by Elise Marion
Isabelle sucked in a sharp breath, her pulse leaping at the thought. It was something she’d never considered, but might be inevitable. Her parents had been murdered right outside the gates of the keep, after all, dragged out by the rebel forces and beheaded.
“How likely do you think that is?”
“Anything is possible, Your Highness. I want you to be prepared if someone should attack while we are away.”
Nodding, she gestured for him to lead the way. “Show me.”
He led her out of the dining room and back to the main hall, then down another long, winding corridor to the massive ballroom situated near the back of the castle. Isabelle wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. This part of the castle was chilly and dark when not in use.
On the edge of the ballroom stood another door leading to a staging area of sorts. When Primus had taken her and Serge on a tour of Guthrie Hall, he had explained that this room was used for entertainers who were invited to perform for the royal court.
He ushered her into the room, leaving the door ajar to let in the light streaming through the ballroom windows.
“This is one of Guthrie Hall’s best kept secrets,” he said, gesturing toward a door at the far end of the room. “You are one of only a handful of people who know about it.”
Primus swung the panel inward and stood aside to allow her entrance. It was almost pitch black inside, forcing her to squint and allow her eyes to adjust before she realized she stood in a large cave. Taking a torch down from the wall, he lit it and held it up before them.
“Your ancestors built Guthrie Hall into the side of a mountain because they knew it would offer a defensive advantage in times of war. It is one of the reasons the rebels have not attacked here since the siege resulting in the death of your parents. This is the place Gayle and your bodyguards were sent to keep you safe. The king and queen planned to join you, but did not make it in time.”
Isabelle inspected the walls and high ceilings of the massive cave with wide eyes. “How many people do you think could fit in here?”
“Several hundred,” Primus said with confidence. “That is why I’ve shown it to you. Should things become dangerous, we will send women and children to Guthrie Hall to take shelter. It will be up to you to take them in, Your Highness. Shelter them, keep them safe, and if it becomes necessary, retreat into this cave and hope for the best.”
“Do you think we can spare some of the supplies that were brought from Cardenas?” she asked, still turning in a slow circle to fully absorb her surroundings.
“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
Isabelle smiled, tapping a finger against her chin. “Well, I’m hoping we never have to use this cave. Of course, we should be prepared for any eventuality. I’m thinking it would be a good idea to fully stock it with supplies in the event that we are trapped inside for several days.”
A charming smile flashed across his handsome face as he led her from the chilly cave. He put out the torch, hanging it back on the wall before closing the door. They began the walk back through the ballroom.
“An excellent idea,” he said.
Isabelle nodded, her mind already preoccupied as she talked aloud, mostly to herself. “We’ll need food, of course … medical supplies, blankets, wood for fires, toys for the children in case they become restless.”
Primus chuckled as they neared the main hall. “You put me in mind of your mother with your flair for planning, Your Highness. She was always making lists and arranging things, her mind attuned to the finer details. You are like her in so many ways.”
She turned to him with a smile. “I won’t let you down, Primus. We will be fully prepared for any possibility.”
Primus opened his mouth to respond, but they were interrupted by the sound of another voice.
“Lord Burnham, don’t you have something productive you could be doing elsewhere?”
Both their heads swiveled toward the large double doors where Serge had just come in from the courtyard. His eyes were narrow, blue daggers pointed directly at the grand vizier.
“Isabelle, a word,” he snapped, walking past them and toward the nearest drawing room. She supposed he expected for her to follow.
Primus made a hasty retreat, leaving her with no choice but to follow her husband, embarrassment and annoyance heating her face. Once she was inside, Serge slammed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock so they would not be disturbed.
He turned to her with a menacing gleam in his eye. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
Her jaw dropped in shock. Was he angry with her for talking to Primus, or for some other slight she was not aware of?
“I’m sorry, I do not know what you mean,” she hedged.
“I saw the two of you coming from the rear of the castle. No one ever goes back there unless something is happening in the ballroom. What were you doing?”
Isabelle couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in her throat. The sound only served to further anger Serge, who was closing the distance between them rapidly.
“You have been ignoring me for a week, Serge. What a convenient time for you to start caring.”
He stopped in front of her, piercing her with his sharp gaze. Isabelle felt a tiny tremor roll down her spine at the savage heat she found in his eyes. He was jealous, she realized. He might still be angry with her for the things she’d said, but seeing her in another man’s company—even innocently—had thrown him into a fit of jealousy.
“Where were you?” he asked, his voice low but threatening. “I want the truth.”
“He was merely showing me the secret cave,” she snapped, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Something you neglected to do. At least someone had the foresight to show me what to do in the event of an attack.”
“Your bodyguards have been given instructions, and already knew about the cave. Do you think I hadn’t already thought of that? Primus knew this. He was just using it as an excuse to get you off alone.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed.
