“Stop,” she whispered.
“I’ll show you there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Tomas said, and then he grabbed her chin and with unkind fingers forced her face up. He planted his mouth over hers for what she supposed was meant to be a kiss which would sway her. As if his forcefulness would make her desire to take him as a husband! Morgana pursed her lips and tried to push him away, but he was too strong. The chill grew colder and larger. It reached deep, like shards of ice, as Tomas forced his tongue into her mouth.
She had never felt so cold, and the chill at the center of her being scared her almost as much as Tomas’s insistent touch. “Stop right now or you will be sorry,” Morgana said when she was able to turn her mouth from his and take a deep, ragged breath.
“I don’t think so,” Tomas said with confidence. “Until now I have been very tolerant of your quirks and demands. I have asked nicely, and I’ve waited for you to come to your senses. I’m not going to wait anymore. Almund has spoiled you, but I will not. I see now that tolerance is not what you need from a man. Perhaps you have simply been waiting for a man to take what he requires of you. You need a man to control you, a man to own you. I’m man enough to take what I want, Morgana. When I saw you slip out of your window, I knew this would be the night.”
The chill inside Morgana grew, and seemed to move throughout her body, traveling through the blood in her veins. She was struck by the certainty that this chill was not normal. Something was very wrong. “You followed me?”
“You’re mine,” Tomas said in a threatening voice. “Stop fighting what is meant to be.”
As with the others who had pursued her, what was “meant to be” was a partnership with the Ramsden family fortune and lands. One day her stepfather would be gone, and the house and the land would all be hers. It was an elegant, finely crafted house and there was a lot of land. Tomas was greedy like all the rest, not a friend at all. “Stop this while you can,” Morgana said softly.
Maybe Tomas heard something he did not like in her voice, because for a moment he did stop. He went very still, but unfortunately that stillness did not last. He foolishly continued, clumsily lifting her skirt and poking at her with his fingers.
“Do you like that?” he asked.
“No,” Morgana whispered, trying to contain the frostiness that made her feel as if her heart were literally made of ice. Her fingers tingled, and it seemed that the icy water flowing through her veins was cold as snow. Tomas’s hand slipped between her legs, and he grabbed. It hurt; his rough touch terrified her. She tried to slip from his grasp; she slapped his hands and pushed against him, hoping to free herself from his hold on her and run, taking the chance that she could lose him in the dark shadows, but he held her tightly.
“You will like me well enough before I’m done. Relax, and you will like it very well.”
Unable to escape, Morgana attempted to contain the iciness inside her, to push it down. She didn’t understand the growing coldness which was coursing through her, but she knew instinctively that it was bad. No good could come of it. But the excitement of the moment, the danger, the rush of vulnerability and anger had awakened a dark power she did not wish to possess. There was no turning back. Still, she tried. She reached for calmness, for peace, and found only coldness. She delved deep inside herself for control and found only chaos. Never in her life had she experienced pure panic, a complete loss of control and peace, not until now.
“You will marry me, Morgana,” Tomas said. “After tonight, you will have no choice. No other suitable man will have you once everyone knows we’ve become lovers beneath the moon of the First Night of the Spring Festival.”
“There is no love in this, Tomas. Please stop.”
He slapped her once and threw her to the ground, then quickly dropped to press his heavy body atop her. That was a terrible mistake, for with his violence he made it impossible for her to contain the horror he had awakened. What Morgana had so hoped to control was now unleashed, and there was no turning back. Tears stung her eyes, trailing down her cheeks and turning to ice that clung to her skin. Her body went rigid and a scream rose in her chest. She fought to contain that scream.
“You truly are cold,” Tomas said as he reached down to unfasten his trousers so he could take by force what he considered to be his. “Cold to the bone. Cold skin, cold eyes . . . cold heart, I suspect. Stop fighting, Morgana. Relax. Do you not know that this is the season of carnal initiation? Never fear, woman, what I’m about to teach will warm you up quite well.”
