The Winter King
Page 49
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Scowling and muttering dire threats against her new husband, she hobbled over to one of the canvas camp chairs. With her back still raw and painful, she couldn’t even enjoy throwing herself down on the chair in an angry sulk. Instead, she sat with gingerly care and indulged herself with a black scowl that soon devolved to a self-pitying pout. Outside, threatening crashes of lightning subsided to distant, rumbling thunder and a surfeit of miserable, brooding rain.
True to his word, Wynter returned less than an hour later. Two men followed him through the tent flap, carrying covered trays. The Wintermen set the trays on a long folding table and lifted the lids to reveal hot beverages and an unfamiliar dish of some sort of stewed meat and vegetable. Aromatic wisps of steam wafted up from the plates, but what would normally have been appetizing aromas made Khamsin’s unsettled belly lurch. The men set two canvas camp chairs at the table, bowed to Wynter, and left.
Wynter waited in silence, his powerful arms crossed over his broad chest with deceptive indolence. His eyes gave lie to his calm façade. They were the cold, merciless eyes of a predator, unflinching and entirely focused on her. She could almost swear she saw magic gathering in their depths, and she knew his languid pose hid muscles poised to spring at the first sign of defiance.
Pride stiffened her spine. She swallowed her surge of nausea and forced herself to sit at the table. She’d told Wynter she would eat. She would not make a liar of herself.
After the briefest hesitation—was he so surprised she would honor her word?—his arms unfolded, and he took his own seat in a single, fluid motion.
She picked up her spoon, dipped it into the stew and raised it hesitantly to her lips. Her stomach lurched again, but she forced herself to open her mouth and eat. The first, tentative bite went down and, to her surprise, stayed down.
“Not too spicy for you, is it?” the Winter King asked, his pale eyes fixed on her.
“No . . . no, it’s fine.” It was true. The stew was flavorful without being overwhelming. It actually seemed to quiet the growling churn of her stomach. She waited a few minutes, then tried another bite. When that, too, stayed down, she ate another bite, then another, until half the bowl was gone. She stopped then even though she probably could have finished the bowl if she’d tried. The last few days had shrunk her belly, and she wasn’t foolish enough to gorge.
Pushing the bowl away, she sat back in her chair and cast a challenging look at Wynter, silently daring him to insist she continue. He eyed her dish, then tucked into his own without a word, leaving her defiance to fizzle.
Left with nothing to do but sit, she occupied herself by examining the stranger who less than twenty-four hours ago had become her husband. He’d changed out of his plate mail into brown woolen pants, a leather vest, and a full-sleeved, cream-colored shirt made from a thick, soft-looking material that shifted and flowed over his skin every time he moved. His long white hair streamed down his back like a snowfall. The hair at his temple had been gathered back in a silver cuff an inch or two above his ears and braided in three long, thin, silver-beaded braids that brushed across his cheeks as he bent his head to eat.
He was surprisingly graceful in his every move. Kingly. So much more than just brute force wrapped in a dangerously handsome package. Even his hands, so broad and so capable of destruction, moved with disarming grace and unexpected delicacy as they tore small chunks of bread from a still-warm loaf and handled slender silverware with deft ease.
She couldn’t help but recall the way those hands had moved over her, claiming without hesitation, drawing sensation after sensation from her untutored, arras-enflamed flesh, until she screamed for him to grant her release. Even now, just watching him spread melting butter on bread sent an unnerving flood of heat sweeping through her.
His nostrils flared, and he stilled for a betraying instant. His lashes lifted, ice blue eyes potent with awareness and a look that made her heart stutter in her chest.
“Hungry for something else, wife?” His voice dropped to a low, rumbling, throaty growl that made the hairs all over her body stand on end.
She drew a shaky breath and closed her eyes to free herself from the arcane magic of his gaze. “No, I couldn’t eat another bite,” she replied with deliberate obtuseness. “I’m very tired. All I need at the moment is sleep—uninterrupted sleep,” she added quickly. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was issuing an invitation. “On a bed that isn’t moving.”
He popped the morsel of bread in his mouth and drained his mug of mulled wine before rising and dusting off his hands. “Baroc!”
The tent flaps parted. The young soldier who’d been standing guard over Khamsin earlier stepped inside. “Your Grace?”
“Fetch the queen’s maid.”
“Aye, Your Grace.” The young Winterman bowed and backed out of the tent. Moments later, he returned, with Bella in tow.
Wide-eyed and openly terrified, the young maid looked ready to keel over if Wynter so much as frowned in her direction.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“B-Bella, Your M-Majesty.”
“It’s Your Grace, Bella, not Your Majesty, and your mistress is tired. Help ready her for bed. I understand those lamps will help her back heal, so light them all. We still have a long road ahead of us, and the sooner she is healed, the sooner we can increase our pace.” He glanced at Khamsin. “Will you be wanting a bath, my queen?”
