by Nora Roberts
“Oh, Meeg,” the girl said softly, kneeling beside the woman and wrapping her arms around her. “Do not weep for me—I am not afraid of Ambrose.” She repressed a shudder, thinking of the bridegroom she had not yet met, the fearsome warlord known as the Barbarian. “He cannot be as bad as they say.” She bit her lip, praying her words would prove true. “And even if he is, I still must do what I can for Penmarren, and for my father. Another battle, waged either against Ambrose or Loth, will kill him. This way, there will be peace with Ambrose, and he will protect Penmarren from Prince Loth. It is the only way to save my father—and our kingdom.”
“We must delay, child. There is always the chance that Prince Constantine might return.”
Lianna shook her head. Her cousin Constantine, Prince of Wyborn, had been trying to raise an army in the east, an army that could match the strength of Loth or Ambrose, and to bring that army to Penmarren’s aid. But all the spring and summer and autumn had passed, and he had not returned, nor sent word. “We do not know what has become of him. Now we cannot wait any longer. If I do not wed Ambrose on the morrow, he will tear Penmarren apart like a wild dog. Or leave us to Loth, which will be just as bad.” Her lips tightened. “This is the only way.”
“But you…you, my beautiful little one, will be shackled to a barbarian.” Her voice cracking, Meeg tore her fingers from her wet dumpling of a face and stared into the princess’s wide-set violet eyes, her own eyes filled with pain. “A man whose castle is cursed, who they say eats the hearts of his enemies for breakfast—who takes no prisoners on the battlefield, a man who they say…who they say…”
She straggled off, choking on the rest.
“A man who they say killed his first wife,” Lianna completed for her quietly. She saw Else press her white lips together and Kira and Gwenlyn wring their hands. Her own blood pounded in her ears as she spoke the words, yet she struggled to keep her face composed and her voice steady. “Rumors.”
She was pleased that she managed to sound brisk and unconcerned. “He cannot be as brutal as they say. If everything that is said about him were true, he would be the devil himself. No, I am not afraid. Let Ambrose be afraid of me,” she added with a toss of her head. “Didn’t I tame and ride the wildest steed in our kingdom? Didn’t I once spear a boar that had felled three men? Haven’t I broken hearts of knights and princes from lands as far away as Galeron? Let Ambrose the Barbarian fear me!”
The women exchanged hopeful glances despite their misgivings, taking heart from her bravery. Though they knew what she said was true, they couldn’t help but fear for her. She was slender, delicate, yet as fiery as a candle’s flame. Lianna had grown up wild and free, racing through the trees and meadows of the gentle land like a fairy child, eluding those set to guard her, making friends with every creature she encountered, playing at sword fighting with sticks and branches, stealing destriers from the stables to test their speed, returning home to the castle at nightfall with muddy gown and dirt-streaked face, leaves in her hair and scrapes upon knees, toes, and bare feet.
Her mother, Queen Felice, had disapproved of her antics and made no attempt to hide her displeasure, but the king delighted in her bravery and curiosity and warm, impulsive nature, and she was allowed to roam at will—until she began to grow into womanhood.
When her mother died shortly after Lianna’s twelfth summer, the king had become more protective, and Lianna, sensing his heavy heart and heightened concern, had allowed herself to wander less and less. She had applied herself to mastering her royal duties and threw herself into becoming her father’s friend and confidante as well as his daughter, hoping to lessen his loneliness.
She had grown into a beautiful, independent young woman, beloved by her people, respected by even her father’s most somber advisers.
But a man like Ambrose the Barbarian—he would see nothing but a trophy to be displayed in his castle, a vessel to bear his heir, a princess of indisputably royal blood who would buy a bastard duke respectability and greater power. The woman who had served Lianna all her life shuddered to think what would become of her when she was locked away in Crow’s Keep, in the cold and distant kingdom of Blackenstar, as Ambrose’s wife—and his prisoner.
