by C. K. Brooke
What almost appeared to be a wry smirk creased his features. “Our family has known plenty of scandal and shame, well before you came along.”
“Your Majesties, Lord Cosmith,” Jude besought them in turn, “please, with your permission, may I borrow a moment alone with Lady Johanna, outside?”
“It is up to her,” said the empress.
Though cautious, Johanna agreed, allowing the earl to escort her and Ayla from the throne room. Whatever he wanted, he’d have to be quick about it. Ayla was starting to root and would need another feeding soon.
Jude closed the door behind them. Speckled sunlight filtered through the window, dancing on the bare corridor wall. “I’ll admit,” he dropped his voice, coiffing back his hair, “when I told you to take care of it, this wasn’t exactly what I meant.”
Johanna studied him, confused. Was she doing something wrong? Did she not appear to be taking proper care of the child?
“I meant—get rid of it,” he clarified, dark eyes snaking left to right to ensure no one overheard. She was stricken by the callousness of the suggestion, but he swiftly covered it up with a shot of laughter. “Alas, you obviously misunderstood.” He grinned. “So typical, the weak mindedness of women. But, that’s what makes you all so adorable. And…well, I’m delighted to meet our little daughter, after all.”
Johanna’s chest was a hollow shell. She yearned to scream, to slap him. But she was no longer in the wilderness, on the islands. She was home in Jordinia, in the imperial court, where she was expected to behave like a lady. “Jude.” She lowered her eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, but I want to, sweetest.” He fixed her with his most heartfelt gaze yet, and descended to both knees. “Lady Johanna Jane Cosmith,” he said solemnly, offering up a glittering diamond wristband from his jacket pocket, “be my bride?”
Johanna stared down at him, her feet locked to the floor. Ayla grabbed and yanked at a lock of her hair, but she hardly noticed. All she saw was the desperate face below her, a face she had once found so fetching, so irresistible…yet now, made her feel nothing at all.
But…this was what she wanted, wasn’t it? All along, this was what she’d secretly hoped for, since the night she’d approached him, right? And maybe he wasn’t lying. Maybe he really had decided to change for her—or at least, for their child?
Even so, why was she squirming inside? It felt like she’d walked into a trap he’d set just for her. And yet, she was the one to be redeemed from the arrangement—a father for her child, being rescued from her shame, a family to call her own.
Though, could she ever truly call Jude Covington her own?
Slowly, Johanna shook her head. “I’ve got to think on this, Jude.”
She was not altogether surprised when his reverent tone was lost. “What’s there to think on?” he snapped. “You ought to be grateful.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, constructing a response, when a uniform pattern of boot steps resounded from the adjacent hallway. She looked up. A set of guards passed down the neighboring corridor, the one in the middle taller than his companions, with violet eyes that met Johanna’s for the briefest of connections.
Johanna knew exactly what those eyes saw, if even in just a glimpse. A single moment, as though framed: the Earl of Tremblay on his knees, holding out a nuptial bracelet, with Johanna and the baby at the receiving end of his proposal.
When she looked again, the guards had rounded the corner and were gone.
“Your uncle has already granted his pardon and consent,” Jude implored her. “We can be married as soon as you wish. He’s even agreed to a private ceremony. We thought that might be best—”
“Do you love me?” As soon as the words tumbled out, Johanna knew she had said the right thing.
“What?” The man glossed over the question with a carefree chuckle.
“Do you love me?”
“What do you—?”
“I think it’s a perfectly reasonable question to ask.”
A shadow passed over his features. “You’re being hysterical.”
“I am not.” Her voice was perfectly even. “Nothing about my tone is hysterical, my lord. It’s a simple question, really. Do you love me?”
Ayla hiccupped, and Johanna gave her a gentle jiggle for comfort.
Jude offered a practiced smile, mostly teeth, both knees still on the floor like a begging dog. “Of course.”
