Bride By Command

by WINSTEAD JONES, LINDA

  Annoyed as she was at the man and the situation, she had not once felt the growing icy cold that had preceded her flash of destruction just a few weeks ago. That surprised her a little, since she’d been alternately scared and angry and frustrated—as well as savoring recent moments of total relaxation and peace. Her emotions had been high on more than one occasion in days past, and yet she had not felt even a hint of a chill. Of course, Jahn hadn’t physically confronted her, not even in the smallest way. If he tried to take her as Tomas had, would she lose control and let loose a burst of cold, icy death?

  Even though she did not know him all that well, she didn’t believe Jahn Devlyn was the kind of man who would do what Tomas had done. More than that, perhaps deep down some part of her realized she was in no danger while in his company, and that knowledge made it possible for her to keep her curse buried deep, where it could do no harm. Did something inside her recognize Jahn’s promise to protect as real and true?

  Jahn thought she was beautiful and would make a good wife. If only he knew that she had killed a man. She was a murderess. She had not planned or wanted to take a life, but she did not think those details mattered much, in the grand scheme of things. A man—a less-than-honorable man, to be sure, but a living being all the same—was dead, had died a horrible death, and it was her fault. She could not escape that fact.

  They had stopped for an afternoon break, a needed rest for the horses and for themselves, and Morgana found herself standing on a small, green hill looking down at a pond of the clearest, stillest water she had ever seen. The sun reflected off the surface as if off glass, and the trees at the edge of the pond seemed to grow toward the water as if they longed to jump in but could not, as their roots held them at a distance.

  She took a deep breath of cool, crisp air, and felt a rush of peace she did not ordinarily experience settle in her heart and her soul. How unexpected, that she should find any peace at all on this journey. Did distance from her crime make it possible for her to relax? Was she running away?

  Jahn walked down the hill to the edge of the pond, and she watched as he washed his face, his hands disrupting the stillness of the water, sending ripples to the center of the large pond. She would not remain married, and she was still mightily annoyed at him for stealing her away from her home, but she had to admit he was nice-looking, odd beard aside. He was pleasant in personality, and he was strong and protective. Worse men might’ve taken advantage of her stepfather’s heated vow, she supposed. If she were a peasant girl looking for a man to take care of her, he would do better than most. Much better.

  Hadn’t she, not too long ago, dreamed of being such a woman, a woman with no responsibilities? No expectations?

  No curse.

  If Jahn annoyed her greatly over one thing or another, would the curse rise up to take him? Would his protective-ness keep her at a distance from the type of situations which would make the destruction within her rise past all her defenses? She did not know, and that was another part of her curse, perhaps the worst part. She did not know what tomorrow would bring.

  Face washed and waterskins refilled, Jahn climbed the hill to join her. Though in days past Morgana had often made it a point to avoid talking to him, to avoid coming face to face with him for a moment longer than was necessary, today she stood her ground. He had given her no reason to fear him, no reason to run. She realized, for the first time, that she had slept more since leaving home than she had since Tomas had died. With a blanket on the hard ground as her bed and the sky above, she had slept.

  “How long before we reach Arthes?” she asked, searching desperately for some reason to speak to the man who called himself her husband.

  “Four days, perhaps five,” Jahn answered. “If the weather holds, I’d say four days will do it.”

  “What will we do if it rains?” she asked, looking up at the clear sky. Springtime could bring unstable weather.

  Jahn grinned. “We will get wet.”

  “You said you would take care of me.”

  “Getting wet is hardly a danger, unless you’re sickly and catch cold easily. Are you sickly, Ana?”

  She should chastise him for calling her Ana, but did not. “No, I am not sickly. That doesn’t mean I like getting wet.”

  “We don’t always get what we want in life, now do we?”

  “My current situation proves that well enough,” she snapped.

  His blue eyes twinkled, as if he actually liked making her angry. “It has always been my opinion that women rarely know what they really want. They might think . . .”

  “You’re not serious . . .”

  Jahn winked at her, and something terrible happened. Morgana’s heart skipped a beat. The man was maddening! He had that horrible beard and he’d kidnapped her—more or less—and he had no idea what women liked or wanted or needed. And for a moment, just a moment, she experienced what could only be called an intense liking for the infuriating man.

  “You’ve got some color in your cheeks,” he said, his smile fading. “The sun’s been good for you, Ana.”

  She did not tell him that she suspected it hadn’t been just the sun that added color to her cheeks.

  With indignation, she turned her back to Jahn and stalked away. She’d taken only three steps before she realized she had nowhere to go.

  DANYA pursed her lips toward the mirror and fluffed her dark hair. “I don’t know why I can’t go to Arthes and take up residence now,” she whined.

  Standing behind her, Danya’s mother—still pretty, dark-haired Rheta Calliste—glowered. “It would not be fitting for you to seem too anxious. There are more than six weeks, still, before the emperor will make his choice, and the journey to Arthes will not take much more than eight or nine days.”

