Rubies and Roses

by Violet Froste

  Now it was Adrienna’s turn to pause. For a moment she thought he was mocking her, but meeting his gaze she realised that he was being utterly sincere. He was not calling her beautiful because he was trying to comfort her — he was calling her beautiful because he thought she was. Perhaps he thought telling her the truth would comfort her.

  Adrienna fixed him with a pensive stare. He thought her beautiful, but she was not tempting enough that sleeping next to her paused a challenge. Well, so be it. If the prince of Karscha imagined himself impervious to lust, then he would withstand anything Adrienna might level at him.

  “You are right, Sergevni. Why balk now when our intimacy is inevitable?”

  He frowned slightly, as though unsure of how to respond. Adrienna smiled sweetly at him, the kind of smile that had always placated tutors, courtiers and servants alike. She removed her coat, placed it beside his and peeled off the shawl the farmer’s wife had given her. Once she stood in her shirt and trousers, she slowly pulled at the laces at her throat.

  Her heart beat slightly too fast at her own boldness, but she forced herself to appear calm. She wanted to test the infallibility of the prince’s resolve — to do this, she must be resolute. The laces undone, she lifted the loose garment over her head and dropped it on the back of a small armchair by the fire. Sergevni was busying himself stoking the fire, casting cool glances over his shoulder.

  Adrienna unbuckled her belt and removed her trousers. She wore her borrowed men’s braies underneath; unflattering undergarments of plain white linen. For a moment, she thought of keeping them on. But the prince was so certain that her nudity would not trouble him. She could not balk now.

  So she loosened the string that held the braies around her waist and slid the garment off. Without looking at Sergevni, she lay it on the back of the chair with the rest of her clothes and padded over to the basin to wash herself. Once she was clean and sweet-smelling, she turned around.

  Sergevni had finished stoking the fire and stood in his trousers and tunics, staring at her. His sleeves were rolled back; he was waiting for his turn to wash. But his gold eyes held Adrienna captive. There was something strange lurking in them, something glowing and burning, like the smouldering of embers or the sparks of a latent fire. A curl had fallen unchecked over his forehead, and his mouth was slightly open, as it had been when he was asleep.

  For a moment he stood utterly still, and his gaze travelled the length of Adrienna. She became acutely aware of how naked and exposed she was and she fought the urge to grab the closest piece of fabric to cover herself with. Forcing herself to be still, she let Sergevni look his fill, and met his gaze with the challenge of her own.

  “It is more practical if I sleep thus,” she said to him. “We shall keep the bed warmer if we share the heat of our bodies.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he had realised she was trying to draw him out. If he did, he said nothing. Instead, his lips curled into a mirthless smile, and he nodded.

  “Yes,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head and laying it next to hers. “It is the sensible thing to do.”

  Turning away, he went to the basin to wash. Adrienna climbed under the blankets, shivering as her bare limbs slid against the cold sheets. Peeping over the edge of the blanket, she watched the prince as he washed. He had a pleasing form — she could not deny it. His shoulders were broad, the subtle ripple of muscles betraying his strength. His torso tapered gracefully into narrow hips and long, lean legs. Pale curls fell over the nape of his neck in an inexplicably charming way, and the faint red bruising of armour marred his bare skin.

  She watched him, wide-eyed, as he cleaned himself with quick, efficient motions. When he had scrubbed himself to the waist, he began pulling at the laces of his trousers. Adrienna’s cheeks flooded with heat and she turned in the bed, hastily facing the wall. She heard the rustling of fabric, so quiet it was almost drowned out by the crackling of the fire. He was removing his trousers.

  A moment later, she heard him extinguishing the lights, engulfing the room in velvety darkness. Adrienna felt the blanket move, and the mattress dip as it adapted to the weight of a second body. She lay, frozen, waiting.

  “Well?” Sergevni murmured. “Are we not to share heat after all?”

  She grimaced into the gloom, appalled at his audacity. Her cheeks burned, and she was grateful that no light would betray her blush. Filling her lungs with calming air, she spoke with all the sweetness she could muster.

