Maybe she was cured. Maybe she would never have to fight off the curse again. If that was the case, then why should she tell anyone anything? It wasn’t as if Jahn didn’t have secrets of his own. He did. Several times in the past few days he had started a conversation with an ominous “I have something to tell you” that quickly turned into a pursuit much more pleasurable than talk. If what he wanted to divulge was important, he’d say it sooner or later.
As she had on more than one occasion, she met him at the door with the straight razor in her hand. She was determined to see what was hidden beneath all that horrid facial hair!
“Not again,” Jahn said as he came through the door, unfastening his belt and the sword hanging there with nimble fingers. “I like my beard. It’s very manly, don’t you think?”
With the hand that did not hold a blade, Morgana pointed to a raw spot on her chin. “Beard burn,” she said simply. “From this morning. Your lips are wonderfully soft, but that bristle is not. Shave off the beard or you will have to go kissless.”
“Kissless,” he repeated.
“Yes.” She sighed dramatically. “You cannot expect me to live forever with a rash on my face.”
“Why not? You’re still pleasing to look upon.”
“It hurts, Jahn,” she replied with a laugh.
He looked surprised. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Oh.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, but he did not attempt to kiss her. Just as well, since she was prepared to turn her head and refuse him—for a little while, at least. “I missed you today.” There was truth in his words, and they warmed her heart.
“I missed you, too.”
“Palace life is tedious without you. The palace itself is dull compared to this small room with you in it.”
“Are you trying to sweet-talk me into giving you a kiss?” she teased.
“Of course not. Though it is quite nice, kissing is not strictly necessary.”
“I beg your pardon?” Kissing had quickly become necessary for her.
She recognized the fire in his eyes and he smiled down at her; she knew this expression well. He wanted her. “I can please you quite well without our lips ever touching.”
“I’m sure you can, but that’s not the point . . .”
“Is it not?” Jahn spun her about and lifted her skirt with talented hands, stroking her thighs a bit and then letting his strong hands rest on her bare hips. He pulled her against him, and his hard length pressed against her backside. Morgana felt a thrill of excitement, as she always did when Jahn touched her. She closed her eyes and savored the way he held her, they way they fit together so well.
“We don’t even need to be face-to-face. You don’t have to study my offending beard and wonder whether or not there’s a proper chin beneath.” He guided her to the window, their steps small and in unison, and she looked down upon the people who walked on the street, all of them in a hurry to be somewhere. She didn’t want to be anywhere but here.
“I’m sure I will love your chin, even if it is puny,” she said.
Jahn did not join her in teasing. “Grab the windowsill,” he whispered.
She did as he asked.
“Bend forward.”
She did, thankful for the window coverings Jahn’s clever sentinel friends had managed to obtain. The fabric was gauzy, but it did offer some semblance of privacy.
Hand still beneath her yellow skirt, Jahn reached around and found her most sensitive and sensual spot. He stroked, and she was immediately wet. He slipped a finger inside her, and she almost found release then and there. She held on, yearning for more but not wanting this to be over so quickly.
He stroked her slowly with fingers that had learned her well, knowing how and where to touch her to keep alive this remarkable feeling of standing on the edge. It was like flying, and she half expected her feet to leave the ground at any moment. There was nothing cold about her when Jahn held her, not inside or out. He kissed the back of her neck and his fingers danced. He aroused her gently until she craved more; she craved all of him. Morgana trembled and held her breath; she moved demandingly against his stroke.
And then he was inside her, just a little bit, pushing into her dampness while he continued to arouse with his fingers. The afternoon sun hit her face through the curtains. Jahn was relentless. He was in her and all around her, he was everywhere, fingers moving against her as he pushed deeper inside and held himself there for a moment before resuming the slow, rhythmic movement.
Life went on around them, outside the window, beneath their plain wooden floor, and yet there was nothing else in her world but this. A joining. A search for pleasure. A marriage, the way a marriage was meant to be.
