by C. K. Brooke
Or, possibly even hopeful.
Bram slowly stepped back, self-disgust slithering inside him. Perhaps he’d only been looking for a reason to interfere, in secret hopes that the countess’s partner was the Earl of Tremblay, so that the royal wedding would be called off.
He swallowed, walking away from the door. He’d never felt so low. How could he wish betrayal upon the woman and child he cared for? Why, if he truly cared for them, he would let them go, as he thought he already had. Not barge in on the woman’s perfectly reasonable plan to marry the father of her child, and beg her wildly not to. Besides, Abram Visigoth was just a guard. He had no standing with her. No place in any of it.
The clock struck eight, its successive chimes resounding up the staircase. He marched down to the lower level. His shift had ended.
Johanna counted the dongs issuing from the clock downstairs. They carried all the way to her quarters and faintly followed her out the balcony door, which she’d left ajar.
…six, seven, eight. She glanced over her shoulder, into the chamber behind her. Ayla was fast asleep in her bassinet, rocked slightly by the breeze through the open door. Johanna returned her focus to the lawn below, absently fondling a marble balustrade as her eyes soared across the darkening grounds.
Over and again, those past many days, she had imagined her upcoming wedding. Except, each time she made it to the altar, it wasn’t the earl she envisioned in the groom’s place. Instead of a black suit, she kept picturing a purple uniform. And the one who wore it stood so tall, she had to crane her neck just to meet his smiling violet eyes.
Johanna looked down at the stupid diamond bracelet glittering on her wrist. Exhaling, she dropped her face into her hands. No tears. That was her strict rule. Especially not over any man. But, though she wouldn’t cry, her spirit mourned.
Since the morning their eyes had connected, during Jude’s proposal, Bram Visigoth had all but walked out of her life. She had wondered…believed…that maybe something had happened between them on their journey, the way he’d carried her onto the lifeboat, danced with her at Vigo’s wedding, felt Ayla’s first kicks, came to her rescue when the Køvi had taken her.... But perhaps, in her desperate situation, she had been too sensitive and misconstrued his intentions.
Of course, in the end, she could never blame him for not wanting her. Among all the rakes and scoundrels with whom she’d toyed, Bram wasn’t one of them. He was decent…as decent as they came. And a man like him deserved far better than damaged goods, or a woman devoid of an honorable reputation.
She bit her lip to quell its trembling. Stepping back into the chamber, she closed the door behind her. Bundled though the babe was, she didn’t want Ayla to catch a chill.
Why, it was unfair of her to have ever entertained the notion of bringing Bram into her mess, asking him to help pick up the broken pieces. It was never his problem. She and Jude were responsible. And that was why she’d agreed to wed the earl on the first day of the next moon.
Besides, who was she to deny Ayla her rightful father? And vice versa? If Jude sincerely sought a life anew with them, then the only way to make things right was to accept his proposal. Albeit, deep down, Johanna didn’t trust him, and knew she never truly would. He had little respect for anyone but himself, and she had yet to hear him profess his love to her since the morning she’d challenged him to.
Yet, Jude was the only choice she had.
As he very well should be, she thought glumly, lowering herself into a wingchair beside Ayla’s bassinet. Her past promiscuity had finally caught up with her. Jude was right—she should have been grateful that he would still have her. Because clearly, no one else would.
It had been three glorious weeks of dinners, assemblies and teas. For the first time in his life, Drew had enjoyed excursions into the city, carriage rides, and meandering strolls through the gardens with a partner on his arm. He took Catja everywhere. There was so much of the capital he wanted to show her, from its monuments and markets, to the galleries and even his favorite taverns, where the best of Pierma’s folk musicians played. It was one thing to experience life for one’s self, but to share it with the woman he loved? Unprecedented. She enriched everything, like the fabled queen in his mother’s bedtime stories, who turned whatever she touched into priceless blue silver.