  “Why, yes, Sergevni. I’m so cold. Please hold me.”

  There was a pause, and then movement. Adrienna bit her lip, trying not to gasp when firm hands found her arm and waist. Sergevni rolled her into him, drawing her so close that her face lay against his neck. Her hand, to steady her, rested on his chest, and she felt the impressive muscles beneath his smooth skin. His knees nudged hers, and he slid his thigh between hers so that they were not only embracing, but entwined.

  Adrienna hardly dared breathe. Sergevni was so close that she could feel his breath flutter against her hair, the steady pounding of his heartbeat beneath her palm. His skin was surprisingly warm for such a cold man, and he smelled of soap — clean and sweet all at once. His palm came to rest upon her arm, and he brushed it up and down, caressing her skin.

  “You’re so cold,” he said, his voice low in the darkness. “You’re really not made for Karscha, are you?”

  “Does it matter?” she replied, speaking before she could think better of it. “I was always destined to be a bride, and you are the husband my father chose for me. Whether or not I am suited to Karscha means little.”

  In the darkness, in the intimacy of their embrace, she found that the truth fell easily from her lips. Sergevni’s hand had stilled its warming caress and rested delicately over her waist instead. He was silent for a moment, and Adrienna wondered if her words had hurt him. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful.

  “Do you not desire to be queen?”

  “I was raised to be one.” She hesitated. “Do you desire to be king?”

  She thought he would not answer at all, but to her surprise, he said, “No.”

  Adrienna grew silent, sinking into the mire of her thoughts. So the prince of Karscha was being groomed to rule against his will. It explained much. He was a soldier, not a courtier, most at ease amongst his garrison. He would be expected to wear a crown he did not desire, to rule a country he preferred to fight for. And most galling of all, he was being made to marry the daughter of a neighbouring king, a woman he had not chosen, a bride he had never asked for.

  Therein lay the reason he found no risk in sharing a bed with her. Her nudity could not trouble him. She was not what he wanted. She was not what he had chosen. To him, she was just like the hollow crown he would one day wear: another obligation forced upon him. She could not even find it in her heart to resent him. Sergevni had chosen none this, in the same way she had not.

  Still, she thought, her face pressed against his neck, her palm against his heart. What a cruel fate had been reserved for her: to be made to sleep in the arms of a man who did not want her.

  Adrienna closed her eyes tight, forcing herself to empty her thoughts and sleep. Sergevni’s embrace was warm and tender — and yet she had never felt colder.

  6. Sword

  Sergevni lay awake long after the princess’s breathing had slowed and deepened into sleep. Frost-blue starlight fell through the window, illuminating the outline of her head and shoulders. It surprised him she had fallen asleep so fast and so easily — but then his wayward bride was revealing herself to be full of surprises.

  There were many things about her he thought he knew: she was proud, spoilt, impetuous. She was a princess, aware of her superiority, raised to rule. But the longer he travelled with her, the harder she became to understand. It was becoming clear to Sergevni that the young woman hid parts of herself. Her face was alive with emotions, but Sergevni had been mistaken in thinking she showed everything she felt.
/>   So the princess had been, just like him, a piece moved across a chessboard. A pawn sacrificed in an opening gambit in the great game of war and conquest her father played with his. Except that unlike Sergevni’s bitter resentment, she seemed to have compelled herself to accept this. Like a soldier trained to withstand pain without wincing, to take a blow without flinching, she accepted her marriage without protest. Even though it took her far from her home. Even though she had lost friends and companions along the way. Even though he had made clear his lack of interest in her.

  Except that something strange was happening to Sergevni. Like a blade in a forge, a steely part of him was now growing molten and malleable and red-hot. There was a pulsing heat in his heart and in his gut he had never felt before. He could not fathom whether it was curiosity or confusion or fascination. But the princess had somehow thrown him out of sorts. He had expected her to be shy and to recoil in bed with him — he had not expected her to throw her nudity at him like the glove of a duellist.

