Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Praise for the Children of the Sun Trilogy
Prince of Swords
“Allow yourself to be swept into a world where good and evil battle, where goddesses and princes fight demons and shape-shifters. This is a world Jones excels at creating, [an] exciting, colorful realm.” —Romantic Times
Prince of Fire
“Linda Winstead Jones pens a perfect romance laced with strife, mystery, and an intense passion hot enough to singe your fingers.” —Romance Junkies
Prince of Magic
“Punchy battle scenes and steamy lovemaking will please genre fans, but it is Jones’s gift for creating complex heroes and villains that lifts this story out of the ordinary.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for the Sisters of the Sun Trilogy
The Star Witch
“Bewitching . . . A fabulous, climactic romantic fantasy . . . filled with fascinating twists, beguiling.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Well done! Very sensual.” —Booklist
“A fantastic denouement . . . For an action-packed and thrilling romance, The Star Witch is just what the doctor ordered.” —Romance Reviews Today
The Moon Witch
“I can hardly wait to find out how she will [entwine] all the threads she has created! . . . This series is just too good to miss.” —The Romance Reader
“An enjoyable romantic fantasy that grips the audience . . . Action-packed.” —The Best Reviews
“A unique and imaginative realm . . . Prepare to be swept away!” —Rendezvous
“[W]ill enthrall . . . Lushly imaginative.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Sun Witch
“Entertaining and imaginative, with a wonderful blend of worlds and technology and magic. The characters are different and engrossing; the villain is fascinating.”
—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard
“Charming . . . Winsome . . . The perfect choice when you want a lighthearted and fun, yet sensual, romance . . . with all the magic of a fairy tale.” —Bookbug on the Web
“Fabulous . . . The story is spectacular and this author is unforgettable.” —Road to Romance
“Amazing adventures unfold . . . Marvelously captivating, sensuous, fast-paced.” —Booklist (starred review)
“Hot.” —Affaire de Coeur
Berkley Sensation Titles by Linda Winstead Jones
THE SUN WITCH
THE MOON WITCH
THE STAR WITCH
PRINCE OF MAGIC
PRINCE OF FIRE
PRINCE OF SWORDS
UNTOUCHABLE
22 NIGHTS
BRIDE BY COMMAND
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
BRIDE BY COMMAND
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
printing HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / March 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Linda Winstead Jones.
All rights reserved.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-01227-7
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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With special thanks to
Allison Brandau, Wendy McCurdy,
and Christine Zika.
Prologue
The Columbyanan Palace in the Sixth Year of the
Reign of Emperor Nechtyn Jahn Calcus Sadwyn Beckyt
First Night of the Spring Festival
WHEN he had dismissed the last of his advisers, Jahn gave a tired sigh and sat heavily in the crimson padded chair which dominated one corner of his spacious and ornate bedchamber. There were times when he found peace in this private room he called his own. The bed was large and comfortable; the furnishings were finer than anything he had known before coming to Arthes; there was a fire whenever he wanted or needed one; and there was no skimping when it came to the scented oils which burned here and there, lighting the dimmer corners and adding a sweet scent to the air. Here there were no demands made of him. The demanding moments took place in the ballroom or his suite of offices. This chamber, decorated in imperial crimson and made as comfortable as any man could wish for, was meant for pleasure and rest and rare peace.
But tonight Jahn could find no peace. What had he done? In a fit of pique he had set in motion a ridiculous contest which would end in his inevitable and unwelcome marriage. Perhaps he would have a bit of fun along the way, as he watched those around him scramble to make this concept work, but would it be worth the trouble? He could just as easily have instructed any one of his ministers to choose a bride for him. They all had very strong ideas about which woman would make the best empress. The ladies were all talented or intelligent or beautiful or came from a fine bloodline which would strengthen his ties with a country or a tribe. It wasn’t as if love or physical attraction would play any part in his decision, no matter how the game was played.