And yet, while Catja’s love was genuine, and their stolen nights together were unbelievable rapture, something felt awry. Drew was no fool. It wasn’t in anything she said. But rather, in what she wasn’t saying.
He could sense it in her silences, in the reticent spaces between her sentences, or her unusually vacant stares when surrounded by courtiers at dinner. It was plain. She was wishing herself away, finding an escape from it all, even if only in her brilliant mind.
She didn’t even notice him studying her on their visit to the exhibition, where famous figures, dead and alive, were fashioned out of wax and presented as lifelike, three-dimensional portraits for the entertainment and education of anyone with enough coin to enter. She seemed fascinated…but not particularly happy.
Drew docked his hands in his pockets, giving her space as she browsed the salon, reading plaques about the faces it depicted. It wasn’t that she was disinterested or unappreciative. But something was missing. And he knew what.
It was evening when he waited outside the vacant boardroom for his uncle and the council to finally recommence their discussion. Truth be told, Drew didn’t know what to expect. But Catja’s conviction would carry him through.
He turned, meaning to exchange a smile with her, only to find himself alone. “Catja?”
There she was—lingering in the outer hall, simply staring out of a window, her back to him.
He came up behind her. Gently, not wishing to jar her out of whatever reverie, he wrapped his arms around her middle. “Hey, you.”
She rested her hands over his.
“Where are you?” he whispered.
“I was just thinking about the buckelope hunt…it’ll be starting about now.” She sighed. “And the tolo trees will be bare, leaving only the evergreens. And the crisp smell of the bonfire, mingled with the season’s first frost….”
“You miss it.”
Catja turned to him. Her beautiful face, so unmistakably forlorn, made him feel worse. “Oh, Drew.” She raised a hand to stroke his cheek. “This is what I feared. I don’t want to lose you. Yet, I don’t think I can gain…” she cast an overwhelmed glance at the hall around them, “all of this.”
“The Garden Palace is smaller,” he tried. “You’ll like it.”
“I’m not sure I belong in any palace.”
Though his chest tightened, he found himself saying, “I understand.”
“Please don’t look so sad. Don’t think for a second I won’t give it all up for you.”
“But then you’d be giving up parts of yourself.” His fingers brushed her chin. “Parts I love.”
“Er, Your Excellency? Lord Cosmith?” They broke apart at the sound of Treanor’s tentative voice. The young advisor beckoned them. “His Majesty will see us now.”
Drew took a breath, knowing what he must do.
They entered the boardroom and bowed to his uncle, who seemed in fair spirits. At his command, they assumed their seats around the table. Advisors Treanor and Maxeos hid behind a pile of parchments, skimming their contents and murmuring to each other as the scribes readied their quills.
Drew waited for his uncle to head off the preamble, dictating the date and taking role of those present. When the first scribe’s wrist stopped moving, the young man wasted no time. He wouldn’t let the meeting get underway without asserting the first word.
“Your Majesty,” he ejected, “before winter encroaches and the climate becomes too forbidding, I submit my request that you please send Professor Lovell back to the islands, with all necessary supplies, so she may continue her
father’s work among the Oca. They’re our people now, and we must see to their welfare.”
The room fell so still, he heard a drop of ink spill onto a leaf of parchment. Everyone scrutinized him, not the least of whom was Catja, looking incredulous.
“My lord.” Councilor Hobbson was already red in the face, even though Drew had uttered not more than two sentences. “You proposed in our last meeting that we dissolve the treaty.” He grimaced. “Are you or are you not in support of upholding it?”
“I’ve thought on it.” Drew met each skeptical face, his uncle’s last of all. “And I think a compromise is in everyone’s interest. I propose we keep the treaty intact among the Halvean nations, but strike a truce with the indigenous of the North. If Professor Lovell can so persuade them, their land will only be ours on paper—we won’t occupy. We’ll simply protect them, by law, from any other party that may try to invade, thus enabling them to go about their way of life in peace.”