Morgana arched her back and took him deeper; she fell into a primitive rhythm that guided her body and wiped every thought from her mind. Every thought but Jahn and the way he felt inside her. She began to tremble, to glide back to meet his thrust, to move faster and with demand, and then she shattered. As she trembled, she felt his hot release. He trembled as deeply as she did. Did he feel as if he could fly?
A thought teased her brain, words lingered on her lips, but she quickly pushed them aside. This was not love, it was the warmth of sexual fulfillment. They were soldiers, she and Jahn, taking on life together in the best way they knew how. They were partners in all ways, and that did not require an element so fleeting and insubstantial and indefinable as love. If they found a remarkable physical connection along the way, that was just an additional and extraordinarily pleasurable—and lucky—benefit.
“See?” he said in a gruff voice, lowering his head to kiss her neck. “No kissing necessary.”
“You’re kissing me now,” she argued weakly.
“Not on the mouth.”
“Stop that,” she ordered with a laugh. “I said no kissing. I did not specify mouth only.”
“What a shame,” he said, turning her about and touching her lips with tender fingers and then lowering those fingers to her breasts to tease her tender nipples through the fabric of her plain yellow frock. Thank goodness the fabric was a thin one, as that allowed her to feel his caress very well. “I rather thought you liked my kisses.”
“I do, but . . .”
And then his gentle fingertips were on the raw place on her cheek. “Does it really hurt?”
“A little,” she confessed.
“I did not intend to hurt you,” he said with a fierce honesty.
“I know.”
“I would rather hurt myself.”
“You are a good husband,” she said with a smile.
“I take care of that which is mine.”
“You do.” She rose up and kissed his throat, allowing her lips to linger.
“I thought you said no kissing.”
“I don’t have a beard. I may kiss as I please.” She teased his throat with the tip of her tongue. “You taste so good.”
Jahn held her close and sighed. “I relent. How could I not? Have you ever shaved a man?”
“Of course not!” she answered indignantly.
He took her face in his hands, and she felt so small and yet so wonderfully safe.
“You watch,” he said. “I’ll do the shaving.”
THE beard had made a nice addition to his disguise in weeks past, for traveling and for the short trips to and from the palace. He truly did not care about proving to Morgana that he did have a chin beneath it. But the rough and wiry hair scraped her delicate skin, and for that reason it had to go.
Jahn sat before a cloudy and cracked mirror and cut away the longest strands, then lathered his face well. Not so long ago he had marched into the room intent on telling Morgana the truth and found her standing there with this very blade in her hand. Many times since then he had approached her, determined to tell all, but she always managed to distract him and they ended up engaged in more pleasurable pursuits than confession. Now it was too late, by his way of thinking. She would be furious w
hen she found out he’d lied to her.
He didn’t have much time. There was little more than five weeks left before the First Night of the Summer Festival.
Jahn had decided that without question, Morgana would make a fine empress. She had all the qualities any man—or country—could ask for. Not only would she make a suitable empress, she made him happy. They were compatible. Good fortune had been with him when he’d decided to go north in his venture from the palace and his structured life as emperor. He had run from the palace and the inevitability of marriage, and in the end had found a true wife.
He could not wait to give Morgana the gifts she deserved, to dress her in crimson and drape jewels around her pretty throat.
She watched closely as he shaved—he could feel her eyes on him—and he pondered what might happen in the weeks until the Summer Festival began. He could be totally honest with her here and now and give up these pleasing moments, or he could pretend to be Jahn Devlyn, sentinel and husband, until the last possible moment. He would, of course, choose Morgana as his empress when the proper time came. That had been decided the moment they had taken up residence in this room as man and wife. As it was very possible that she would be carrying his child by then, she couldn’t refuse him.
She would not be happy, though, not for a while. He’d likely have to pay for his insincerity for weeks after a proper wedding ceremony. Morgana would eventually forgive him. He caught her eye in the foggy mirror. Wouldn’t she? When she found that she would have everything she might ever desire in addition to this fine partnership, when he gave her jewels and fine gowns and flowers and scented oils, she would be glad that he was the emperor and not a poor sentinel.