  Danya turned around and smiled gently at her mother. Frowning, or smiling too widely, caused unsightly wrinkles. Perhaps she was only twenty-two years of age, but she knew all about wrinkles. After all, she had four older sisters. “Mother, I might become empress. I might sit at the side of the most powerful man in all of Columbyana, I might give birth to the next emperor. Think of the jewels and the parties and the clothes. Think of the fine shoes! What woman would not be anxious about the possibilities?”

  “Fine,” Rheta said pragmatically. “Just don’t make your excitement so clear for all to see. Every man, even an emperor, should have to work to gain the affection of his bride. You should display at least a modicum of indignation that you’re to be inspected, that there are five other women in the . . . the contest.” She whispered the final word, finding it distasteful.

  Danya did not care how this reprieve had come about. She was going to escape! “That deputy minister of something or another has arrived to escort me, and he seems anxious enough to leave. Is it fair to make him wait while I dawdle?” True, the emperor’s man had said she could take all the time she needed to prepare herself for the journey. She could make him wait a month, if she insisted that she needed more time to prepare. But no, she wanted to escape now.

  “Yes,” Rheta said succinctly. “Remember that one day that deputy minister and many others might answer to your orders. He can and will wait a few more days while you prepare yourself.”

  “Mother, I’m prepared!” Danya said impatiently. Oh, was she prepared! She could not wait to get out of this house.

  “Well, let’s not allow the emperor’s servant to see your eagerness just yet, shall we?”

  Danya could not tell her mother why she was so anxious to leave the only home she’d ever known. A part of her longed to tell everything, to cry and plead and confess, to lay her heart on the line and sob for what had been lost. But another part realized that this staid and proper lady she loved so much would not believe her. At the very least, she would not believe the details, and the details were very, very important.

  Rheta would also be so disappointed and aggrieved—even if she did believe the tale in it entirety.

  Danya’s mother waved a well manicured hand. �
�Besides, all your sisters and their husbands are coming here for a lavish farewell dinner, three days from now. I had wanted the party to be a surprise, but it looks as though I’ll have to tie you down to keep you from beginning the journey to Arthes for another three days.”

  A cold chill walked up Danya’s spine, and in the mirror she could see that her face paled. She detested family gatherings.

  “I would like to have my girls together one last time before you leave,” Rheta said in a gentler voice. “It’s difficult enough to see you go, and if the emperor chooses you and you remain in Arthes, then it will become even harder.” A mother’s expression was difficult to deny. “Please stay. Once the family party is done, you can race for Arthes and your destiny, if you’d like, though I think a few more days are not too much to ask.”

  Danya, unable to speak, nodded her head. She would stay for her mother’s sake, but in truth the planned party was one more reason for her to run for Arthes as soon as possible.

  And though she would not, could not, tell her mother, even if she was not chosen as the new empress, she would not return to this house and take up her position as the youngest and prettiest and, yes, silliest daughter of five. No, she wasn’t ever coming back here, and for that reason she would allow her mother one last family gathering. There would not be another with Danya in attendance.

  Chapter Three

  JAHN could not help noticing that as they moved closer to Arthes, Morgana glanced over her shoulder more often. As the final days of their journey unfolded, she insisted on stopping frequently, then watching their trail for her stepfather and those she believed he would surely send to collect her, once he realized he had been foolish to give her to a lowly sentinel—oath to God or not. Did she think that by stopping often she would give her stepfather the chance to catch up with them?

  Ramsden did not come. He left his daughter in the emperor’s care, for now. Arthes and a return to the life Jahn knew grew closer with every step. Pity. He did not want the easy days to end; he felt like he was just beginning to see the real Morgana Ramsden. Since her tears had stopped, traveling with the woman had been relatively pleasant. She was nice to look at, even when she was angry, and she had a sweet voice, though her words were rarely what any man would call sweet. He found her cutting comments bright and sometimes funny, and looked forward to what she had to say when he riled her. She was no longer as pale as she had been when he’d met her, thanks to the sun and something else he did not dare attempt to understand. She was more alive than she had been when he’d met her—more vivid, perhaps.

  The dishevelment caused by their days of travel only made her look more fetching. Her once fine gown was faded and beginning to fray here and there, and she couldn’t do much with her thick hair with only the single comb she had found in her bag. At the moment the prim and proper Lady Morgana who had denounced Emperor Jahn for his gluttony and debauchery looked as if she had a touch of a wild side. She usually hid that side well, he imagined, but Jahn could see it in her eyes and in the set of her mouth. It was simply more pronounced when her fine gown was mussed and her hair was in disarray.

  Perhaps he saw the hidden wildness in her because he knew it in himself. She might be a better match for him than he’d initially thought.

  Still, in all these days she had not once said that she’d been wrong to refuse the emperor’s invitation. She had not asked him to please, please, if he wouldn’t mind too terribly, deliver her to the palace upon their arrival in the capital city, as she had made a grievous error.

  They stopped while still in sight of the city, which sprawled before them much different in style and shape and sound than the countryside had been. Jahn was sorry to see the journey end, sorry to see the palace rising before them. Even more, he was oddly sorry to see the end of his charade. He was certain he would know Lady Morgana much more deeply if he had a few more days in which to study and test her.

