She’d never seen Philipe look so uncomfortable. That gave her a small measure of satisfaction. She was familiar with this cycle, hating him so she would not love him, then hating him in earnest when it did not work to heal her. He took a step forward, arm outstretched. Of course, he thought to touch her, to soothe her like a damned frightened horse. She stepped out of his reach. “Do not touch me!”
Anger darkened his eyes and hardened his features. The spoiled prince would not be denied. He closed the distance between them in two long strides, before she could decide whether to flee or stand her ground. When he caught her by the wrist and jerked her against him, she wished she had fled. Would he strike her? Spit in her face and mock her? Throw her to the ground with cruel words? How could you ever think a man like him could love you, you ugly, useless thing?
He ripped the veil from her head and tossed it to the ground. With it went the last of her protection and she watched it fall, like a defeated army’s banner, until he gripped her chin and forced her face up. His arms slipped around her back, and his mouth descended on hers. It was not the gentle kiss of the night before, through the black gossamer of her veil. His lips on hers reminded her keenly that she had felt this all before, years ago, the first time he’d caught her up in his arms and spun her around beneath the bright blue sky.
There was a newness now, an urgency and an anger. His tongue swept into her mouth, stroking against hers and raising long-dead awareness buried beneath the scarred layers of her skin. She brought her arms around his head and moaned, remembering every time they’d been like this, lying in the grass or hidden in some secret alcove. A hot flush swept through her, seeming almost as deadly as real fire. She remembered that, too, the terrifying loss of control, the willingness to give him everything when she knew she must not.
He tore his mouth from hers, but still held her, looking down at her face as though he were angrier than he’d been before. “I have never stopped loving you. I would have you as my wife, if I thought you’d ever forgive me. I was prepared to walk away from here and continue to pay for my long-ago folly, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk away now, with you hating me again.”
Head still reeling from the feel of his lips on hers and the overwhelming closeness of him, she could not think of a scathing reply. She could not think of anything but the hope his words held, and for the first time she would not entertain the notion that this would all lead to inevitable hurt. “I want to believe you—”
“Then believe me.” He kissed her again, hard and fierce, stealing her breath. His hands fisted in the skirt of her gown, then smoothed down, over her buttocks, pressing her against him through their clothes. If she’d drunk a bucket of ale, she would not have been so intoxicated as when his mouth roved over the unscarred skin of her chin, down her throat, over patches of slick, pink that yielded no sensation and pale white that set her entire body aflame. He fell to his knees before her, arms wrapped around her thighs as he nibbled at her stomach through her gown. She startled at that, at how odd a thing it was for him to be doing, and how very little he had changed, in some ways, from the boy he’d been. Then, he raised his eyes to meet hers and said, “Johanna, could you? Be my wife?”
Her knees gave way beneath her, and she tumbled down beside him. It was stupid, the most stupid thing in the world, but she let those words unlock a door she’d thought long ago shut, and her bittersweet memories all stumbled out, gilded with new feeling. The pain of fifteen years did not vanish, but she let herself believe it was inconsequential. Even as the feeble voice in her mind warned her against it, she took his face between her hands and attacked him with kisses.
He pushed her gently back, searching her face with no sign of revulsion. “Will you forgive me? I was so stupid. I was so incredibly stupid. If I could change the past—”
“Don’t.” She knew too well what those longings could do to a person, over time. “We did not get the life we wanted, when we wanted it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have it. It’s only been delayed.”
Booted footsteps on the stairs startled her. “It’s Wilhelm. What do we do?”
Philipe rose, quickly brushing the clinging bits of straw from his knees, and gave her his hand. She was on her feet when Wilhelm entered. He moved through the door warily, as though a dragon awaited him inside the chamber and not his sister and the prince he’d raised an army to defend. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, and Johanna gasped, flinging herself between the two men. “Wilhelm, don’t be angry!”
“Why…is there something to be angry about?” He looked to Philipe. “Explain yourself.”
“Remember, I’m your…sovereign. Soon.” Philipe put his hands out, as if demonstrating his lack of weaponry.
“Stop it, both of you.” Johanna stepped away from Philipe, but kept herself carefully between them. “Wilhelm, Philipe wishes to marry me.”
“Philipe can wish all he likes, but he broke the marriage agreement our fathers made.” Wilhelm’s voice grew steadily in volume. “I have been patient. I have provided shelter. I raised an army on his behalf and made us traitors, but no more! I will not see him hurt you again!”
“I don’t intend to!” Philipe argued, before Johanna could quiet him.
“Please, Philipe, don’t.” Johanna took a breath. “We can handle this calmly, can we not?”
“Calmly?” She’d never seen Wilhelm so red-faced. “Will you be calm when he leaves here, and leaves you behind? When faced with the choice to return to court with you, or to beautiful women in silk and jewels, who will he choose? You can’t be stupid enough to believe he would choose you!”
