Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  She dared to consider the state of her attire as she tried with all her might to prevent any creature who bore witness to this travesty from viewing a glimpse of her white stockings. The high neckline of her gown allowed her modesty to remain, though he touched her in the most inappropriate places, she may as well have been nude before them all.

  "I will personally castrate you for this."

  "Oh," he said with mock devastation. "That would be most unfortunate for you." There came next a sensation at her feet, fingers turning it this way and that. "You've very loose ankles."

  "And you have a loose tongue and will find yourself with more than that once the prince hears of this!"

  "Do you intend to do that often? Lay your troubles upon the prince? I hear he likes that sort of thing."

  It would not surprise her, knowing what she did of the tastes of the men in that family. She supposed Prince Rhenan enjoying dealing with any troubles she had was rather innocent in comparison to the preferences of his brother.

  "He'll like you much better when you're a head shorter. Now, again, unhand me!"

  "Mmmm...no."

  She felt herself shift in his hold and a small turn of her neck revealed a great black steed standing at the front of the surrounding men. Waiting.

  When the man set her upon her feet beside the animal, his hands remained upon her waist in the most undignified fashion, his gaze cast down to her. "Now am I going to have to tie those hands of yours or will you behave on the journey?"

  "There will be no journey." She eyed his hand and tensed beneath it. It was alien, a weight that was entirely unnatural and should not be there. No one should touch her there. No one had a right. "Remove. Your. Hand."

  His grip seemed only to tighten, followed by a strange sound that could be considered one of smug pleasure. "I. Will. Not."

  As he was fond, she found her feet once more removed from the ground as he practically tossed her upon the saddleless steed, her legs dangled over one side, robe skirt slightly rumpled—only to feel his heat press in a moment later as he straddled the beast, encasing her with his arms as he took the reins flowing from either side the horse.

  The rumble from the beast beneath reminded her just how much she loathed riding. She could abide horses, though never took to the art of riding well. Realistically, there were two options. She could either attempt to struggle and throw herself from the rather great height. Bones would be broken, possibly her neck. It would lend to the sin of suicide most likely. The second option was one she dreaded but was ultimately the better of the two. Begrudgingly, and she shot the man a glance to ensure that he knew how displeased she was by the prospect, she gripped his arm with iron strength.

  "This is a necessity."

  Again, she felt rather than saw the smile of triumph on his lips. "Of course."

  Without further meandering, the horse and half the man's forces propelled themselves along a veering path that led east of the castle, her men and carriage left behind to the mercy of the remaining horsemen.

  *****

  They came to a halt upon what was but open field for acres and acres, slopes rising and falling along the painted line of the setting summer sun and filaments of cloud residue etched off far into the horizon. Planted as a centrepiece of sorts, was a manor both large and modest, elegant and regal, which was no surprise seeing as Thornhall's royal castle was not too far in the distance, if only not for the divisive rise of a treeline shuffling the home off into a rather reclusive setting.

  The man at her side, riding surely and quickly, had been talkative from the beginning, until the end. And even beyond that, for even now he carried on with enquiring upon what could only be defined as mundane things as those around them dismounted.

  "Is your tongue always so stiff with words? Do you never find yourself ready to burst with a succession of angry, naughty words? Why do you constantly cradle your necklace? Did you know, I've a necklace very similar to that there, though mine's not nearly as intricate and shiny. I'm sure you've interest in things like that, so I'll—"

  "You know, I think you've talked about this before."

  She had drifted in and out of taking note of what he said. Even talk of the Sirista, which was brief and vague, was deemed to be an exhausting topic. The lashes would relieve her of such thoughts and her sorrow would be expressed to God in time.

  "Do you know I think it would be an excellent idea if you did slit my throat or relieve my neck of the company of my head?"

  As though she were a child who knew naught what she spoke, he gave two pats on her back and a soft chuckle. "Do not be silly. I like your head where it is. Not that I can see much of it underneath this...what is this thing again?" He started to lift the black veil which cascaded down from her head, her nape and slightly flaring over her shoulder, but with greater speed than she believed herself capable, she swung her elbow backwards to what she presumed was the centre of his torso and received a gratifying ooofff.

  "If you dare move another inch you shall be charged with rape."

  His hand fell away immediately. "Women. I may never understand your ways. Though, at least now I see what unpleasant a feeling that is, to have such a term so near to your name. Consider me apologetic, Tristian."

  The mention of the crown prince gave her pause. She turned to the stranger encasing her.

  He sighed and reached up, removing the mask to reveal a visage startlingly similar to that of Prince Tristian.

  She had thought this man a fool to dare abduct the future wife of Prince Rhenan. He had not quite the status of his brother, but as Prince Rhenan's bride, she carried enough gravitas with her name to make up for that. No man would be foolish enough to accost a convoy she travelled in. Not a single man was harmed and there was laughter all around, at least on his side. The one man who would dare to cross a prince, was the man himself. It was quite clear who the fool was here.

  "I will still castrate you."

  The force of his laughter shook the both of them, his smile large as he hopped down from his steed and presented to her his hand of assistance. "You would be upsetting quite a few powerful people. And someday, you—my future wife—may come to regret it yourself."

