

Valik’s furrowed brow smoothed. “No, Wyn,” he declared staunchly. “You might have swallowed the monster when you set out on this path, but it hasn’t consumed you yet. There’s still warmth in you. I’d know it if there wasn’t.” He clapped a hand on Wynter’s shoulder. “Forget the maid, and whatever witch’s trick she’s played on you. Claim your Summerlea bride. Breed your heir. When you hold your child in your arms, the Ice Heart will melt.”

Wynter nodded and took a deep breath. It was the longest speech Valik had made in months. And, as usual, he was right. Wynter was here to claim a royal wife and breed an heir—both for his kingdom and the one he’d spent the last three years conquering.

Fiery little maids—even dangerously enchanting ones—did not figure into his plans.

He would put her from his mind. Tomorrow, he would complete his conquest by taking one of the Seasons to wife, then he and half his army would depart. With a bit of luck and a lot of pleasurable effort, his princess would prove as fertile as she was beautiful, and he’d never set foot in Summerlea again.

Gravid, King Verdan’s steward, cast yet another disapproving glance at Khamsin’s appearance, sniffed. “His Majesty will see you now.” He nodded to the liveried footman attending the king’s office door. The footman pulled open the heavy, carved oak door and stood at attention as Newt and Khamsin passed.

They’d been forced to cool their heels in the outer chamber, waiting while the king concluded his meeting with General Furze and three lords Khamsin recognized as chief advisors of the king’s council. Khamsin had used the time to button up her dress and try to make herself more presentable. She would have liked to repin her hair, so as to avoid upsetting her father any more than necessary, but Gravid had no pins, and Newt had told him not to send a servant to fetch some. “Let her father see her as she is,” Newt had ordered.

Now, with her father’s dark, hot gaze searing her where she stood, Kham realized it made no difference anyways. Just the sight of her was offense enough to him.

Newt took every advantage to play it up, all but chortling with glee as she told him all about how she’d discovered the wayward princess acting in direct defiance of her father’s kingly will, making sure to put the worst possible spin on the entire sordid tale. “She was there, Sire, in the tower, bold as you please. Hair down, gown unbuttoned. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she was about.”

Khamsin glared at the Mistress of Servants. “I wasn’t there to seduce him and you know it, you foul-minded old bat! Tell the truth, if you’re capable.”

“Silence!” her father roared. He shot a hard look at Newt. “Leave us!” he snapped.

The woman’s face fell. She’d obviously been hoping to witness Kham’s disgrace and punishment. One hot glance from her king seared away any possible objection. She curtsied and backed rapidly out of the room.

Verdan waited for the door to shut behind her, then advanced upon his daughter, his dark eyes flashing. “Is it true? You went there to play whore to the enemy of this house?”