A knock at the door made every woman turn in dread.
“Your Highness, your father the king requests your presence in his chambers.” Her father’s servant, Ulf, bowed low, his seamed old face as grim as those of all the others in the castle.
Lianna was only too glad to escape. It was a strain to keep up her spirits in front of those who cared for her. How she wished she could be alone—alone to try to master her fear and her own crawling dread. She had been raised every inch a princess and knew her duty. She was not the first royal daughter to be given over to an enemy as a trophy of war—or in this case, as a prize that would bring peace. If it would save her father and her people, she would gladly suffer the fate of being Ambrose’s bride. What choice did she have?
Yet she was only human and she couldn’t help but be afraid. The stories told about Ambrose were fearsome. He was a warrior, first and foremost, a man born a bastard youngest son of a fierce nobleman, a man who had wrested his kingdom from a series of half brothers and brutish warlords who had quarreled over pieces of it, all of them slabbering to have it all. His reputation on the battlefield was legendary, his ruthlessness the stuff of stories told to frighten children into obedient behavior, his cruelty, lust for women, and crude disregard of civilized behavior were all part and parcel of his dark legend.
And, a small scared voice inside reminded her, he killed his first wife when she’d been unable to give him a child.
A shudder rippled through her as she made her way through the long, torchlit hall, across the solar, to the king’s chambers. Ambrose might be a crude barbarian, but she was a princess. She would not cower before him, nor weep, nor seek to escape her fate. She would do her duty with her head held high, and she would not let anyone—least of all the beast she was to marry—see her quail or quiver.
“Lianna, child. My dear child.” Her father stroked her head as she bent over his bed and kissed his cheek. The sight of him so weak and frail flooded her with pain. As a little girl she had known her father to be tall and strong, with his shock of white hair and ruddy face, his merry smile. But a battle wound had left him lame in one leg, with a creeping sickness that kept him confined to his bed. In the last skirmish, when Penmarren had been forced to drive Loth’s men from their southern border, he had been carried onto the field in a litter.
Only his captain-of-arms, the brave soldier Rufus, had saved him from a death blow.
“Don’t fear for me, Father.” Lianna spoke soothingly. “As I told my ladies, I am not afraid. Well, not very afraid,” she added with a trembling smile. “It will be all right.”
“I hope and pray that is so, child.” The king waved his hand, dismissing the servants hovering nearby in the gilded chamber. “Leave us,” he commanded.
When they were alone and Lianna had seated herself comfortably upon the edge of his bed, he struggled to a sitting position and huffed as she propped tasseled pillows behind him.
“Listen to me, Lianna. Don’t fuss with me, child. I have news—hopeful news.”
For the first time she noted that his cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. Her heart jolted in her chest. “Constantine?” she whispered, scarcely daring to hope.
He nodded and grasped her hand. “He is coming. By all that is holy, he is coming. Not in time to stop the wedding, I fear, but if all goes well, my dear, you will be Ambrose’s bride for no more than a fortnight—at most!” He spoke in a whisper, as if fearful that even the walls might have ears.
Lianna’s heart began to thud. Constantine and his army were coming to save her from a lifetime wed to Ambrose. She had only to wait, to endure—to stay alive for the brief time she was married to the Barbarian, and then she could return home in honor to Penmarren.
“Such wonderful news, Father!” Her eyes
glowed. “Tell me all of what he said,” she urged eagerly.
“Your cousin has gathered an army—a mighty army, Lianna—one that is nearly twice the strength of Loth’s and very near in size and ferocity to that of Ambrose! He has been beyond the Crystal Sea and has found fighting men as fearsome as any Ambrose might boast, and they have sworn allegiance to him. They have to cross the sea and make their way through Dunhelm, amass horses and weapons and supplies, but they are coming. No one is to know,” the king added quickly. “If Ambrose were to suspect what is afoot, it would be disastrous for us all—and very dangerous for you, my child.”