Being empe
ror had its advantages, and he was not ignorant of them. His word was law. Literally. If he wanted something, anything, all he had to do was ask and it was delivered to him. Loose women, his favorite type, cared only for pleasing him. He had his own army at his command. His days of indulging in physical labor and answering the commands of others were over.
And yet he could not have the simple luxury of falling in love before marriage. He could not choose to remain unwed, if such a lifestyle suited him. This extraordinary palace was often more a prison than a home, and there were days when he could almost feel the walls closing in on him, as they did now. Marriage and the resulting fatherhood would only imprison him more surely.
He was trapped.
Still sitting, Jahn began to unfasten his long, cumbersome robe. He was damned tired of crimson, especially on this night when he had set the wheels of change into motion. One word, and the sentinels who were positioned outside his door would fetch one or two of Jahn’s favorite ladies, and they would make him forget that he was as much a prisoner as a ruler. They would make him forget everything. Melusina, perhaps, or Anrid. Just the thought of them made him grin. Melusina had a wonderful laugh that always made him smile, and Anrid possessed great, white breasts so soft he could happily fondle them for hours.
Once he was married, he would give them up, he supposed. He could keep all the women he desired. He could continue to live as if he were not a husband, as if he had no bonds, no boundaries. His marriage could, if he so chose, be approached as if it were for nothing more than politics and for the sake of producing a child. And once the empress caught a babe, he could banish her to some remote corner of the palace, bringing her out for holidays and social affairs and such, and resume his lascivious lifestyle.
But he would not. Jahn was determined that he would not become his father. No matter what his weaknesses might be, he was a good ruler who put the needs of the people first, always. He had not been trained all his life for this position, he had not been born and bred with politics in his mind and his heart. But he knew how to make people like him, when it was necessary, and he was good at surrounding himself with capable followers who did their jobs well and in the process made him look as if he were capable.
And unlike his father, once he was wed he would be faithful—even if it killed him.
Knowing his carefree days were numbered, Jahn found the energy to leap from his chair and rush to the door, blasted crimson robe halfway undone. He opened that door swiftly to reveal four sentinels whose duty was to keep their emperor safe. Jahn’s eyes fell on Blane, a quiet and sensible and slightly rotund man who had been with him from the beginning.
“Melusina,” he said sharply.
Blane nodded once and turned away.
“And Anrid,” Jahn called after him. If his days were numbered, he might as well enjoy them all to the utmost.
LADY Morgana Ramsden had crept from her soft bed, escaped through her bedchamber window, and walked a relatively short distance from her fine home to hide in the shadows of the forest and watch the servants and villagers dance around the bonfire and celebrate the season of life, of fertility. Morgana had heard whispers that for some it was also a season of sexual awakening, of virile men and welcoming women, a celebration of pleasure given and taken, of life begun. Knowing how protective her stepfather was, it was no wonder she was not allowed to attend such a common celebration, that she had been forbidden even to observe the festivities from afar. What her stepfather didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Morgana led a blessed life for the most part, a much easier life than those of the plainly dressed girls who danced around the fire and laughed out loud and flirted with brawny men. She watched in awe as a young woman with wild, dark hair all but pressed her large, round bosom in the face of a momentarily startled man and then danced away, laughing. The man recovered from his surprise quickly and followed, and he laughed, too. Any one of those girls would likely do anything to be in Morgana’s position, and yet she often envied them their laughter and freedom.
She was so intent on watching the revelers she did not realize Tomas Glyn was behind her until he laid a hand on her shoulder. Instinctively Morgana gasped, threw off his hand, and spun about. Her fair hair whipped across her face, and even though she was relieved to see it was a lifelong family friend who had surprised her, she remained angry.
“You should not sneak up on a girl that way,” she admonished. “You startled me. I would not wish to hurt you.”
Tomas smiled widely. “You? Hurt me? Impossible.”
“I might’ve been armed with a dagger or a small sword.”
“Are you?” he asked, his tone friendly.
“No, of course not, but I might’ve been.”