“I want to know what happened. If he’s laid a hand on you, so help me I’ll—”
He was cut short by Isabelle’s palm across his cheek, her palm tingling in response to the impact. Silence stretched between them as rage contorted his features. His cheek flamed red where she had left her handprint, the rest of his face flushing with rage to match. Instead of the remorse that should have been coursing through her, all Isabelle could conjure was defiance.
“How dare you accuse me of behaving improperly?” she hissed. “You may not think much of me, but I am not an unfaithful wife.”
Anger melted away as he closed the distance between them, desire flaring up to replace it. Despite her assault, he wanted her, a predatory gleam flaring in his eyes as he reached out to take hold of her. He pulled her against his body, wrapping both arms tight around her and lifting until her feet came off the floor.
“What are you doing?” she screeched, thrashing in his hold, but failing to free herself.
“Reminding you who you belong to,” he replied while carrying her toward a chaise lounge resting in the corner of the room.
He dropped her onto it before coming down on top of her, his legs on either side of the narrow seat. Her protests melted away as he leaned down—hands braced on either side of her head—and captured her mouth with his.
Despite her anger, her body responded in an instant. As he kissed her, fury gave in to something else entirely, and her arms wrapped around his neck in acquiescence. He grasped her calves and skimmed upward, taking her skirts up in the process. His hands continued their journey until roving over her garters and coming in contact with the bare skin of her thighs.
Isabelle gasped, then moaned against his lips, as his hand moved between her legs. He cupped her and stroked, teasing her with his fingers as his mouth continued its assault on hers. She felt her lip swelling, tingling from the pressure of his, but she gave as good as she got, raising her head
to kiss him back and offer him her tongue. One hand still occupied, he used the other to grasp her wrist. With a rough jerk, he pressed her palm to the hard bulge in his trousers. His gaze met hers, issuing a silent but firm command.
Overcome by the friction of his fingers against her core, she obeyed him without second thought, tearing at the buttons with shaky fingers. When she finally managed to open his trousers the rigid length of him, engorged with rampant want, fell into her palm. She gasped in protest when he removed his hand from her throbbing center, but was silenced when he gripped both of her legs beneath the knee and pulled her up against his hard, hot shaft until she could feel him pulsating against her.
“Open your eyes,” he demanded, pausing at the slick, velvety entrance to her core. “I want you to look at me. Look at me and remember that I am your husband and you are mine … nothing will change that.”
She gazed up at him, captivated by the determination and steel in his cerulean gaze. He was beautiful, even with the scar standing out harshly amongst his chiseled features, even with jealousy and possessiveness emanating from his eyes. With one sure stroke, he filled her, the power of it jostling her on the bench and forcing a gasp from deep within her.
He did not have to say with words what his eyes declared as he lifted her hips from the bench and thrust with steady, ruthless strokes. She did not have to love him, but she was his—by the law, but most importantly by this unspoken thing that threaded between them, burning hot whenever they came together. She couldn’t deny it if she tried.
The bench shifted and rocked beneath them, but he only increased the rhythm of his thrusts, seeming determined to drive himself as deep into her as humanly possible. Isabelle held on for dear life and matched his rhythm with her own, their bodies colliding as the flame that had been struck with her slap increased to an all-consuming inferno.
Her gaze remained locked with his as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, and she forgot everything else that had preceded this moment. She forgot her anger over his callous treatment, and his hurt over her untimely words. He was only doing this to teach her a lesson, to remind her that even if he did not possess her heart, he still owned everything else. Yet, she could not find the mental strength to care when he lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, allowing him to penetrate her even deeper and touch parts of her that sent pleasure to the farthest reaches of her body. He braced himself with his arms, never losing the timing of the rhythm he’d created. Every precise plunge caused vibrations to ripple out from her center.
His head lowered once more, and he captured her mouth with his to muffle her cries as euphoria mingled with rapture washed over her in waves so intense she thought she would shatter from the pleasure of it. Her hands came up to tangle in his loose hair as he plunged one last time and crested over the edge with her.
They clung to each other while riding the swell of climax, Isabelle coming down first, and Serge following with a grunt and the hot splash of his seed. She tried to keep him close, her breath racing as she held onto him and wished they could remain in the moment instead of returning to anger and strife.
But he was already pulling away from her, yanking up his smallclothes and trousers before standing and adjusting the rest of his rumpled clothes.
Isabelle remained where he’d left her, half-lying on the bench, legs dangling over the sides, skirts and petticoat bunched up around her hips. When Serge glanced down at her pointedly, she struggled to stand as well, shoving her dress down as she did so. By the time her skirts hit the floor, he was gone, the door to the drawing room clicking shut behind him.
Chapter 14
After Serge had left her on the chaise in the drawing room, still throbbing between her legs, he’d thrown himself back into preparing to leave. They did not speak again for the rest of the day.
That evening, Isabelle had lain awake in bed for hours, pretending to read, but really waiting for him to open the door connecting their chambers. She had hoped he would not leave for God-knew-how-long without a proper farewell. The standoff with Lucius Winthrop meant they were at war now, didn’t it? War meant the possibility of death at every turn, which meant they ought to at least say good-bye. He would want to ensure she’d fare well on her own in a strange home without him.
