The Winter King
Page 37

His hands rose to cradle her neck, fingers curled just past her spine, thumbs resting lightly just below her chin. He forced as much gentleness as he could muster into his smile. “Surely, I gave you some pleasure?”
Her cheeks flushed a dusky rose, and she gave a muffled groan of embarrassment. “Please, Your Grace, this is unseemly.”
His brows shot up. She’d been no shrinking flower last night. She’d been pure enchantress, untutored but just as driven as he. Just as ravenous for him as he for her. “Unseemly? My queen, the women of my land would say ’tis far more unseemly had I taken my pleasure from you and given you none in return.” She tried to flee, but he caught her and held her fast. He thought—unkindly, it seemed, to make such a comparison—of the little maid who would have spat defiance in his eye rather than whimper as Autumn was now doing. Be still, Wyn, he chided himself. Forget that maid. She is none of your affair.
“Come now,” he told his reluctant wife. “You fled in the night, without cause that I can see, and now you say a man’s wish to pleasure his wife is unseemly? I know you Summerfolk are not so timid with your desires. Or is it the touch of a Winterman you cannot abide in the light of day?”
“No . . . it’s not that . . . it’s . . .”
“Then you will grant me a kiss, wife,” he interrupted in a tone that brooked no refusal, “and greet me as you should have done more properly at daybreak. In my bed. Where I left you last, and from whence you admit I gave you no cause to flee.”
His thumb traced her lip. He bent his head to hers. With a protesting squeak, she yanked free of his hand and turned her head so that his lips landed not on her mouth but on the high, flushed curve of her cheek. She pushed ineffectually against his chest, but he caught her hands and twined his fingers with hers.
Her scent wafted up to him, gardenias and herbs. Familiar . . . yet not. He frowned and leaned closer, inhaling, separating the scents, examining the flavor of them. Something was different . . . missing. She smelled plainer, less intoxicating than she had last night, and there was none of his own scent upon her. Had she spent the morning ridding herself of all traces of him?
He glanced at the fingers clasped in his own and the frown became an outright scowl. She’d removed his ring, the Wintercraig Star. What kindness he’d hoped to show her shriveled. Her fingers were bare, as if she thought that would undo the vows they had spoken and consummated. Icy rage flooded his veins.
“Not even one day wed, and already you try to deny me? You flee my bed, scrub my scent from your body, refuse my kiss, and now I see you have even discarded my ring? Is this how Summerlanders honor their word?” He glared, feeling the power surge within him, the cold anger gathering.
“Your Grace!” she exclaimed. “You’re freezing my hands!”
He released her with a snarl and thrust her from him. “We leave for Wintercraig within the hour. You will meet me in the bailey by ten o’clock. And when you come, my ring had best be back on your finger. Do you understand me, wife?” He was angry enough to be pleased at the way she blanched and nodded. “Do not defy me on this. I promise you will not like the consequences.”
The princess—his queen—clutched her throat with shaking, ringless hands and nodded again. Gritting his teeth against the cold rage burning inside him, he spun on his heel and stalked away.
“Oh, Storm, this was all a mistake. We must find a way to have the marriage annulled.” Distraught, her hair disheveled by the last several minutes of running wild fingers through it, Autumn looked more unsettled than Khamsin had ever seen her before.
“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.”