He ignored Hobbson’s indignant sputtering, Treanor’s condescending laughter, and the exasperated glare of General Sendar, concentrating only on his uncle.
“While that’s quite noble of you, son,” old Maxeos wheezed, “what does Jordinia reap from such a proposal? How does His Majesty,” he indicated the emperor, “benefit from the venture with which he entrusted you?”
Drew shrugged, his eyes fused onto Uncle Mac’s hazel ones. “Build and tax the port on the Ekianic, and charge a toll to all the ships that use it as a stopover?”
The boardroom waited with bated breath for the emperor to speak. The man leaned back in his chair, folding his arms deliberately. “All of this for a ruddy stopover, eh?” he grunted. “Suppose it’s better than nothing.”
Catja’s face had gone pallid. She quickly lowered her gaze.
Drew combed a hand through his hair, wary of all the disapproving eyes on him. “Look, nothing went exactly as planned up there. But some things are more important than wealth and conquest.
“My proposal may not appeal to your balance books,” he nodded at the financier, “but I hope they appeal to your moral conscience. Believe me, I didn’t think I had one of those either. Until….” His eyes rested upon Catja, and he didn’t care who was watching. “Until I went there.”
The emperor spoke abruptly. “This meeting is dismissed.”
Drew winced at his curt tone. He hadn’t thought it possible to fail any more than he already had. But it appeared he’d never run dry of ways to screw things up. For everyone.
“Permanently,” said the emperor. “All rise.” Drew made to stand with the council, but his uncle added, “Not you.”
He sunk into his chair, watching torchlight gleam off the table’s surface while the rest of the board was permitted to leave the chamber.
“Professor Lovell,” his uncle addressed her courteously, “you may wait outside.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She bowed, seeing herself out. She was the last to go, leaving Drew alone with the emperor.
Uncle Mac shut the door firmly behind her. Not even his guards remained. Drew chanced a glance up at him. His uncle studied the mural of maps on the wall, saying nothing.
Drew blotted his forehead with his sleeve. “Uncle, I—”
“So, what did you find up there?” The emperor turned to him, and only then did Drew comprehend the alertness of his features. “Winter’s gold?” His eyebrows narrowed. “Blue silver?”
Drew hung his head. An idiot he’d been, to think he could hide the truth from the emperor. But of course, the man would know. “Paladius,” he confessed, his throat dry. “And col.”
A solid grip closed over his shoulder. His uncle stood behind him, an agonizing silence pouring between them.
“This is a display of allegiance.” The emperor spoke under his voice, shaming Drew with every syllable. “And it shows your allegiance is not to me.”
Drew swallowed.
“It is to humanity.”
Slowly, he raised his head.
“Which, between you and me, is a far higher calling.” Drew couldn’t believe his eyes when a miniscule grin settled into the man’s beard. Uncle Mac gave his shoulder another firm squeeze. “I’m proud of you, Andrew,” he muttered. “Your parents would be, too. Very proud.”
He leveled his tone again, patting Drew between the shoulder blades before striding to the door. “Not to worry. I won’t tell a soul. We can keep this to ourselves.
“So, if that is all,” he grasped the door handle with a bob of his coroneted head, “I’d like to pluck my strummer now, and enjoy a glass of wine with your aunt. Please,” he held out his free hand, indicating for Drew to rise, “don’t let me keep you from Miss Lovell.” With a smirk, he saw himself out.
Drew scrambled to his feet. “Yes, sir,” he called ahead, following him out the open door. “Thank you, sir!” His pulse pounded as he watched his uncle retreat. He was stuck in a state of disbelief.
“Andrew.” Catja’s grip over his arm jarred him from his shock. He was momentarily disarmed by the sight of her wide blue eyes and dark waves of hair, which she’d taken to wearing down, glistening under the sconces’ light. “Why? I told you, I’d give it all up for—”
“I didn’t want you to have to make that choice.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “So you made it for me?”
