The Winter King
Page 85
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Lady Melle’s mouth quirked in a deprecating smile. “I’m too old to chase around with her hither and yon, and the ladies, forgive me, fear her magic and frankly haven’t warmed up to the poor thing any more than she has to them.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“I wish I did. I’ve been racking my brain. I was going to speak to Barsul about it tonight, see if he could suggest anyone.”
“I’ll think on it. Thank you, Lady Melle.” Wynter stood up, signaling an end to the meeting.
Lady Melle rose and headed for the door, then paused when she reached it. “I like her, Wynter. I like her quite a lot, and I didn’t expect to. Yes, she has a temper—and a hard time keeping it contained—but there’s also a kindness in her, and a great deal of loneliness. I don’t think she’s the threat Valik believes her to be. You really should spend more time with her.”
“Thank you, Lady Melle,” Wynter said again, his voice polite, his gaze deliberately noncommittal.
Lady Melle sighed and let herself out.
The freezing rain and snow continued to fall all day. Wynter left his office early to share dinner with the court, but Khamsin’s chair remained conspicuously empty.
“I’m so sorry about the queen’s ill health at today’s luncheon,” Reika said, as the servants carried trays of fragrant fish dishes around the table. “Valik told me she didn’t travel well, but I would never have thought her fragile stomach extended to mealtimes. We Winterfolk are such a hardy lot.” With a smile, she turned to help herself to a serving of broiled mackerel. “I do hope the coming winter won’t be too difficult for her constitution.”
Though spoken with solicitous concern, Reika’s remark somehow managed to make it sound like Khamsin was a weakling who didn’t measure up to the rigorous demands of life in Wintercraig. The implication didn’t sit well with Wynter.
“She is much stronger than those who don’t know her might think,” he replied. “But thank you for your concern, Lady Villani. You remind me that I should go check on my wife.” Reika gaped at him as he tossed his napkin on the table and stood. “If you will excuse me.”
Wynter strode out of the dining hall and took the stairs three at a time. When he reached the wing that housed his and Khamsin’s chambers, he didn’t bother with his usual habit of accessing Khamsin’s bedchamber through the connecting door between their rooms. Instead, he went straight through the main doors to her suite, startling her little maid, whom he dismissed with a curt command and a sharp wave of his hand.
He found Khamsin sitting on her balcony, wet clothes plastered to her body, her skin ice-cold. He didn’t need to ask how she was feeling. Her battered emotions were all too obvious as they played out across the stormy night sky. No cracks of lightning or wild winds tonight. Just heavy clouds and wet, falling snow. She didn’t even put up a fight when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her back inside.
Because he’d dismissed her maid, Wynter tended to her needs himself, stripping her of her sodden garments, toweling her dry with soft cloths from her bathing chamber, lowering a fine, fragrant linen gown over her head. Through it all, she stood unnaturally still and docile, without a single toss of her head or rebellious flash in her eyes. When he was done, she climbed into bed and looked at him with dull eyes.
“Will you be coming to bed, Your Grace?”
He wanted to howl. She wasn’t some spineless, timid lass. She was Khamsin—Storm—full of fire and defiance and strong, reckless, stubborn will. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed her wildness, her vitality, or how much he looked forward to seeing it every night.
“No,” he said. “You’ve been ill. You should get your rest.”
She didn’t toss her head and remind him of his need for an heir or her motivation to provide him one. She merely looked at him for one long moment, then lay down on her side, her back to him, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders.
She looked so small and alone in her vast bed.
Valik would warn him to harden his heart, that she was manipulating him. But Wynter knew from the top-floor maids that Kham had spent the entire morning locked in one of the unused bedrooms upstairs, crying. Hiding her vulnerability as she always did.
It alarmed him that she wasn’t hiding it now, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving her tonight would be a mistake.
Trusting his instincts, Wyn walked to the other side of the bed, shed his clothes, then climbed into the bed beside his wife. He expected her to turn to him, but she didn’t.
Instead, her back still to him, she said, “I thought you weren’t going to stay.”
Her voice sounded different. Thicker.
She was still hiding her vulnerability, after all.
He reached for her, easily conquering her slight resistance as he turned her over to face him. She wouldn’t look at him, damp, spiky lashes hiding her eyes.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Gently, as if she were fragile crystal that would shatter at the slightest pressure, he touched his lips to her eyes, nuzzling away her tears, then brushed soft, lingering kisses across her cheeks until her slender arm twined around his neck, and she lifted her mouth to his.