“Then say it.” Johanna smiled back, keeping her pitch pleasant, if only for Ayla’s sake. “If you love me, you’d want to tell me, right?”
“I…love you,” he decided. “Both of you. Aliya and—”
“Ayla,” she corrected him. She swiped the bracelet from his outstretched hand. “I’ll consider your proposal. Thanks for the bracelet.” With that, she saw herself back into the throne room, leaving the man on his knees behind her as she slammed the door in his face.
“Uncle Mac. Aunt Nina.” She bowed. “May I have time to deliberate?” She held her breath as they exchanged glances with her brother.
Finally, her aunt nodded. “Take all the time you need, Johanna.”
A sigh of fresh air at her cheek awoke her. Catja inhaled the sweet scent of linens and lilies while the soft sheets enfolded her where she lay. Her eyelids lifted. A window was open, the drapes fluttering and warm autumn sunlight beaming into the chamber.
At the sound of paper rustling, she turned. The man in her bed was sitting up, shirtless, poring over a news bulletin. A chill of pleasure rippled through her. He looked so delicious, reclining casually beside her.
As if sensing her stirring, Drew lowered the paper. One look at his wicked little grin and she wanted him all over again. “She lives,” he remarked. “Has anyone ever told you that you sleep like the dead?”
“No.” She pushed the bulletin aside. They let it fall to the rug as she climbed over him. His arm draped across her bare back, hot and heavy, ensuring her that she would never be alone again. “Has anyone ever told you that you make love like a god?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Exactly how many gods have you gone to bed with?”
Catja laughed as he rolled her onto her back, showering her with kisses, the linens already a twisted jumble between them. “Good morning,” he whispered, smiling intimately down at her. His lips peppered her chin, cheeks and eyelids with more kisses. “I love you a thousand times over, and forever….”
She held him, dissolving into the pillows. “I love you, Drew Cosmith.”
“Mmm. I want you to say it, just like that, when I wake up with you again tomorrow morning. And the next day, and the day after that….”
She silenced him with a kiss on the mouth, wrapping her legs around his waist. Her teeth gave his bottom lip one last nip. “You talk too much.”
“Hey, it’s my specialty.”
“Oh, but now I’m aware you have other specialties.”
“As do you,” he purred. “Tell me, do you think there’s anyone in the palace who didn’t hear us last night?”
She laughed again. “I don’t think there’s anyone in Pierma who didn’t hear us.” Her fingers threaded into the thick of his hair. “Though I’m sure they’ve all come to expect as much from your visits, my lord.”
He blinked, hovering over her. For an instant, all pretenses were wiped clean. “You think I’ve done something like this before?”
Her laughter faded.
“Cat.” His expression turned so uncharacteristically shy, it took her aback. “Back on the island, when I said I’d been waiting all my life for you, I….” He cleared his throat. “Well, I sort of meant it.”
She didn’t know how to respond. She was flattered, to be certain. The man continued to surprise her.
Unexpectedly, he popped up, shifting to the edge of the bed. It was a sincere pity to see him put his clothes back on
.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Given her way, she’d keep him to herself for the rest of the morning.
“I want to show you something.”
She smirked. “You mean there’s something you didn’t already show me last night?”
He grinned, holding out a hand. “Come. The day is young.”
The enormous room was as silent as a chapel, and twice as sacred. From gleaming floor to towering ceiling, infinite shelves stood, wrapping around the vast perimeter and back again. Catja stopped before a row of dusty, bound tomes with spines writ in an archaic language she assumed was Old Jordinian.
“You can touch them,” said Drew, but Catja shook her head. They appeared too delicate and important to be handled out of mere curiosity.
The Royal Library was astonishing. She’d never seen anything like it, not even at the university in Sialla where her father had once worked.
A copper ray of sunlight broke through a stained glass window. It panned over Drew’s face as he watched her. “It’s a miracle most of this collection survived the Revolution fifty years ago.” He stroked the edge of a thick, bound manuscript on a shelf. “I suppose even the rebels appreciated the nation’s history, and the collective discoveries of our citizens.”