Her arm flew out too fast to stop herself. Never, even when they were children, had she struck her brother. Now, an angry red stain darkened his cheek, the blond hairs of his beard standing out white against it. She fell to her knees and covered her face. Tears would not come, but her anger left her in a rush, leaving her with nothing to strengthen her convictions. Maybe Wilhelm was right. How could he not be? He’d heard all the same gossip about Philipe. If but a fraction had reached them here in the mountains, there would be more stories, less salacious, perhaps, whispered at court. Every woman she set her eyes upon would be suspect; had Philipe been with her before? Did he stray with her now? It was hopeless, and Wilhelm was trying to protect her.
But then Philipe knelt beside her and put his arm around her shoulder. He pulled her to his chest and kissed her head, her ugly misshapen head. Under her ear, she listened to the rumble of his voice more than his words. “I know she is your sister, and that you love her. You only want to see her happy. But saying something like that…how could it make her happy?”
“Better to protect her from what you are now, so that the pain isn’t greater in a year’s time.”
Wilhelm sounded so sensible. She did not feel like being sensible now.
“You know nothing about me, Wilhelm.” There was a sadness in Philipe that shocked her. She’d heard him angry. She’d seen him sweat and grit his teeth against pain and laugh drunkenly with the knights in the courtyard. She’d seen him flushed with pleasure, in her bed all those long years ago when she’d refused him her maidenhead but given away most of her maidenly innocence. But never in her life had she thought him capable of sadness. Men as confident as he…surely they could not be sad.
“I love your sister,” Philipe continued. “I have loved her for years. I simply wasn’t intelligent enough to keep her. I didn’t deserve her then. I probably still don’t.”
Wilhelm’s sadness was familiar, and resigned. “And yet you want her, someone you do not deserve. You want to take her away from her home, then? You want her to sit beside you at court, as your queen?”
“I do.” There was not a moment of hesitation in Philipe’s answer. “If you cannot imagine such a thing for yourself, you greatly underestimate your sister. And me.”
Wilhelm’s only answer was to leave, and Johanna did not raise her head until his footsteps had long since receded. W
hen she did, Philipe managed a small, forced smile. “That went better than I had hoped. He didn’t kill me.”
She laughed miserably. “He will never consent. For my own good, he will never consent.”
“After I am king, he will be hard pressed to deny me.” Philipe’s expression darkened. “If I survive this war.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Behind the walls of her home, surrounded by thousands of knights eager to displace their king, it had been easy to forget that Philipe was a traitor.
“I would rather we marry before the fighting begins.” He frowned. “If your brother would permit it. But then you, too, would be a traitor.”
“Better a quick death beneath the headsman’s axe than a slow one here.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I should not be so grim. Not in the face of all this happiness.”
“I will speak to your brother, when he’s had time to calm himself.”
Philipe had no more than finished his words when boots thundered up the stairs again. Johanna stood defensively in front of Philipe once more, praying her brother had not returned with a change of heart with regards to attacking Philipe. Instead, Wilhelm stopped at the threshold, sweat broken out on his brow. “Your Highness. News from our scouts.”
“What is it?” Philipe’s hand rested upon Johanna’s shoulder, and she reached up to cover it with her own as Wilhelm answered.
“King Albart’s army has crossed the three bears, and they show no signs of halting. They will be upon us by dawn.”
Chapter Ten
They were married at dusk, by a captain of the king’s navy who had changed loyalties after his ship had been burned on King Albart’s orders. What the man had done to deserve such an insult, no one, not even Philipe, knew. They stood together in the canopied courtyard, as all around them, Philipe’s war council scurried to plan the morrow’s battle.
It was not a royal wedding, with glittering guests. Philipe had not shaved in weeks. He looked more like a fierce mountain dweller than a prince or a king, and she, in all her black, appeared more a mourner than a bride. Still, Johanna could not remember a time when she was so happy, even before the fire. When Philipe caught her up and kissed her, his whiskers scraping her cheek even through her veil, his men clapped and cheered. And though their wedding feast was nothing more than cold stew and hard bread, Johanna thought it must have been better than any banquet at the palace, if she’d had to wait until after his war.
“I must say, I rather like black as a bridal color,” Philipe teased, looking up from the map spread across the trestle table. He smiled at her in that way he’d always had of making her knees feel weak and her stomach full of flutters. He seemed as happy with her as he’d been all those years ago, as if no time had changed them.
“About to ride into certain death and he acts like a boy with his first wench,” one of his men said, his gruff voice belying the amusement in his face.
Philipe grinned, but his expression was much changed when he looked to the map once more. “Scouts have spotted them as close as the south finger of Grimm Lake?”
“Closer by now.” Wilhelm pushed a wooden horse across the map, edging it dangerously close to the valley. “I expect we shall have terms of engagement no later than sunset.”
Johanna’s heart seized. “I thought you said dawn. When you two were talking earlier, I thought you said you would see battle at dawn.”
Philipe smiled at her, clearly attempting reassurance, but it appeared he was shaken, as well. “We won’t see any fighting before dawn. My father would never risk an attack at night, especially when his military council has advised him that he’s certain to win.”
“He may be mad, but he’s a brilliant man,” Wilhelm added. “He would not risk defeat over a stupid mistake.”
Johanna forced herself to smile at them. “Won’t he be surprised, then?”