He moved a step closer. “A fine lady of your position should not be out here all alone. It is not fitting.”
The back of her neck tingled; she did not like the way he looked at her. “I am not alone now.”
“True enough.” Tomas looked past her to watch the revelry she had so recently envied. The peasants were far enough away that they could not hear whispers from the forest over their laughter and song. “Look at them. Aren’t they pathetic? Dancing around the fire and singing as if some god or goddess will bless them simply because they threw a party to see in the new season. I suppose they must take whatever small pleasures they can find, poor creatures.”
Morgana did not think the villagers pathetic, not at all, but neither did she wish to argue. “You won’t tell my stepfather that you saw me, will you?” she asked. “He has forbidden me to wander away from home on my own, and he would be livid if he knew I’d sneaked out at night. I shouldn’t have disobeyed him, I know, but I did so want to see the celebration.” In years past she had considered stealing away to watch one festivity or another, but this was the first time she’d dared to actually leave the house.
Tomas’s eyes narrowed in obvious disapproval. “You should not defy Almund. He’s been very good to you.”
“Yes, he has.”
Tomas could not accept that agreement and move on. He had to elaborate. “Almund gave you his name, raised you as his own, and even now he allows you to have more freedom than any woman should.”
Morgana’s chin came up. They had had this conversation before, too many times. “I suppose you are speaking of my unwillingness to marry?”
“Yes,” Tomas said softly.
Before her death seven years earlier, Morgana’s mother, the lovely Awel Ramsden, had made her husband, Almund, promise that he would not force their only child into taking a husband she did not love. Awel had been frantically insistent, in fact. Caught up in the emotion of the moment, the grieving husband had agreed to his wife’s last request, and so far had stuck with that promise, even though he was openly weary of Morgana’s constant refusals of offers. What Almund Ramsden did not know was that his wife had also begged her daughter not to give in to marriage until she discovered a love she could trust. Awel’s first marriage, her short-lived union with Morgana’s long-deceased father, had been an arranged one. Though Awel had never offered Morgana details, she had made it clear that to marry without love was a terrible mistake.
Real love was worth waiting for, Awel Ramsden had insisted fervently, not long before she took her last breath.
Morgana was taken by surprise when Tomas reached out and caressed her hair. He’d offered himself as husband more than once, and she’d always refused, just as she refused all others. Unlike her stepfather and the other men who no longer called upon her, Tomas displayed quite a lot of patience. He was persistent to a fault.
“Marry me,” he said, not for the first time.
“No.”
“I know you’re uncertain about me, but if it’s love you want, as so many women seem to do, then be assured that love will come, in time,” he said. “Even if it does not, we can be great friends for a lifetime. Are the best of marriages not between friends?”
“My answer remains no.” She did not know if
the kind of love her mother had spoken of existed for her—it certainly had not shown itself thus far—but she did understand that she didn’t love Tomas and never would.
In the darkness she could not see his face well. Shadows of the forest hid his expression from her. But she saw too well the tightening of his lips, the tic of his jaw. “Are you too good for me, Lady Morgana, is that it? Are you too pretty? Too rich? Too pure?”
“No! That’s not it at all.”
“Then what is your problem? Why do you constantly refuse me when I have done everything to win you to my side?” Tomas’s frustration was clear in his voice and in the alarming balling of his fists.
Morgana instinctively stepped back, wondering if Tomas would catch her if she tried to escape. Of course he would. His legs were longer than hers, and he was not impeded by a heavy, cumbersome skirt.
He looked into her eyes, and something in his expression softened. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said, and he reached out to boldly caress her breast with the tips of his fingers, much in the same casual way he had caressed her hair moments earlier. When Morgana stepped back once more, when she tried to move away from his touch, Tomas grabbed the fabric of her dark blue gown, chosen for this night so she could blend into the shadows, and forcefully pulled her to him. Stitches popped, fabric ripped, and Morgana felt a growing chill inside her, as a seed of fear took root in her heart.
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