What she had attempted to still was unleashed, and Morgana screamed. The sound which was torn from her throat was foreign and frightening to her ears. Surely only a wounded animal would screech so.
Tomas backed away from her, falling to the side and rolling away, then coming up on his knees. “What the hell was that?”
He was no longer on top of her, no longer an immediate danger, but it was too late for her to stop what had begun as a simple chill. The unearthly coldness that had been building inside Morgana escaped from her body in one pulse, coloring a circle around her in blue and white light, and transforming everything within that circle—everything but Morgana herself—to crystal.
The grass, the fallen leaves, the trees, and Tomas—all clear and lifeless. Moonlight glimmered on what had once been life and was now cold, hard death. Lying on the ground in the midst of it all, Morgana reached out and touched what had once been a long blade of grass. It looked sharp but crumbled beneath her fingers, turning to dust without even marking her skin.
This should not be possible. It was wrong, unnatural, and wicked. What was she? What had she become? Was this destruction the result of a curse? Whatever the reason for her ghastly act, Morgana knew she had to escape before anyone found her here. She longed for the safety and warmth of home; she craved the heat of a fire in the hearth and a warm blanket and a locked door which would keep men like Tomas away from her.
As she stood, rising to her feet as carefully as possible, crystal grass and leaves beneath her feet broke into tiny pieces. The brittle crystal did not pierce her slippers or cut her feet. Instead, it simply crumbled into dust, more fragile than any ice or stone could ever be. Whatever substance all things in the path of her rage had become was unknown to her; it was not stone nor was it crystal.
For a moment she stared at what was left of Tomas. The statue before her looked like the man she knew had been sculpted of ice, down to the shape of his lips and the crease in his jacket and his halfway unfastened trousers. Moonlight gleamed on his frozen face; he looked so scared, as if in his last moment of life he’d realized what was happening, what he’d awakened, what a monster she was.
Morgana felt a surge of hope. If she had the power to transform everything in her path to this strange substance, perhaps she also had the power to undo it. A deep chill had preceded the burst of power. Perhaps warmth would turn Tomas to a man again. She reached out and touched his cold, hard face gently, hoping to give him some of the warmth which had returned to her. She leaned forward and blew a warm breath upon him, hoping all the while that he would become a man again.
Then she would run.
But Tomas did not transform; he remained a crystal statue in the shadows of the forest. A sob escaped Morgana’s throat. Tomas was a bad person, a greedy man who was willing to take what he wanted if it was not offered to him, but that didn’t mean he deserved to die this way. Was he entirely cold? Was there any life left in the form before her?
If only she had stayed in her room tonight, as her stepfather had ordered, Tomas would still be alive. Too soon Morgana heard the villagers approaching, their voices carrying sharply. She looked toward the bonfire and saw that at least half of the men there were headed her way. They had been drawn by her screech or the flash of light, and they could not find her here with what was left of Tomas. If they found her in the midst of destruction, they would know she was to blame—they would know she was cursed.
“I’m sorry,” Morgana whisper
ed, and then she ran, crystal grass and leaves crunching easily beneath her feet, until she left the circle of destruction she had created. Long before she reached her bedroom window, she heard the first villager’s scream.
Chapter One
Five Weeks Later
“IF I may be so bold as to say so once more, M’Lord Emperor, this is a very bad idea. A very bad idea.” Blane was brave enough to attempt to look at Jahn as he spoke his mind, but their eyes did not quite meet. The sentinel seemed to stare at Jahn’s forehead.
“No, you may not be so bold,” Jahn said calmly. “And stop calling me M’Lord Emperor, and anything else that might give me away.”
He should be annoyed with the sentinel for daring once again to speak out against such a brilliant plan, but the day was lovely and clear, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the road beneath the horses’ hooves was even. Jahn wore a borrowed sentinel’s green uniform which had seen better days, rather than the usual impeccably crafted crimson robe which had become his own uniform, of sorts. There was no crown upon his disheveled head. He had not shaved in more than three weeks.