The offer surprised her. It was a consideration she’d not expected from him. “No,” she murmured. “Thank you, I’m fine.”
True to his word, Wynter returned less than an hour later. Two men followed him through the tent flap, carrying covered trays. The Wintermen set the trays on a long folding table and lifted the lids to reveal hot beverages and an unfamiliar dish of some sort of stewed meat and vegetable. Aromatic wisps of steam wafted up from the plates, but what would normally have been appetizing aromas made Khamsin’s unsettled belly lurch. The men set two canvas camp chairs at the table, bowed to Wynter, and left.
Wynter waited in silence, his powerful arms crossed over his broad chest with deceptive indolence. His eyes gave lie to his calm façade. They were the cold, merciless eyes of a predator, unflinching and entirely focused on her. She could almost swear she saw magic gathering in their depths, and she knew his languid pose hid muscles poised to spring at the first sign of defiance.
Pride stiffened her spine. She swallowed her surge of nausea and forced herself to sit at the table. She’d told Wynter she would eat. She would not make a liar of herself.
After the briefest hesitation—was he so surprised she would honor her word?—his arms unfolded, and he took his own seat in a single, fluid motion.
She picked up her spoon, dipped it into the stew and raised it hesitantly to her lips. Her stomach lurched again, but she forced herself to open her mouth and eat. The first, tentative bite went down and, to her surprise, stayed down.
“Not too spicy for you, is it?” the Winter King asked, his pale eyes fixed on her.
“No . . . no, it’s fine.” It was true. The stew was flavorful without being overwhelming. It actually seemed to quiet the growling churn of her stomach. She waited a few minutes, then tried another bite. When that, too, stayed down, she ate another bite, then another, until half the bowl was gone. She stopped then even though she probably could have finished the bowl if she’d tried. The last few days had shrunk her belly, and she wasn’t foolish enough to gorge.
Pushing the bowl away, she sat back in her chair and cast a challenging look at Wynter, silently daring him to insist she continue. He eyed her dish, then tucked into his own without a word, leaving her defiance to fizzle.
Left with nothing to do but sit, she occupied herself by examining the stranger who less than twenty-four hours ago had become her husband. He’d changed out of his plate mail into brown woolen pants, a leather vest, and a full-sleeved, cream-colored shirt made from a thick, soft-looking material that shifted and flowed over his skin every time he moved. His long white hair streamed down his back like a snowfall. The hair at his temple had been gathered back in a silver cuff an inch or two above his ears and braided in three long, thin, silver-beaded braids that brushed across his cheeks as he bent his head to eat.
He was surprisingly graceful in his every move. Kingly. So much more than just brute force wrapped in a dangerously handsome package. Even his hands, so broad and so capable of destruction, moved with disarming grace and unexpected delicacy as they tore small chunks of bread from a still-warm loaf and handled slender silverware with deft ease.
She couldn’t help but recall the way those hands had moved over her, claiming without hesitation, drawing sensation after sensation from her untutored, arras-enflamed flesh, until she screamed for him to grant her release. Even now, just watching him spread melting butter on bread sent an unnerving flood of heat sweeping through her.
His nostrils flared, and he stilled for a betraying instant. His lashes lifted, ice blue eyes potent with awareness and a look that made her heart stutter in her chest.
“Hungry for something else, wife?” His voice dropped to a low, rumbling, throaty growl that made the hairs all over her body stand on end.
She drew a shaky breath and closed her eyes to free herself from the arcane magic of his gaze. “No, I couldn’t eat another bite,” she replied with deliberate obtuseness. “I’m very tired. All I need at the moment is sleep—uninterrupted sleep,” she added quickly. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was issuing an invitation. “On a bed that isn’t moving.”
He popped the morsel of bread in his mouth and drained his mug of mulled wine before rising and dusting off his hands. “Baroc!”
The tent flaps parted. The young soldier who’d been standing guard over Khamsin earlier stepped inside. “Your Grace?”
“Fetch the queen’s maid.”
“Aye, Your Grace.” The young Winterman bowed and backed out of the tent. Moments later, he returned, with Bella in tow.
Wide-eyed and openly terrified, the young maid looked ready to keel over if Wynter so much as frowned in her direction.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“B-Bella, Your M-Majesty.”
“It’s Your Grace, Bella, not Your Majesty, and your mistress is tired. Help ready her for bed. I understand those lamps will help her back heal, so light them all. We still have a long road ahead of us, and the sooner she is healed, the sooner we can increase our pace.” He glanced at Khamsin. “Will you be wanting a bath, my queen?”
The offer surprised her. It was a consideration she’d not expected from him. “No,” she murmured. “Thank you, I’m fine.”