As it turned out, she had been completely wrong. She heard Serge enter his room, and the smooth baritone of his voice as he spoke with his valet. She listened closely as he prepared for bed, and held her breath when she thought his footsteps neared the connecting door. Her fingers clenched around the coverlet, and she waited for him to appear, to smile at her and say he was willing to forget it all for just this one night. It could be discussed again when he got back, but for tonight, he could be with her, comfort her, soothe the loneliness eating her up inside. Her heart sank when the sound retreated, and she realized he did not intend to come inside.
The next morning, she stood in the courtyard with a forced smile plastered on her face for the benefit of those watching, as well as the officers riding out with her husband to form up with the other soldiers. She bid them all farewell, after which they bowed to her in tribute, a few voices calling out their promises to rebuild Barony and protect it for her.
Serge—bound by obligation and aware of the eyes upon them always—gave a formal bow over her hand, and graced her knuckles with a chaste kiss before jumping into the saddle and riding away.
She could not help the pangs of envy that rippled through her when Damien swept Esmeralda into his arms and kissed her good-bye for what felt like all of five minutes. He did not care that his men looked on, many of them shifting uncomfortably as he ravaged his wife’s mouth. After he was done, he hugged Raina and took Leila from her arms before enveloping her as well. After saying good-bye to his little family, he too, was gone.
In the following weeks, messengers traveled back and forth with correspondence between the soldiers and their loved ones. Isabelle hoped every day for a letter from Serge, and found those hopes dashed anew when none came. She had begun to wonder if the letters had gotten lost somehow, but when Esmeralda began receiving them only one week after Damien’s departure, she gave up on that notion. The reality of her situation became as clear as day. She should not expect correspondence for her husband, who had likely put her out of his mind the moment he’d left Guthrie Hall.
Three weeks after Serge’s departure, she found herself bored to tears. The last of Kingsford’s citizens had left the castle to take up residence in other villages, and Isabelle missed having them underfoot. At least when they were there she had felt useful. She’d busied herself those first weeks stocking the secret cave with supplies and seeing to their needs. Now, she was left with nothing to do.
Since everything had quieted down, her days fell into a monotonous routine. She would take breakfast in her bedchamber as always, alone. After getting dressed, she would join Vernon in the courtyard for vigorous fencing matches, which for a short time helped engage her mind and give her the activity she so craved. In the afternoons she joined Esmeralda in the nursery, where she watched mother and child interact with envy, often taking her turn at holding and cooing at the beautiful baby. Then they would all take tea together, she, Esmeralda, Raina, Akira, Tatiana, and sometimes Desmond—although Esmeralda’s younger brother spent most of his time near the stables, his love for horses something that had not fallen away just because he was now the brother-in-law of a king.
After tea, she would read or practice embroidery. At least twice a week she met with the butler and housekeeper to ensure everything at Guthrie Hall ran smoothly. Then came dinner and a quiet evening before she retired to bed.
Before long, she grew weary of her routine and the glum mood she’d allowed herself to slip into, and decided to seek out a distraction. Winter had come, covering the castle and grounds in a fresh blanket of powdery snow. Deciding she had wallowed in self-pity long enough, Isabelle dressed in a warm wool gown, her thickest stockings, and sturdy boots. She retrieved a fur-
lined cape with a hood and matching muff before going off in search of Esmeralda.
She found her friend seated at the desk in her guest chamber, reading what appeared to be a letter from Damien.
She looked up when Isabelle breezed in and smiled. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes, and so are you. Bundle up and meet me in the main hall.”
Esmeralda frowned, dropping her letter onto the table. “Where are we going?”
“I am tired of being trapped within these walls with nothing to do. I’m having a carriage brought around to take us to Gladstone.”
“Gladstone? But that trip will take all day!”
Isabelle shrugged. “We’ve nothing better to do, and if I recall correctly, Primus once told me that Gladstone has some of the best shopping in Barony. Christmas is coming in a few months, and I want to throw a grand party, so we should prepare now. If the men return for the holiday it will make for a nice welcome.”
“Oh, why not,” Esmeralda said, reaching for the bell cord to summon her lady’s maid. “Leila has new teeth coming in, the poor thing, and Grandmother has mixed a concoction for pain that has her sleeping the day away. I’ll just ask Mother to watch over her and prepare to come with you.”
“Perfect,” Isabelle replied, already headed for the door. “I’ll be waiting in the main hall.”
* * *
The streets of the village of Gladstone were filled with people vying for a glimpse of their queen. Children ran alongside the royal carriage, waving and screaming her name. Isabelle peeked through the curtains and waved back, enchanted by the cherubic faces that smiled back at her.
Armed soldiers wearing Barony’s vibrant colors dotted the streets, keeping a watchful eye on the bustling village. Carriages and horse-drawn carts carved a path through the snow blanketing the road, toting people and goods to and from their destinations.