  But her shape was pleasing — very pleasing. If she thought he did not find her beautiful, then she was mistaken. Sergevni was not an effusive man, but he was a man all the same. The shape of her body was voluptuous, with her rounded hips and full breasts, her feminine curves and slim legs. More exquisite still was the grace in her movements, offset by the stubborn challenge in her blue eyes. The look she had given him when she stood naked by the bed had been unexpectedly direct, alluringly combative. And to his surprise, Sergevni had felt his body respond to her, a hard, burning desire coursing through him.

  Now that she lay in his arms, with her warm, pliant limbs and her silken hair brushing against his neck, he was fully, undeniably aroused. He did not indulge often in carnal pleasure — he had no time for affairs and dalliances. On the rare occasions he had taken a woman to his bed, it had been quick and passionless, designed only to relieve tension. This was different: not a physical urge repressed for too long but a lush, pounding lust.

  Sergevni lay awake late into the night, making battle with himself. It was his intention to wed the girl and leave her to his throne while he travelled and campaigned with his army. Lust was an unwelcome distraction, a complication marring the simplicity of their arranged marriage. He could not afford to think of this girl as a lover, not when he would eventually use her for a pawn, as her father had done.

  No — it was better to leave this strange new fascination untouched and refrain from coveting the girl. Sergevni had thought nothing of sharing a bed with her. Now he saw the danger in this and resolved to avoid making the same mistake again.

  When he awoke, dawn was only just beginning to lighten the sky on the horizon. A soft purple filled the room, dancing dust shimmering in trembling rays of light. Sergevni lay on his back, one arm curled around Adrienna’s shoulder. Her head was tucked into the dip of muscles between his shoulder and chest and she had one arm thrown over his waist. Her body was pressed against his and her thigh rested over his leg, the tender flesh brushing against his manhood.

  Sergevni lay frozen, blinking in the light of dawn. His senses felt acutely sharp, as though he was in the middle of a hunt or an ambush. He could feel Adrienna’s breath, the feathery softness of her hair caressing his shoulder, the malleable roundness of her breasts pressed against him. His manhood was stiff, straining against her thigh. He was not only hard — he was intensely aroused. The urge to pull her close overwhelmed him; he longed to wallow in the softness of her, to bury his face between her breasts and his cock between her legs.

  Moving gingerly so as not to awaken her, Sergevni extricated himself from the princess’s embrace and sprung from the bed. This was not like him at all, this sudden loss of self-control and discipline. He stumbled to the chair, dragged on his clothes and left the room before he had even tied the laces of his trousers.

  Striding through the empty corridors, he headed down the narrow stairs and straight for the tavern door. It had snowed all night, and outside the air was hard and brittle with cold, stalactites sparkling from the roofs and window ledges. Sergevni breathed hard, filling his lungs with icy air.

  He should have kept Adrienna safely at a distance from him. He had assumed the resentment towards his betrothal would entangle itself with a dislike towards the princess. But he had placed too much faith in his indifference — for he was not indifferent at all.

  They needed to return to Sevalensk, and fast. There, things would be different. His edges were sharp as blades when he was in his father’s palace, and she, too, would quickly be moulded by the court. They would both return to being strangers to one another. It was the way Sergevni preferred it.

  When he returned to their room, he was shuddering with cold but his resolve was firm. To his surprise, the princess was up; she must have awoken when he left the bed. She had finished dressing and was wrapping the farmer’s shawl around herself. Her hair had fallen over her cheeks, hiding her face from view.

  “We should leave now,” he said. “I aim to reach Sevalensk by nightfall.”

  She nodded mutely. He put on his coat and she did the same, pulling up the collar around her face. Her silence was unusual and troubling, but Sergevni refrained from asking her what was ailing her. Perhaps she had taken offence to being abandoned in bed. Speaking on it would not do any good to either of them, so Sergevni matched her silence with his.