Lianna’s eyes sparked violet fire, and she nodded. “We won’t speak of it again, Father. But what am I to do? How can I help? Surely while I am in the Barbarian’s keep there is some way that I can be of use to Constantine.”
“No. That’s too dangerous. It is bad enough that you must go off with that monster.” His voice trembled, and fury and helplessness shone from his sunken blue eyes, still sharp despite his sickness. “If I were a younger man, and stronger, I would never allow him within a mile of these castle walls, much less to dare demand your hand in marriage. He’s nothing but a bastard, a blackguard, a murd—” He broke off, his face purple, his breath coming heavily in his chest.
He’d been about to say “murderer,” Lianna knew. Her hand shook a little as she touched his arm. “Hush, Father. Don’t upset yourself. It does no good to think what could have been or should be. My marriage to this man will buy time to keep our kingdom safe.”
“But Constantine will come for you, I swear it.” His white brows drew together. “So be ready, girl. We’ll get word to you somehow and you must be ready to flee, or to hide—whatever is called for when the hour draws near.”
“I will be ready.” Lianna’s mind was already leaping ahead to the day when the gates of the Barbarian’s keep would be flung down, when Constantine and his army would crash through and storm the castle, when perhaps even the bastard Ambrose himself would be slain.
“If only we could delay the wedding.” Her father’s tone was heavy. “But at the least, we can try to keep the Barbarian here for several more days, drunk and entertained with wedding feasts and festivities.”
He fell silent. Lianna knew they were both thinking the same thing. Such things would delay her being taken from Penmarren, carried off to the dark, distant, and forbidding Blackenstar, but it would not delay the wedding night itself. The moment when she would be alone with Ambrose in their marriage bed, when he would claim her in the most elemental way as his bride.
“I am not afraid,” she whispered as steadily as she could. “I know what must be done. And he won’t dare harm me—not until I bear him a child, the heir he is rumored to want so badly. And long before then, Constantine will have rescued me and perhaps will even have run the Barbarian through like the wild pig that he is—”
She broke off as urgent knocking sounded at the door. Not the brisk polite rapping with which Ulf had summoned her to her father’s side, but forceful and repeated thwacks that sounded as if they would smash the door to bits.
“Come in!” the king bellowed, and Lianna looked up in astonishment as the door burst open and a broad, gold-haired soldier with a scar that slashed across the entire left side of his fleshy face strode into the king’s lamplit chamber like a lion invading another’s den. He was not one of her father’s knights. He was clearly Ambrose’s man. His river-green eyes, colder than the frost that clung to the winter trees outside the window, swept the room and fell upon Lianna, then shifted to the glaring king.
Two more soldiers followed him into the room, men equally as large, with expressions equally as grim.
“King Penmarren,” the scar-faced soldier rasped in a thick voice, “Duke Ambrose has received news. He must ride this very night to Blackenstar to protect his eastern border—we leave within the hour. Your daughter…” He riveted his sharp gaze upon Lianna, who had jumped up, her hands to her throat.
“Ah, this must be the dark beauty we’ve heard about.” Lusty approval glistened in his eyes. “My lady, you will wed the duke at once and depart with us now. Come.” He stepped toward her, stretching out an arm. “I will take you to Ambrose—”
Lianna jerked back out of reach and stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment. “I am not going anywhere with you.”
“By all that’s holy, how dare you try to lay your hands upon my daughter!” the king roared. He struggled upward in the bed, his voice rising in a harsh command. “Guards! Guards, restrain this man!”
Three soldiers of Penmarren rushed in. Two grabbed the gold-haired man, each by one arm, and the third planted himself between the intruder and the king and princess.
“Fools, do you think you can stop me? Stop any of us? Think hard, Penmarren. You don’t want to fight Ambrose, do you? You’ve struck a bargain—now keep it!”