  "You are the worst jester in the land."

  She took his hand only to free herself from the beast who continued to grunt and shuffle in a manner that was verging upon unsettling. Once she was standing, she snatched her hand from his and paced several yards away from the steed.

  "Never put me on that thing again."

  The man's face fell in a statement of sadness, his eyes turning on the horse. "Kanter? But he's my best friend. If you're to be my wife, the three of us must all get along." He began to stroke the thing's hair. "Besides, I think he likes you."

  "If you would rather marry that thing you will hear no objection from me."

  "Only your uncle," he muttered. But then brightened, lopping over to her with dangerously energetic eyes that perhaps she should have pieced together prior had it not been for the bustle of confusion. He took both her hands at once, towering, looming, his eyes boring down into hers with abrupt intensity. "This is our marital home. It was all a surprise for you, a hearty memory for those around. All was explained to your men. Surely there will be forgiveness and a lack of worry, for they know now you're with one who can assure you protection for the rest of your days. That is, if the Lady Constance will not turn me over to the council to have me tried for assault."

  She had never taken well to surprises for she could not plan ahead of time. Prince Tristian's visit had come as a surprise, as had the arrangement of her marriage to the man before her. This ought to have been a good surprise, she supposed, if she was a woman of a simpler mind. A dolt, or a girl who swooned at the sight of Prince Rhenan. She did not possess want or ability to do so, and simply stared up at him appearing not at all impressed.

  "I do not take well to being deceived. This was a foolish stunt and one I am certain your brother would never have pulled. Though, a
las, while it has damaged my reputation and has provided me with a day of unwanted excitement, it has not offended the will and law of God as much as your brother's exploits."

  Remembering herself, she snatched her hands away and gazed at the structure, finding it to appear pleasant on the outside, though the interior would require some serious inspection. "Please show me inside. I wish to visit the chapel."

  For a moment, he appeared set to dampen in mood, his smile wavering, the glow in his gaze flickering, but if anything, something inside of him steeled, his enthusiasm seemingly multiplying. "Do not deceive, noted! Do not beset foolish stunts, absolutely! Lead his fair lady through a home that is her own, why, most definitely."

  Somehow, despite her having just removed it from his possession, her hand was in his grasp yet again, and underneath the vocal encouragement of his rowdy men, he tugged her reluctant form forward, asking along the way, "Ah yes, did I tell you, I have a necklace awfully similar to that upon your neck?"

  27

  ~ TRISTIAN ~

  His stomach rumbled for the fourth time that night. Occupying the castle's parlour now that the Summer Exposition had concluded until sunrise, he and Astrid were gathered amongst the irksome entities that were called Jocelyn and Bethan. The drapes of each high scaled window had been pulled, the venue stands ushered off to the rear of the room, and the dangling chandeliers and wall sconces lit to bring about a mute, bronze burn of light all throughout the room. A copper filter which seemed to sink into his very bones, inflict an additional atmosphere of dejection and starvation.

  Starvation—what his sisters were intent on subjecting him to for the rest of the night while the four of them went over rehearsals for the steadily approaching wedding.

  "You need only my betrothed. Why must I attend this inconvenient time consumption as well?"

  It was not as though there were convoluted formalities that could easily slip the mind—not after having it twisted into his skull by both his sisters and mother and even his father at times. And he was the groom. No one paid mind to the male outside of a brief glance at attire, of which he gazed over pointedly just then.

  A black cloak fell down his shoulders. There was a finest to it, a softness so plush and thick to the touch, one could become lost and mistaken it for spilled lacquer. The material's lining was a resplendent gold that threw light back to the singed amber source. Beneath the cloak, a belted tunic stopped just above his knees, its split starting from the torso and dripping with more gold, though splatters of red fibre meshed with its allure. The pants were no step above basic creativity, though excelled in the fact that its cost was the exact reason royal weddings drained finances. The boots of which the seams were tucked and tied into left a knotted lace on either calf. A lace he picked at as he sat on the arm of his father's observation chair, one foot propped on the lip of the horsehair cushions and fox furs.

  This was what he was destined to wear for an entire evening (and likely night) on the day of the wedding. But rather than apply mercy where it was most certainly due, he was subjected to watching as the females had their way with both him and Astrid.

  "Besides," he continued as he turned his gaze the slightest to his betrothed. "She actually wants to be here. She needs to be here. I've other things to attend."

  It came as little surprise when Jocelyn was the sister who stared at him as sharp as a hawk, while Beth simply appeared as bored as he felt. "You both need to be here. Stop whining like a girl."

  From beside him Astrid shifted and gave his assaulting sister a quick, nervous glance. His female was adorned in fine layers of material, the main block of colour an ice blue that paid emphasis to her clear gaze. Her bust was subtly emphasised by the ties beneath it, which served to hold the long drape of material that glided over her growing middle. A train of around six feet trailed behind her, of which she had already expressed anxiety over the risk of her tripping to which she had been assured by all around her that it would not happen. Little flowers of every bright shade, which she had informed him were much to her liking, framed the hems and drifted down her skirt in weaving lines of emerald and sage stems.