That all sounded very well in his mind. In truth, he could not be sure that she would ever forgive him. Pity. He liked this alliance; he enjoyed coming home to this small, rough room. At the moment it truly was home, a home such as he had never known. He was happier here, warmer, more content than he had ever been in the palace.
Jahn was not ready to say that he might love Morgana, but he was definitely feeling something unusual and unexpected. Women had pleased him before. Women had thrown themselves at his feet and begged for his favor. Even before he’d become emperor, he had not lacked for the adoration of the opposite sex.
And yet, he had never felt anything more than gratitude toward them for what they offered. Gratitude and an entirely physical yearning for their fascinating bodies. He had never wished to protect any one of them with his life; he had never been delighted to see them smile. He had never longed to open a door and catch a glimpse of a woman who was truly glad to see him. He had certainly never been afraid of losing a woman’s affections.
When he told Morgana the truth, his newfound happiness was going to go away in the blink of an eye, and he was not ready to give it up. Not yet. Her affections could not be replaced.
When Jahn was clean shaven for the first time in more than a month, he turned about. Morgana very naturally and easily perched on his lap. She was light as a feather, delicate and fragile. His eyes fell on the red spot on her chin. He had not seen it in the darkness of this early morning, when he’d left her lying satisfied and returning to sleep. He would not hurt her again.
She smiled. “You have a lovely chin,” she said, touching the body part in question with loving fingers. “It’s not at all weak or misshapen. Why did you hide it beneath that awful beard?”
“My beard was not awful.”
Morgana nodded gently. “Yes, dear, it was most dreadful.” She studied his entire face. “You are unexpectedly handsome,” she said, moving her hand from his chin to his cheek. “There is a strong beauty about you. You’re lovely.”
“I am not lovely,” he argued without heat. “Whoever heard of a lovely sentinel? A man can only be handsome or manly or, in rare circumstances, attractive, though such a word should be reserved for those less-than-masculine men who prance about in lace and pointy-toed shoes and douse themselves in sweet perfumes.”
Morgana laughed, as he had intended. “Like the emperor?”
Jahn’s good humor died quickly. “Has someone accused the emperor of prancing about?”
“No, but he is that type of man, isn’t he?”
“No,” Jahn said decisively. “The emperor is as manly as I am.”
Morgana sighed. “I doubt that very much.”
Now would be the perfect opportunity to say, “Here I am. Surprise, love, you’ve claimed the emperor as your husband. Won’t you be happy to move from this small room to a fine suite of rooms in the palace?” But he said nothing, because he knew Morgana felt as he did. This room was home. She was happy here, as he was. The truth would ruin everything for a long while, perhaps forever.
She leaned forward. “You may kiss me now,” she said sweetly, and he happily obliged.
DANYA had thought her first glimpse of the palace in Arthes would be wondrous and filled with gladness and hope for the future, but after eight long days of travel she looked upon the fascinating structure as if it were a cold prison. What would the cold, hooded man insist that she do in order to save herself and her son? Would he really expect her to kill? Yes, she imagined he would.
She would be empress as she had hoped, but there would be no gladness in winning that position. As they rode toward the tall palace, Danya felt as if she were being pulled into a dark, swirling hole from which there would be no escape. As if the hooded man were still standing behind her, she felt a brush of icy wind that chilled her neck where he had touched her with his lips. That touch had been wicked—she had felt the evil of it to her bones—and the coldness was a reminder that he was always watching. Somehow, some way, he was with her.
“Vile bastard,” she whispered with heartfelt venom.
“What’s that?” Rainer guided his horse nearer to hers.
The deputy minister was an odd man, disdainful and caring at the same time, curious and relentless, kind and cold—no, not cold, distant. Set apart. Cautious. She still carried the handkerchief he had given her, for some reason she could not fathom. Usually it was tucked into her modest bodice, but on occasion, when no one was watching, she took it out and clutched the linen in her hand.