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she whispered. She didn’t see anyone studying, but it felt like a crime to raise one’s voice in such a surrounding.
Drew shrugged modestly. “The palace has many scribes. If you ever wanted any…findings of your own to be recorded and stored here, I could arrange it.”
Catja looked down at her hands.
“Or, I dunno, if you’d like to conduct more research—on any topic you wanted—you could carry it out here. I could get you access to just about any document.” He gestured around the magnificent chamber where they stood. “All of this, at your disposal.”
She managed another quiet, “Thank you.”
As the days progressed, she was haunted by a growing, overwhelming confusion. Catja tried to sweep her inner conflict aside, focusing instead on her lover, the sole thread tethering her there, as he escorted her to meals and introduced her to streams of courtiers whose names she would never remember. But if not for him, she’d be eagerly packing for the home she had otherwise never dreamed of leaving—her home on the island. Drew was the only reason she would stay in Jordinia any longer than she absolutely needed to.
And he was a big reason.
Yet, despite the Royal Palace’s enormity, Catja was already feeling cooped between its walls. Even when she walked through the gardens, they felt too contained, manmade. Wasn’t there someplace she could simply look out and see pure, natural land, unadulterated by roads, structures and overdressed nobles?
Then again, perhaps she hadn’t yet given Jordinia enough of a chance. The island had been foreign and intimidating to her when she’d first arrived, had it not? Though, at least the Oca’s way held the promise of freedom—the freedom to be who she wanted, regardless of her sex and lack of formal education, and liberation from the stuffy and often arbitrary formalities of court. With the Oca, her days had centered around simplicity and survival. Around honor, friendship, and community.
But not the love of her life.
Her happiest hours, the most sacred to her body and heart, were when she was alone with Drew. And in those moments, it surely didn’t matter where on the earth they were. His love was pure and boundless and raw; it made her feel cherished and alive. She had never been so fond of, so taken with anyone. She wanted to keep him forever.
But how? In the day-to-day of things, when she wasn’t in the bliss of a midnight with Drew, there was still a lingering feeling of displacement, homesickness. She missed the open air, the sound of warriors sharpening their spears, the smell of the ocean in her hair, the smiling faces of the tribe she called her family. She couldn’t bear the thought of never returning home to them. But she could do it for love.
Couldn’t she?
It was a bright afternoon when Drew promised her a “casual” lunch outdoors with his sister and cousins. While the grand duchesses—loquacious Lady Raphaela and her opal-eyed sister, the fair Benedicta—were gracious as could be, Catja began to seriously question, all over again, what she was doing there.
She had gone to Jordinia simply to say her piece to the emperor, on behalf of the Oca. And she still had work to do. She ought to have been in her quarters, planning for the next meeting. Not staring down at a multitude of golden utensils, with a silk napkin on her lap, and bobbing servants refilling her teacup if she so much as contemplated taking a sip. Truly, the latter was making her jumpy.
As the duchesses chattered away, Catja drifted. The palace was somehow feeling less familiar than on the night she’d first arrived. There was too much to look at, from each maid in uniform to the manicured lawns dotted with visitors and groundskeepers, and too many titles and customs she felt she could never adapt to, complicating every basic interaction.
If not for Drew’s glance, she wouldn’t have realized Johanna had spoken to her. Catja cleared her throat, chasing away all memories of her deerskin tent, the sound of drums at twilight, and the lulling rush of the Hamaree River. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
With patience, Johanna repeated, “Could you pass the crysnê?”
Catja missed a beat. “The what?” she said dumbly.
Drew reached for a porcelain dish containing what looked like hard pastries glazed with honey, and handed it to his sister. “This stuff.”
“Oh.” She fingered the handle of her teacup, lest the servants rush in to fill it up again. “Of course.” She had never felt so ignorant.