He was much too happy to waste time chastising a man who was only trying to do his job.
“I have told you a hundred times to call me Devlyn while we’re carrying out our little charade,” Jahn said without anger.
“It does not seem right, M’L . . . Devlyn.”
“Devlyn was my name for many years longer than Jahn has been. You need not spit the name as if it tastes bitter.”
Blane was indignant, in tone and in posture. “Still, it isn’t right. You’re the emperor! We should have a contingent of guards to watch over you. In truth, you should not be here at all. You’re safer in the palace, where you can be properly guarded.”
That was true enough, but there was more to life than safety. At least, there should be. “Would you deny a condemned man a few precious days of freedom?” Jahn asked.
“Marriage is hardly a condemnation,” Blane argued.
“Are you married?” Odd that he did not know, as Blane was one of his favorite sentinels.
“Quite happily,” Blane said with a lift of his chin. “I’ve been married to a wonderful woman for five years, now.”
“No wonder you always look so well fed. Did you pick your bride all on your own?”
After a moment of silence, Blane’s posture eased and he nodded. “I did.”
“Well, then, you have an advantage over me.”
After that, Blane remained silent.
They would reach the home of Lady Morgana Ramsden in the afternoon, by Blane’s usually impeccable estimation. Of the six potential brides, she was one of two who lived close to Arthes. Since Jahn had never traveled in this particular direction and this route was not heavily traveled, they should be able to collect the woman in question and return to the palace without raising any suspicion. Jahn had met Almund Ramsden briefly, years earlier, but with his disguise—of which the beard was no small part—it was unlikely he’d be recognized. The entire excursion wouldn’t take more than fourteen to sixteen days. Six of those days had already passed.
Jahn estimated he could remain out of the palace for two weeks or a bit longer without raising any alarm. All was well in the country, except for the lack of an heir, a situation which seemed to terrify quite a few skittish followers. Those he called upon to keep things running smoothly continued to see to their duties in his absence, so the daily routine of government would not be disturbed. Before escaping from the palace Jahn had pleaded illness, something quite nasty and venomous that would keep all but a few loyal servants out of his bedroom. Those who cooperated with him in this charade would be well rewarded after his return. The others need never know.
And he would not only get out of the palace for a short while of blessed freedom, he would have the chance to see at least one of his potential wives up close long before he had to make his decision. Would she be a good and pleasant traveler or a pain in the ass? Most ladies of her type—rich and pampered—were a pain in the ass, but he supposed it was possible that he would be pleasantly surprised. After all, what woman would not be delighted at the prospect of being empress?
He would see Lady Morgana’s real face in a situation where she had no idea he might one day be her husband. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they treated those beneath them; he had learned that quickly after he’d taken his position. If the lady was kind to the lowly sentinels who had been sent to escort her, along with whatever maids and chaperones accompanied her, then that would be a point or two in her favor.
If she was a demanding pain in the ass, he’d reveal himself as emperor, then reject her and send her home without a second thought. Eventually.
He rather wished he’d brought a woman with him, for companionship on the chilly nights when he slept on the hard ground as he had during his long-past days as a soldier. The happily married Blane might not like having a female along—he would probably find it unseemly—but he would not object. Brave or not, he would not dare. Lady Morgana would be sure to object, however, and if she ever made the connection between the humble bearded sentinel and the emperor, there would be hell to pay. With such women there was often hell to pay.
Why could he not simply marry Melusina or Anrid? Or both? Now, that was an idea. He did not love them, but they were pleasing in bed and undemanding, and they made him laugh even at the end of the longest day. Was that not enough to make a decent marriage? It was more than many men had.