  "We explained that you need to lead her. It has to be perfect. Your position influences hers. We cannot have her slouching Tristian," Jocelyn said as she fluttered around the place as if she was the commanding force occupying the room. "And she is slouching."

  He put forth a great effort to rein back an unprincely grunt of frustration, tossing his assessing look to the young girl who stood centre room, appearing perfectly straight to him. "You may as well have Mama discard these clothing and dress me in blankets if she's to lean and sleep on me the entire way down the nave!"

  "Well you better think fast Tristian because not even Mama can save you from people noticing that she is expecting!"

  Astrid gasped and slid her gaze to him, most likely on the verge of another panic. "Princess Jocelyn, y-you told me to eat—"

  "Yes and you've said that plenty of times. You need to make it less obvious."

  When his bride continued to look in his direction and appeared completely without a clue as to how they would see it done, he sighed inwardly.

  "How big is her posy Tristian?" Jocelyn asked him next.

  He all but slid into the chair now, sharp glare afforded his sister. "Big enough. Though not obnoxiously so, like your reign over all of this." He had spoken only briefly to the garden guild artisans, who'd been all too eager to offer one set of flowers, to the next, consulting with him as though he would have a mind to select anything beyond the first thing offered. But upon recalling Astrid's fondness to lavender shades, he'd selected the set which had been quaint and reasonable.

  "Do you remember that it's important you watch your tongue, hmm? Remember, Tris?" His sister sneered while Astrid appeared even more uncomfortable and Bethan simply glanced over.

  "Prince Tristian is just describing my p-posy," Astrid stated quickly, coming to his defence when he did not require it of her.

  "Hmm, Tris?" Jocelyn probed, ignoring the girl. "Tris, Tris, Tris!"

  Tristian relieved the queen's seat beside him of one of its furs, wadding it up and flinging it across the room at the lousy excuse of a sibling. "What are you, five, Jocelyn?" Yet he was standing, unwillingly to have this hag of a female announce anything that might compromise his image before his bride and youngest sister.

  Crossing the floors to Astrid, he took his place beside her, offered the dark-sleeved arm for her to grasp. "Pay no mind to her sudden outbursts. My mother dropped her various times as a child." The thought freed him the slightest of his ire, even managing to bring a small smile to his lips, those which he closed near her ear. "Similar to you, she's afflicted with a need for repetition. But none were willing to fix her. It's sad, isn't it?"

  Her lips quirked into a smile of her own and just as she was about to part lips to speak, they received a round of applause from Bethan.

  "That look. You've both got that look about you. That's how you need to appear. Tris, do not be rough with her, but carry her gently like you're one of those fancy lovers from those soppy tales."

  "Now you are encouraging that they act like they married for love?"

  The giggles from the girl upon his arm were quite clear as Bethan sighed. "Well they didn't do it the other way."

  Their sounds of merriment sent his spine straight. Their words pried free a glower from him. "I'm most certain you'll not haggle our brother the way you are me." Their brother who, instead of slaving over which posture to uphold while walking a straight line—which in truth, he needed more training for than Tristian—he'd spent his day engaging in a foolish tradition unfit for one such as Lady Constance, and was now off in his new home which may as well have floated down from the sky, no doubt drinking in her holy presence and seeing two of her.

  "Yes, that's because this is the wedding of the future king and queen. Its origins are shrouded in deviancy and it is circulating a lot of gossip. You need to be perfect, otherwise i
t'll get much worse," stated Jocelyn.

  At his side, Astrid's grip of his arm firmed, a pressure padded through his clothing, though not with the painful bite of nails, and surprisingly not unpleasant.

  "And what are you going to do about the blood on the sheets, Tris?"

  This time Astrid did dig her nails in, as Bethan appeared to regard Jocelyn's question awkwardly.

  "Fortunately, that is no concern of yours. Your job is to assist here, now and do so without that irate sobriquet, for it is not my name."

  "Yes but they will want to know her virginity has been taken."

  Astrid sniffed. "I-it has."

  Jocelyn threw her arms to the heavens in frustration. "Yes, we know that. We need to think of where best to cut you. You need to bleed."

  "Not my belly."

  "Of course not, you little idiot." She turned to him and shook her head, brandishing a finger and shaking it in the direction of Astrid. "She has almost as few brains as you. I'll ask you again, what are you going to do about the sheets?"

  The temperature within him rose, as that around him dropped. Perhaps he'd been right to say his mother had accidentally dropped this female one too many times during her infancy to equip her with such a fine armoured audacity. At first, as the day had turned to night and he'd strolled across the parlour with his bride at his side for just shy of fifty times, he had done so out of a small desire to see the wedding proceed with a flawless execution. And partly because, no matter his level of complaining, there was a vague pleasure to be had in seeing those around him in high spirits, even if at the cost of his own, for he seldom cared enough to entertain Jocelyn's quips when there were other matters occupying his mind. Such as watching the tranquil serenity washing over his bride's features as she had assessed the colour schemes of the clothes and flowers and ribbons.