They didn’t speak. They simply loved in silence, letting their hands, their lips, their bodies speak for them. Long, lingering caresses. Tender, healing kisses. The slow, steady glide of bodies moving together in wordless communion.
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“I wish I did. I’ve been racking my brain. I was going to speak to Barsul about it tonight, see if he could suggest anyone.”
“I’ll think on it. Thank you, Lady Melle.” Wynter stood up, signaling an end to the meeting.
Lady Melle rose and headed for the door, then paused when she reached it. “I like her, Wynter. I like her quite a lot, and I didn’t expect to. Yes, she has a temper—and a hard time keeping it contained—but there’s also a kindness in her, and a great deal of loneliness. I don’t think she’s the threat Valik believes her to be. You really should spend more time with her.”
“Thank you, Lady Melle,” Wynter said again, his voice polite, his gaze deliberately noncommittal.
Lady Melle sighed and let herself out.
The freezing rain and snow continued to fall all day. Wynter left his office early to share dinner with the court, but Khamsin’s chair remained conspicuously empty.
“I’m so sorry about the queen’s ill health at today’s luncheon,” Reika said, as the servants carried trays of fragrant fish dishes around the table. “Valik told me she didn’t travel well, but I would never have thought her fragile stomach extended to mealtimes. We Winterfolk are such a hardy lot.” With a smile, she turned to help herself to a serving of broiled mackerel. “I do hope the coming winter won’t be too difficult for her constitution.”
Though spoken with solicitous concern, Reika’s remark somehow managed to make it sound like Khamsin was a weakling who didn’t measure up to the rigorous demands of life in Wintercraig. The implication didn’t sit well with Wynter.
“She is much stronger than those who don’t know her might think,” he replied. “But thank you for your concern, Lady Villani. You remind me that I should go check on my wife.” Reika gaped at him as he tossed his napkin on the table and stood. “If you will excuse me.”
Wynter strode out of the dining hall and took the stairs three at a time. When he reached the wing that housed his and Khamsin’s chambers, he didn’t bother with his usual habit of accessing Khamsin’s bedchamber through the connecting door between their rooms. Instead, he went straight through the main doors to her suite, startling her little maid, whom he dismissed with a curt command and a sharp wave of his hand.
He found Khamsin sitting on her balcony, wet clothes plastered to her body, her skin ice-cold. He didn’t need to ask how she was feeling. Her battered emotions were all too obvious as they played out across the stormy night sky. No cracks of lightning or wild winds tonight. Just heavy clouds and wet, falling snow. She didn’t even put up a fight when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her back inside.
Because he’d dismissed her maid, Wynter tended to her needs himself, stripping her of her sodden garments, toweling her dry with soft cloths from her bathing chamber, lowering a fine, fragrant linen gown over her head. Through it all, she stood unnaturally still and docile, without a single toss of her head or rebellious flash in her eyes. When he was done, she climbed into bed and looked at him with dull eyes.
“Will you be coming to bed, Your Grace?”
He wanted to howl. She wasn’t some spineless, timid lass. She was Khamsin—Storm—full of fire and defiance and strong, reckless, stubborn will. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed her wildness, her vitality, or how much he looked forward to seeing it every night.
“No,” he said. “You’ve been ill. You should get your rest.”
She didn’t toss her head and remind him of his need for an heir or her motivation to provide him one. She merely looked at him for one long moment, then lay down on her side, her back to him, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders.
She looked so small and alone in her vast bed.
Valik would warn him to harden his heart, that she was manipulating him. But Wynter knew from the top-floor maids that Kham had spent the entire morning locked in one of the unused bedrooms upstairs, crying. Hiding her vulnerability as she always did.
It alarmed him that she wasn’t hiding it now, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving her tonight would be a mistake.
Trusting his instincts, Wyn walked to the other side of the bed, shed his clothes, then climbed into the bed beside his wife. He expected her to turn to him, but she didn’t.
Instead, her back still to him, she said, “I thought you weren’t going to stay.”
Her voice sounded different. Thicker.
She was still hiding her vulnerability, after all.
He reached for her, easily conquering her slight resistance as he turned her over to face him. She wouldn’t look at him, damp, spiky lashes hiding her eyes.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Gently, as if she were fragile crystal that would shatter at the slightest pressure, he touched his lips to her eyes, nuzzling away her tears, then brushed soft, lingering kisses across her cheeks until her slender arm twined around his neck, and she lifted her mouth to his.
They didn’t speak. They simply loved in silence, letting their hands, their lips, their bodies speak for them. Long, lingering caresses. Tender, healing kisses. The slow, steady glide of bodies moving together in wordless communion.