In any case, he recognized that it was too late now to turn back and collect one or both of them, so he’d have to wait until he returned to the palace and made a “recovery” from his illness to enjoy the company of a woman or two in the short time he had left as a free man. Once he married, he would be faithful; like it or not, that was decided.
Fittingly enough, with that thought a gentle but cold rain began to fall.
MORGANA had been in a constant state of agitation for the past four weeks, since the unexpected message had arrived from the palace. That frenzy, on top of the distress connected with the events of the First Night of the Spring Festival, had her passing many a sleepless night—and her days were not much better. That was not good, not good at all. Her stomach was constantly in knots. She had a headache that would not go away. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her skin had little color. A slamming door or a dog’s bark made her jump out of her skin, and when she did sleep, the dreams that came to her were so disturbing she woke more tired than when she’d fallen into her bed.
She was not suspected of causing Tomas’s tragic fate. Who would suspect her? In the early days she had worried that perhaps someone had seen her slipping out of her window, or that Tomas had told one of his friends that he’d planned to see her that night. Her worries on those counts had been for nothing. The villagers and her stepfather, as well as Tomas’s friends and family, had decided that poor Tomas had been lured into the forest by a traveling witch who’d seduced him—hence the undone britches—and then used black magic to turn him to glass, perhaps as part of dark sexual ritual.
Some of the first to arrive on the scene had made the mistake of trying to move the statue that had once been a man, and when they had done so, what Tomas had become in the wake of Morgana’s anger had shattered into a thousand small pieces. All that was left of Tomas Glyn was a pile of ash his family had buried weeks ago.
Yes, a witch traveling through on the First Night of the Spring Festival made much more sense than even to consider the possibility that someone with such wicked power lived in their midst. Most chose to believe that whatever had transformed Tomas was now gone and would never return, but a few, a disturbing few, continued to question whether or not the monster who had killed one of their own was living among them or waiting nearby in the forest for another victim, hiding its dark powers until it chose to strike again. Morgana had become the fiend in a tale told to scare small children and skittish women—and men who might think to wander too far
from home.
Now this. It was insulting that the emperor thought she’d agree to his inspection. Even if she had not decided—in the wake of the disaster with Tomas—never to marry, she’d be outraged. Her stepfather had refused to send a message of denial to the emperor, somehow thinking that he might be able to change her mind. Morgana planned simply to tell whatever official arrived to fetch her that she was not interested in the emperor’s offer. Perhaps she would apologize for the wasted trip—or perhaps she would not.
Her stepfather continued to be stubborn. He insisted such an insult to the emperor would be unforgivable, and that she had been offered a great opportunity and should grab it gratefully. What about the insult to her? Did that count for nothing?
And now, to add to the insult, she discovered that her planned escort was not to be a highly placed official at all, but instead, consisted of two common sentinels and whatever chaperone her stepfather might decide to send with the party—not that any party would be necessary, as she had no intention of leaving this house. Still, she did not even rate a highly placed escort! Not that she would agree to the ridiculous proposition if a minister or even a prince had come to collect her.
The sentinel who stood before her in the main room—pale-faced and squat, with his longish dark hair pulled back in a semi-neat braid—apparently realized the depth of her displeasure. He did not look her in the eye, and his fingers twitched often. No, he was not a man of influence and power. He took orders, he did not deliver them. Making him run back to the palace empty-handed would be easy enough.
It was the other one she was worried about.
The fair-haired, bearded sentinel was taller than his companion. He had intelligent eyes and, even though he was a common sentinel of low rank, a superior air. His long hair was worn loose, thick and straight and oddly streaked with different shades of blond. Above the untended beard, his cheekbones were high and well-shaped. He might be handsome beneath the beard, but perhaps he was one of those men who hid the fact that he had no chin with an abundance of facial hair. Why else would he sport a beard which seemed to be constructed of every color hair under the sun? Even from a distance she could see several shades of red, blond, and brown. Since he looked so annoyingly smug, she took some small pleasure from imagining that he had no chin at all.
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