  They left the tavern and rode through most of the day in much the same way. Now that they had rejoined roads, they travelled faster and soon, painted wooden signs began announcing their approach to Sevalensk. Sergevni’s gut clenched to feel himself approach his father’s palace — but then a sickening discomfort had bothered him all day.

  Whether it was caused by his imminent return home or by his bride’s brooding silence, he could not fathom.

  It was late in the afternoon when they passed the familiar belt of aspens and birch trees that kept his father’s court hidden from the rest of Karscha. A perfectly kept road led in a straight path towards an ornate gate of gold, and past it rose his father’s palace.

  It was a structure of extravagant opulence. Each facade was painted in a different jewel colour: cobalt, amethyst, turquoise, imperial topaz. Great pillars flanked every window, richly decorated with carvings in the shapes of flowers and leaves. The roofs were domes of gold, tapered into points and spires that pierced the sky like needles.

  The palace and its pavilions were decadent with an overabundance of embellishments, and Sergevni could not help but feel a certain shame upon beholding his home. He found its vivid colours and gold gilding vulgar. There was no comfort for him in the painted silks and sculpted columns of its halls. The palace might stretch further than most cities — and yet he found every chamber and hallway confining and suffocating.

  The princess did not seem to share his disgust. She sat up with interest and stared around, observing her surroundings. Sergevni could only see the back of her head, but a small gasp of admiration had slipped from her lips upon first beholding Sevalensk. He resisted the urge to sneer in scorn and warn her that every crystal chandelier and rose-filled vase was only there to conceal serpents.

  Instead, he kept their mutual silence and galloped briskly towards the Imperial Pavilion. Pages in immaculate coats were filing out of the entrance, lining to form a path from the road to the small courtyard. Sergevni sighed. His time away from Sevalensk was at an end. Already he yearned for the moment when he would leave again.

  Once his horse had reached the bottom of the large marble steps that led up to the door, he pulled to a halt. Pages hurried forth, taking the reins from him, setting a little stepping-stool of painted wood by the side of the horse. A valet in a blue velvet doublet helped Adrienna down and onto the floor, and she stepped down, wincing. She was clearly sore from the days of riding she had endured, but she was still smiling and thanking the servants with airy civility.

  Sergevni ignored the painted stool and slid from his mount. There was no necessity for a small army of pages, and yet his fat
her had sent one to greet him. Pages offered Adrienna hot spiced wine on a tray and furs for her shoulders, then led her forward like crows trooping round a crumb of bread. She looked over her shoulder, and there was apprehension in her eyes when they met Sergevni’s.

  There was nothing he could do for her now. Soon, she was swallowed by the entrance of the palace; a lamb in the maw of a wolf. Sergevni could not escape that very beast either, and so he followed. Immediately, a trinity of simpering valets accosted him with matching smiles.

  “Your Imperial Highness, His Imperial Majesty wishes to see you.”

  Sergevni suppressed a sigh. He had much preferred the simple “armitza” the kind farmers had used to address him. He wondered how these valets did not tire their tongues pronouncing these overwrought titles all day long. But just like them, he was bound by obedience, and so he followed.

  His father was in one of the great salons he normally occupied, pacing[1][2] along a gallery of windows and paintings all taller than he was. Though he had once been a man of tall stature, over-indulgence had made the emperor stooped and plump in his old age. His gut stretched the fabric of his embroidered waistcoat and his face, still retaining vestiges of handsomeness, was purpled with the flush of alcohol.

  He looked up when his valets announced Sergevni and a triumphant smile stretched his mouth.

  “Ah, Sergevni! Finally, my son and heir returns! How fares your bride?”

  Sergevni bit back the truth. My bride fares silently, for she, too, is being compelled into a marriage she does not desire. My bride fares strangely since she stripped naked and slept in my arms. My bride is concerned with the wellbeing of others, and she is lovely and strange and daring and capricious.

  “Very well, Your Majesty,” he said instead, keeping his tone even.

  His father’s hand fell upon his shoulder, pulling him closer.

  “Already rumours reach me of her beauty. Have I not done well for you, Senya? Have I not gifted you a beautiful flower?”