“GOODNIGHT, OFFICER.”
Bram inclined his chin at the passing councilman, resuming his way up the corridor. His shift was almost over. Just another round outside, to ensure palace security was fulfilling their duties, and he’d retire for the evening.
The air was cool as he emerged out to the courtyard, the moon a white blossom in the sky, but no sign of stars yet. The gardens smelled pleasant in the autumn twilight. But Bram found he wasn’t enjoying simple pleasures like he once did. His general loss of feeling had arrived at, oh, just about the same morning it was announced throughout Pierma that Johanna Cosmith was to wed Jude Covington, Earl of Tremblay, within a matter of weeks.
The guard stepped purposefully up the path, casting his watchful gaze to the grounds beyond. He’d been trying not to allow the news to interfere with his work, but he couldn’t help going about his duties with a sense of loss. For, ever since he saw the earl on his knees before Johanna, Bram knew who he was—Ayla’s father. He shouldn’t have been surprised when, some days later, their impending wedding was proclaimed.
So, Bram had kept away. The handsome earl was obviously the one with whom Johanna belonged. Things would turn out well for her and Ayla, after all. And who was Bram to step between their family? He was only Johanna’s friend. She’d called him as much. It’s not as if he’d ever stood a chance to be…well, anything more.
In preparation for the wedding, the earl had been given his own quarters at the palace. Bram had avoided the entire wing as keenly as he steered clear of the nursery and adjoining chambers that housed Johanna and her child. At that point, anything he might’ve imagined had transpired between him and the duchess’s daughter in the islands may well have been a dream. Now that they’d returned home, to the real world, life carried on as usual, their invisible boundaries redrawn. Of course, he yearned to see her. But he had no place calling upon her, and especially not for personal reasons.
He headed to a deserted area where the hedges grew high and vines climbed thickly up the trellises. Or at least, he’d thought it was deserted. A lumpy shadow was almost concealed by the burgeoning shrubbery…and it was murmuring.
Bram slowed, his eyes narrowing. A spy, perhaps?
He heard a hu
shed feminine giggle, complemented by a man’s deeper coo, and apprehended his mistake. It wasn’t one lumpy shadow, but two melded together, uniting for what appeared to be a lovers’ tryst.
He ought not to interrupt. It wasn’t exactly against any rules if a grown couple stole a few kisses…or more…in what they believed was total privacy. And it was no secret by then that Andrew Cosmith was romantically involved with the professor they’d brought back from the Oca village—perhaps that’s whom he had stumbled upon.
But Bram already knew he was fooling himself, for their shadows didn’t much resemble Professor Lovell or the lord at all.
He wasn’t sure why at first, but a sick feeling snaked into his stomach. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the man’s black cloak and outturned collar rather matched….
They sensed him coming. He hadn’t noticed he’d been stalking forward, closing in on them, until the sound of his boots on the cobblestone must have alerted them to his presence. In a single swish of his cloak, the gentleman disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a blushing lady with her bust nearly exposed.
Bram recognized the dark-haired Countess of Donhoffan as she adjusted her gown, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and scurried off. He wouldn’t go after her. But the other….
He rounded the corner, his heart thumping with every determined step, unable to shake his suspicion. Why would the pair break apart so abruptly and disperse at the sound of an approaching guard if they were innocent?
Though he searched, he saw no trace of the countess’s paramour. Bram swore under his breath. Some guard he was, permitting a potential suspect to evaporate right under his nose.
He didn’t think about where to go. He simply went. He hardly realized what he was doing until he found himself inside the palace, two stories up, just outside the quarters adjoining the nursery. His fist was raised, about to administer a series of raps, when he remembered himself in the nick of time.
Without knocking, he lowered his hand. The devil was he thinking? Why would he bother the bride-to-be with concerns over a shadow he thought he saw? He had no evidence it was Lord Covington. He was only being paranoid.