  They should’ve taken a roundabout route, but it was too late for that decision.

  A tantalizing thought teased Jahn’s wandering mind. What would happen if he took his newly claimed wife, changed his name once again, and fled for parts unknown? What if he remained Jahn Devlyn, and spent a lifetime making this woman his own? She would eventually make a fine wife for a simple man, and he would love to be a simple man once again.

  Instead of fleeing, he took Blane aside and whispered in his ear. The sentinel was not happy about the turn of events, but as a loyal servant he would do what was asked. He certainly did not like what Jahn asked now, but he pursed his lips, nodded once, then mounted his horse and sped away for the city and his task.

  Morgana was not pleased to see their chaperone go.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Blane is anxious to see his wife,” Jahn explained. “He does not have the consideration for his horse that I have for ours. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough for us to enter the city.”

  Morgana glanced toward the brilliantly colored sunset. “Tomorrow?” she asked, her voice small as she no doubt remembered that Blane’s presence was one of the reasons their “marriage” had not been consummated.

  “Yes, do you mind?” he asked casually. “Can you bear one more night sleeping on the ground before I introduce you to your marriage bed?”

  She straightened her spine and her eyes widened slightly. “Whatever you think is best. I would not wish to injure our horses by pressing onward too quickly or too soon.”

  No surprise there. He did not for one moment believe concern for the animals in their care made her agree to spend another night in such unaccustomed and rough conditions. “I believe you will be quite comfortable in your new home, though you might find it in need of a woman’s touch.”

  “I can only imagine,” she said dryly. “Where is your house located?”

  Jahn laughed. “House? I have no house.”

  She blinked hard. “Then where do you live?”

  “I told you early on, love, that I lease a room over one of the finest taverns in Arthes. Have you forgotten?” Had she even been listening? “Our room is near to the palace, which is handy, and only a few steps from the best ale in town, which is also very handy.”

  “I can’t live over a tavern!”

  “Of course you can,” Jahn said smoothly.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do you drink very much?”

  “When the spirit moves me, I suppose I do.”

  Her mouth pursed in obvious disapproval. “I will not have a drunkard husband.”

  Jahn was taken aback. Had she, or had she not, just referred to him as her husband? She was supposed to be horrified to find herself in this position; she was supposed to fervently wish for the opportunity she had so blithely dismissed only a few days ago.

  “I will not have a woman tell me what I can and cannot do,” Jahn responded tightly, “unless we are in bed, of course, and then I am quite amenable to direction.” He did not give her a chance to respond to that. “Besides, a man must have a leisure pursuit of some sort, in order to shake off the stress of a long workday.”

  “Drinking to excess is not a leisure pursuit!” Morgana argued.

  “Of course it is. There are not many diversions suitable for a man like me,” Jahn said, shucking off his sentinel’s vest and beginning to make himself comfortable for the long evening ahead. “Drinking, womanizing, gambling . . .”

  “None of those are acceptable. What’s wrong with woodworking or gardening or learning to play a musical instrument?”

  Jahn looked at Morgana and grinned. “You’re joking, right?”

  “No husband of mine is going to drink, gamble, or womanize,” she said.

  Again with the “husband.” Jahn leaned close, enjoying the glow of her skin and the light in her eyes as she argued with him. “Need I remind you, love, that I am not yet officially your husband?”

  Instead of getting angry or haughty, she blushed and turned her head to the side, breaking eye contact. “No, you need not remind me.”<
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  Interesting . . .

  DANYA sat between her sister Hetta and her brother-in-law Bevan at the long dinner table on this last night in her childhood home. The small children, her innumerable nephews and nieces, had all been fed and put to bed early, thank the heavens. The family seemed quite proud of their ability to reproduce. Two of her sisters were pregnant once again, but were not so far along that they couldn’t travel a short distance for an important family gathering.

  All of them were excited about the prospect of having a sister in the Columbyanan palace. Danya had not yet told her sisters that if she was chosen empress, she would cut all ties with her family as soon as possible. Her father, who sat at the head of the table with a large ewer of wine, did not seem to be at all impressed or sad. As usual, he was quiet and without emotion. He had already drunk too much wine, and before the meal was finished, he’d be nodding off in his chair and everyone would ignore the embarrassment.

  Logically, she realized her mother and her sisters had done nothing to earn her dislike. They simply reminded her of a life she wanted desperately to leave behind; they reminded her too sharply of her failings. Her fresh start should be entirely fresh!

  The deputy minister of whatever, whose name she could not recall, sat at the other end of the table. The poor, unsuspecting man was positioned between Althea and Rodric, so he had her sympathy. The imperial man from Arthes was a quiet sort who wore his fair hair in a long, well-tended braid and often kept his eyes down. He revealed little in the way of emotion, even when his hostess insisted that he delay his departure to attend this gathering he so obviously did not wish to attend. To Danya’s eyes, he looked quite young to be deputy minister of anything. She’d always pictured ministers and deputies as old and either very thin or too well fed. This official escort was neither.