“I was simply mumbling about my joy at being out of this saddle at last,” she said, putting her own distance in the words even though her heart was pounding and she longed to tell him everything and ask for his help. In her heart she knew that there was no help for her. If she said anything, if she confessed all her sins—as she had confessed a small portion on one pleasant night of their journey—the hooded man would know. Perhaps Deputy Rainer did possess magic enough to make a snake like Ennis run, but the hooded man would be different. The hooded man would cut down this loyal and kind and pleasant man without a second thought. She owed Rainer nothing—well, little—but she could do him the favor of pushing him out of the sucking danger that was her life. “I want a hot bath straight away,” she said in her most petulant voice. “And proper tea with a hot meal, all served upon the emperor’s finest dinnerware. I would like to see a dressmaker first thing in the morning. The provincial gowns I have brought from home will not do, not at all.” She spoke as if she were already empress, issuing demands.
“I will see to it,” Rainer said with a nod of his head. His fair hair was so fine that the strands that had escaped his braid caught the wind and danced a bit.
“No,” she said sharply, “you will not. Your job is done.” She sighed tiredly. “Honestly, if I do not ever again see anyone to remind me of this dreadful journey, I’ll be quite content. I’ll require a servant, of course. A woman with some years of experience in the palace will do nicely.” She looked back at Fai, who had been exhausted by the journey. The girl deserved better than to be drawn into the world Danya was about to create. She deserved better than to be dragged into a firestorm she did not understand. “There is one last thing you can do for me. Find a room for Fai for the night, and then arrange an escort for her in the morning. I want her
on her way at first light.”
Rainer looked confused. “I believe she intends to remain here and serve you.”
“Perhaps she does,” Danya said crisply, “but I do not intend to keep her. I prefer a maid who has some experience with palace life, a well-trained woman who can serve in Fai’s place and in yours. Otherwise, how am I to acclimate myself quickly to this new place?”
Women usually didn’t like Danya, and with a stranger she would not run the danger of confessing too much in a moment of weakness, as she would with Rainer or even Fai. One look into Rainer’s pale and piercing eyes, and she might collapse and tell him everything. He had made himself too accessible in days past, too understanding and compassionate and strong. She could easily confess to him, and for her weakness her son would die.
Ethyn, nearly two years old, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s hair, was depending on her.
“I demand that a proper servant report to me immediately. Do not make me wait.”
“As you wish,” Rainer said distantly, and there was such distaste in his voice that Danya knew her job had been done well.
Chapter Seven
Four Weeks Until the First Night of the Summer Festival
MORGANA settled into an agreeable routine of wedded bliss, and the days flew past too quickly. She did what she could with the room which was her home for the moment, and planned for even better days to come. Though she had never been particularly interested in the arts involved in making a home, she did find herself spending hours mending her torn blue dress—a tedious task—and turning this plain room into a better place.
Jahn worked very hard, he was a fine and loyal sentinel, but surely he could do more with his life and livelihood. He was intelligent and strong, but not particularly driven to succeed.
When they had children, that lack of drive would surely change. They would need more when their family grew. More room, more food, more furnishings. They could always return to her childhood home, where with grandchildren to appease her stepfather, forgiveness would be offered, along with all the comforts one could imagine. But not only had Jahn declared to her that Arthes was his home and always would be, Morgana found she did not want to go back to the site of her former self. She had killed there. She had taken a life and she’d lied to protect herself. For a short but torturous while she’d lived in fear that someone, anyone, would discover her curse. Since so unwillingly leaving her home in Jahn’s company she had known little fear—and signs of her curse had remained dampened, showing a hint of its existence only when she’d been so foolish as to think of running away from the inevitable. No, there would be no returning to the place she had once called home. She and Jahn would make a go of it here, in Arthes. This was home now.
Bride By Command Page 12