The soldier’s voice was a barely disguised sneer. “Your pitiful troops are scattered, protecting your borders from Loth. What do you have here? Fifty men? One hundred at most? We have three hundred fighting men encamped in your fields and forests, all at alert, awaiting only the call to battle. We could take the castle and burn the village before the sun is near to rising. Ambrose’s men are trained to fight in darkness, snow, and storm.”
“What do you want?” the king croaked.
“We want what we came for, Your Highness. Your daughter as bride to Ambrose. Then we’ll send one hundred of those men to fortify your borders against Loth. And we’ll be gone.”
“I agreed to the marriage, but it is to take place tomorrow. Not tonight. You can’t expect me to turn my daughter over to Ambrose and let him ride off with her in the dead of night to a battle.”
“I’ve no time to waste with you!” The gold-haired man shook off the king’s guards and lunged forward, shoving aside the soldier who stood between him and the king. In a flash, he had a dagger in his hand, its glinting blade only inches from the king’s chest.
“Ambrose gave me orders to fetch his betrothed. If you want them married before they ride for Blackenstar, you’d best rouse your cardinal from his bed and get him down to the courtyard quick-like, because as soon as Ambrose hits his saddle, we are off—with your daughter. With or without your permission—Your Highness!”
Trembling all over, Lianna stared at the dagger pointed at her father’s chest. Leave Penmarren tonight? Be dragged off like a prisoner? Like a prize of war—without a proper wedding, or her ladies-in-waiting to accompany her, or even a chance to bid her father a solemn farewell, much less time to pack her belongings?
“This is outrageous!” the king sputtered, but as another half dozen of Ambrose’s soldiers charged in, unsheathing their swords to hold off the guards, Lianna realized that there was nothing any of them could do to stop the events that Ambrose the Barbarian had set in motion.
“Father, don’t disturb yourself,” she cried, knowing that resistance would only lead to full-scale bloodshed and battle. “I…I will go. It is only a few hours sooner,” she finished on a ragged breath and suddenly thrust herself forward, between her father and the man who held the dagger.
“Put your weapon away. Do you think I would let you hurt my father?” she demanded. Her hand came up, and the soldier’s eyes flickered down to the dagger she gripped, a gold-and-ruby-handled dagger with a blade that shone in the lantern light.
Ambrose’s soldier grinned. “They said you were feisty. Ambrose will have his hands full with you, my lady.” His grin widening, he sheathed his own weapon.
“Come, then, Princess, I will take you to your husband.”
“He is not my husband yet,” Lianna retorted. But at the same moment she realized the uselessness of the situation. Ambrose had made up his mind, and he was obviously accustomed to having things his way. In this situation, neither she, nor her father, nor anyone else in Penmarren could stop him.
Until Constantine arrived.
Up to that point, all she could do was her duty�
�and avoid endangering her father and those in the castle any further.
“Tell the men to put down their swords, and I will go with you.” Her tone was quiet but full of command.
The man gave a signal, and Ambrose’s soldiers lowered their weapons. Penmarren’s guards swarmed around the king’s bedside.
“Father, I will see you in the courtyard,” Lianna said softly. For a moment their eyes met and held. Lianna did her best to silently reassure him, though her own heart was pounding and her chest was so tight she could scarcely draw breath.
“I will…bring the cardinal,” he whispered hoarsely and held out his thin, blue-veined hand.
She clutched it, her slender fingers clinging to his gnarled ones, and then as the gold-haired soldier growled impatiently, she turned with a rustle of her skirts and sailed out the door.
“This way, my lady.” The man jerked a thick arm toward the great hall. He put a hand at her back and swept her along before him, his pace forcing her almost to run. “Hurry, now. There’s a good girl. There’s no time to waste.”
“Then by all means,” Lianna said breathlessly, her face every bit as grim and set as his as he propelled her along the narrow corridor, “let us find your cursed Barbarian. When I lay eyes on him, there is much I wish to say!”
2
“JUST AS YOU asked, Ambrose—I’ve brought her. I give you Princess Lianna.”
