Tassin glared across the coach at Torrian, who smiled at her with conceited arrogance. He looked like an oaf, when compared to Sabre, she reflected. His coarse handsomeness and large nose were repugnant to her now, and she wondered how she had ever thought him attractive. His low forehead overhung his close-set eyes, and his expensive perfume did not completely overpower his pungent odour. Instead, the two mingled to form an even more repulsive smell.
Thick black hair curled from under his collar, making her shudder to think of what he must look like without the royal trappings. She tore her eyes from his hateful face and stared out of the window. The heavy coach rocked and swayed on the rough road, making her queasy. Only the occasional crack of the coachman’s whip broke the incessant rumbling. She had remained silent for the duration of the journey so far, rising to none of Torrian’s baiting about her failure to elude him.
Tassin shifted as her girdle pinched her, tugging at the uncomfortable gown. Queen Mirrial had insisted on dressing her in a lacy pink concoction with ruffles and puffed sleeves, despite Tassin’s fierce opposition to the ridiculous idea. The girdle made breathing difficult, and the frock was impractical for a journey. Its delicate lace overskirt begged to be torn by protrusions, and the numberless petticoats made walking tiresome, never mind climbing in and out of a coach. The gown’s copious white lace already showed the dust that blew in through the window. Her hair, piled atop her head, was fastened with long pins that pulled at her scalp. A bit of grit flew into her eye, and she turned from the window, rubbing it.
“Are you all right, my sweet?” Torrian’s deep, solicitous voice and false concern annoyed her.
“Oh, shut up.”
“You will have to learn to treat me with more respect, Tass. I will soon be your husband.”
“Do not call me Tass,” she snarled.
“I will call you whatever I want, including bitch.”
“I will never marry you. My father would turn in his grave, if I was forced to marry a stinking, hairy pig like you.”
Torrian smiled. “Then he should have made arrangements before he died.”
“He wanted me to choose my husband, and I am not marrying you.”
“You have no choice, my dear. Your magic warrior is useless to you now. Victor has him, and I have you, so what will you do?”
Tassin snorted. “Do not be so sure you will not die on your wedding night, should you get that far.”
He chuckled, his eyes glinting with unwholesome amusement. “Idle threats. You are only a woman, Tass.” Leaning forward, he placed a hairy, banana-fingered hand on her knee. “A very lovely woman.”
Yanking a pin from her hair, she stabbed it into the back of his paw as hard as she could. Torrian jerked away with a yell, then raised his hand as if to hit her. Tassin shrank back, holding the pin poised, ready to impale any part of him that came within reach. He subsided with a growl, sat back and inspected his hand.
“You will pay for that, you bitch.”
“You keep your dirty paws off me, Torrian, or I will do worse than that, I promise.”
He sucked the wound. “I can see I will have to tie you to the bed on our wedding night.”
Tassin went cold at the thought. “You will also have to be careful what you eat, when you sleep, whom you trust, what you drink, and especially whether or not I am safely tied down every night.”
The King’s eyes narrowed. “So, it is to be a war, then?”
“I shall kill you somehow, I swear it. You will never be able to relax in my company. I will make what is left of your life a living hell.”
Torrian sat back, regarding her with loathing. “Believe me, if not for your kingdom, I would never marry a harpy like you.”
The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin Page 47