Philipe walked around the table sat beside her on the bench. “Your brother has sworn I will never so much as unsheathe my sword. I won’t be near the fighting.”
“If you lose, you’re as good as dead, anyway.” She turned away to pick at the last of the stew in the bowl. “I do not care to celebrate my wedding while planning for my widowhood, but what happens if you do lose?”
Philipe took a breath and let it out slowly, resigned. “You would go to live at a vineyard I own in the south. I have already drafted the condition of your imprisonment there in any articles of surrender that would be handed over in the event of my…death.”
“Imprisonment.” It wasn’t as though she wasn’t used to that. “Do you believe your father will honor such a condition?”
“I hope he will.” At least Philipe did not try to give her hollow hope.
“Our chances aren’t all bad,” Wilhelm reminded them. “You two carry on as though we’re marching into certain death.”
“I like to be prepared for the worst eventuality. It would have served me well if I’d thought so in the past.” Johanna did take some comfort in her brother’s words. It was not in his stoic, northern nature to tell her placating lies.
The daylight had faded into rosy dusk and still no messenger had come to parlay with them. Scouts had confirmed that the king’s army had camped just outside the mouth of the valley, hemming them in.
“Perhaps they mean to starve us out,” Philipe suggested.
Wilhelm dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “If we wanted to leave, they would be forced to pursue us over the mountains. But we could escape, with hardship.”
“Then why do they wait?”
Johanna could not listen to much more, or she would run mad. “Husband. Brother. It is my wedding night. I will not stay and listen to such grim speculation.”
“Where are you going?” Philipe asked, seeming genuinely puzzled that she did not find the proceedings as fascinating as he did.
“I am going to bed. I hope you will come join me tonight, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
Philipe grinned at her, then, seeing Wilhelm’s mood, quickly suppressed it. “I may be late. We need to finalize formations.”
She supposed it was something she had to get used to, she thought as she climbed the stairs to the tower. She was, after all, the wife of a prince, now. He would often be detained on business of state.
If he survives this. She pushed that thought firmly aside. She would not give over to morbid fascination with her husband’s death.
Her husband. Just the word sent a thrill through her. Though she did not fool herself into thinking it would be easy to be married to a man such as Philipe, she was willing to endure whatever obstacles necessary to be his wife.
In her tower room, she pulled back the bedclothes. Wilhelm would sleep below, in the courtyard with the rest of the men tonight, and it would be just her and Philipe, alone. That was a daunting prospect. She’d been shy enough about surrendering her virtue in those days when she’d been young and beautiful. The thought of him seeing the extent of her burns terrified her. He had married her, but what if he could not force himself to perform the act, once he saw all of her scars?
She pulled off her veil and set it aside. He’d already seen the damage to her face, her missing ears and bald pate scored with whorls of melted skin that had never regained their shape. He’d seen her stiff, pink hands, the ones that slowly untied her gown, the nail-less nubs of her fingers clumsy with the black ribbon. She pulled off her bodice, then her sleeves, untied her skirt until she stood in only her chemise.
He had seen her, yes, but not all of her. He hadn’t seen the extent of the damage, where her nightgown had clung to her, burning, where her skin had become hard and lumpy, like spilled candle wax. Knowing what he would see only made it worse. Her right leg, from mid-thigh to ankle, was a mass of leathery pink. Across her back and buttocks, the fire had scarred her as surely as any lash. Nurse had said that at least the tightening of the skin had improved her posture, but Johanna could find no humor in that now. Her shoulders and the tops of her arms had bee
n spared, for the flames had not reached them when she’d tried to beat out her nightgown and hair with her hands. Her breasts, too, were unspoiled, as if in mocking, and the pale slope of her belly bore only a few speckled scars. She knew she was revolting, knew she looked like a ruined doll. She would not blame Philipe if he took one look at her and ran from the room.
But he would not. She scolded herself, for she knew he was better than that, now. Fifteen years ago, he had not been a man capable of loving her. Something had changed in him since that time.
* * * *
The candles had burned low before Philipe came to her. She had dozed, but the sound of his footsteps, that sound she had anticipated with both dread and delight, woke her from her slumber. She sat up, sleepily clutching the bedclothes to herself. He halted at the door. For a moment, she thought he might turn away, that the sight of her, horrible and ugly in the candlelight had made him realize what a foolish mistake he’d made.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I suddenly realized that I have waited fifteen years for this night, without ever dreaming it might come.”
It was you. She was always you. His words, already scored into her mind through hopeful repetition, erased the last of her fears of rejection and humiliation. Fifteen years of loneliness had vanished, leaving behind only a clawing need. She wanted Philipe, as she had wanted him all those years ago, but had never been brave enough to have him. She was braver, now.
He sat on the bed to pull off his boots, and she wanted badly to touch him, to rise on her knees behind him and press her body against his, to run her fingers through his hair as he untied his laces. But she could not make herself move. It was fear of the unknown, and she supposed it was something every bride faced on her wedding night, so she did not chide herself for being silly.
Kicking aside his boots, he pulled off his rough spun tunic and pushed down his breeches and then she saw, as he climbed beneath the blankets beside her, the desire he could not fake. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and looked away.
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