“You said it yourself. You could never be happy here.”
Catja released his arm. The sheen in her eyes unsettled him as she leaned in, open-eyed, and kissed him on the mouth. His eyelids drooped with longing as her fingers coursed down the back of his neck, tracing the skin beneath his collar. “Your heart is so good,” she breathed.
Drew watched her go. His heart, whether good or bad, was hurting along with every bone in his body. For once, he had loved someone more than himself.
And this was his punishment.
TOMORROW. TOMORROW. TOMORROW.
It was the mantra of her pulse. It was the sound her footsteps made over the padded rugs. Every tick of the clock whispered tomorrow. Her wedding day. A night away.
Johanna couldn’t stop pacing. She’d nursed Ayla to sleep, and the nursemaids were looking after her next door. As spacious as her personal quarters were, the walls could hardly contain Johanna as she shuffled between them like a penned animal.
In the open wardrobe, her wedding dress hung prominently, mint green lace strung with shiny pearls. A green tulle veil cascaded from a crown of fresh flowers that would, admittedly, look lovely in her curls, but that was all there was to look forward to.
She wiped her sweating palms on her night robe. Did she have a shot at happiness? Could someone like Jude truly rise to the occasion of husband- and fatherhood? He’d been insistent about the proposal, and seemed eager to fulfill the role. He’d made it that far without reneging.
She sighed. At some point, whether justified or not, her doubts would have to give way to the fact that she’d made her bed by sharing it on one too many occasions with the earl. He was the father of her child, her family had sanctioned their union, and this was the way things were done in Jordinia. Perhaps, in time, he might learn to love her and Ayla. Or, at the very least, maybe she would hardly see him, large as the palace was.
A knock at her door lodged her heart into her throat. Who could be calling on her at that hour? Weren’t guards stationed outside her door to prevent such a late disturbance?
Securing her robe, she passed through the sitting room and opened the door. Her shoulders stiffened, eyes drifting up to meet the familiar face blinking down at her. “Bram,” she said simply.
“Forgive the intrusion at this hour,” he inclined his head, “but my shift’s just ended, and I had to come by to wish you well tomorrow. I wouldn’t have disturbed you, only I noticed the light behind your door.”
Indeed, the candelabras in her chamber were still brightly lit, as she had
n’t yet summoned anyone to snuff them.
“Aren’t you attending the ceremony tomorrow?”
His reply was noncommittal. “I’ll go wherever I’m assigned.”
She pressed her mouth into a line, concealing her frown. He wouldn’t even promise to attend her wedding?
“How is Ayla?” he wanted to know.
Johanna tutted. “Now you ask. Why didn’t you come to find out for yourself earlier, when she was awake? You haven’t visited us once since we got back. It’s like you’ve abandoned us.”
“You’re the one who got engaged,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
Bram closed his mouth. She gawked up at him, unsure if she’d understood his comment correctly. She wanted to dare him to repeat it, but she couldn’t muster the words.
“Johanna—” He placed an enormous hand over the doorframe, as if bracing himself. His grip was so firm, Johanna wondered if the wood might give way beneath the pressure. “I wish I could tell you not to do this.” She was startled by the tightness in his voice, as though each word pained him. “I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but I don’t trust Lord Covington. There was one night…recently…I think I may have seen him, and…well, he’s not good for you.”
The only sensation competing with her despair was her amazement. Johanna tried to tame her breaths, but her chest kept rising and falling too deeply. “It’s the night before my wedding,” was all she could say.
“I know.” He shut his eyes, looking furious with himself. “But there’s a difference between being late, and being too late. D’you know what I mean?”
“I’m not so sure.” Johanna shook her head heavily. “I’ve already broken too many rules, Bram. And if I turn Jude down, I’m not sure who will ever love me.” She voiced the words she’d feared in her heart since the hour she’d learned she was carrying Ayla. “No one wants an unwed mother. I am a black mark on my family’s legacy.”
