Bullied Bride

by Hollie Hutchins

  I promise him that I will. But I feel like a liar when I say them.

  I have to remain in bed, recovering, but I don't want to be here. Don't particularly want to be injured, either, but I can't have everything.

  The Graves guards are positioned outside the hospital wing, and they keep flicking concerned or moody glances my way. Danny has already confessed he feels like he's failed his duties, and Morgan keeps talking about how much he wants to gut Paul and the person who shot me. When I asked them why they didn't report, since this does seem like an incident to report, Morgan had looked nervous, before admitting that they hoped the Graves posturing and threat of massacre would be enough.

  But if the worst came to the worse, then they would make good upon their threat. He was to use his discretion on the matter, and from his opinion, the Claymores were making leaps and bounds towards better relations. He thought Desmond truly cared for me, and could help foster healthier relations.

  In short, he didn't want the war almost as much as we did.

  I suspected as much. It would be devastating for three clans to smash together in war. It might even destroy those who remained after as a nation, opening us up to bandit attacks, collapsing what little economy we did have.

  I manage to sleep at some point, but my dreams are punctuated by nightmares. By seeing my death over and over, and Paul's leering face, as it transforms from kind and friendly to the evil lurking within. To think I never saw it in him. To think I was stupid enough, foolish enough to let myself get locked in a room with him while he tried to ply me with drink and get me vulnerable. Though care should have been taken, I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want the one guy to show me such kindness to also be a lie.

  The thoughts keep spilling, and I keep waking, often out of the pull of something awful. It's only when I forcibly lie there, eyes shut, sailing my thoughts to calmer waters, that I'm able to have a much better time. Especially when I focus on the fact that Desmond cares. He was worried sick, and searched for me. He brought me back from the brink of death.

  That's what matters.

  Though the first night goes better, healing over the next two weeks has me bored out of my skull. The enforced bed rest, the brief visits, the changing of my bandages and a lack of interesting reading material take their toll. When my arms feel strong enough to brush the covers without a million things stinging and throbbing in pain all at once, it's easy to discreetly rest my hand between my thighs, and then lightly stroke as I imagine what might have been. If the night went well, and I waited in our rooms, and he returned with that smile and that promise. If we would've drowned in ecstasy, giving into ourselves and letting the lust do all the talking.

  Sometimes I'm startled out of my thoughts by the doctor intruding, but mostly I'm left alone, to simmer in silence, knowing Morgan and Danny are waiting outside. Neither so interested to stay away from their duties for long.

  Once, it sounded as though they turned away Rayse from the door. Probably a good thing. I don't quite see Rayse coming in with flowers and an apology. I wonder if I might have met a new end to assassins, if the Graves were not guarding my rest. They are unable to pass me any news about Ethel or Paul, and in Desmond's brief visits during his whirlwind of activity, he doesn't want to say too much on what's happening, either. Just some cryptic talk about how he thinks his efforts are yielding improvement, but it's a wait and see situation. At least I get some kisses out of it to keep me going, but those frustrate me in a different way.

  With the severe lack of information from the outside world, escaping from this room feels as if heaven has opened itself up to me.

  “Try not to die again,” Morgan says, his eyes intense as he studies me. Both Graves are decked out in their colors and in what seems to be a sort of boiled leather jerkin protecting their chests. Normally they don't bother with that, so it almost seems as if they were expecting an attack, somehow.

  “No promises there,” I say gloomily. “But I'll try and be more sensible about running away in the future.”

  Their looks of alarm make me grin, and Danny eventually just swats me upside the head. “Not funny.”

  “It was a little bit.” I grin. “But seriously, I'm just glad to be out.”

  “Hope so. Politics in this place seems a little... fraught at the moment,” Morgan warns me yet again. “We're not given the details, but servants gossip, and gossip loudly. You might hear all sorts of things.”

  “Like the fact some of them think I was attacked by Desmond?” I say. “Jay told me that one.”

  “Yeah, that's one,” Morgan agrees. “Another is that you definitely cheated with the stable boy, and that's why they locked him away. And the other guy they locked up didn't really shoot you, that's just how they're covering up what Desmond did.”

  “Oh boy.” I wish they could have told me some of this earlier, but they were preoccupied, I suppose. Come to think of it now, both look like they're seconds from just falling asleep, even though their voices are brazen and alert. I calculate. Two weeks of constant guarding, in shifts of one, and sometimes sticking together for small talk. Yeah. I'd be tired too in that scenario. Tired, but not willing to let on about it.

  They'll work themselves to death just to make sure nothing happens, but I might just disappoint them on that factor. Heading straight towards Rysin Claymore's study room, it's almost amusing to watch the panic bloom in their eyes.

  “Don't go up there too soon – let them have some time to prepare for you at least.”

  “You know something about what they're doing that I don't?”

  “No – but all the same, I don't think it wise to burst in on them. Might aggravate your condition and all.”

  “What condition?”

  “Your uh...” Morgan trails off, suddenly aware he might have said something offensive. “Well you've only just recovered, haven't you?”

  “I'm not some delicate flower,” I reply, wry. We head up to the third floor, where the office lies. More and more people look at us, some with eyes wide, others unsure what to make of our advance. “I don't plan to waste another second lying down if I can.”

  Morgan lets out a huff, but adds nothing else on the matter. He just keeps up, along with Danny, though both might as well be nearly dead on their feet. I'm going to have to persuade them to take a long and well-deserved rest soon. My heart takes a huge leap when I enter the last stretch, and see the impossible, milling up around the office.

  My clan colors. The bright yellow contrasts with the somber blue of the Claymores, and there's already a fair amount of posturing and aggressive gestures. When I stride up, people begin to notice my presence, and there's a few cries from the Hartson colors. Morgan and Danny look dumbfounded – clearly not expecting this outcome.

  “Pearl! Oh, sweet lord, you're alright. C'here.” Ezran, the burly guy well known for guarding my father, swoops me up in a spine crushing hug. “They didn't hurt you, did they?”

  “Ez, I'm fine. Seriously. Ow.” I laugh, thumping him on the shoulder until he relents, privately deciding not to admit he might have triggered an injury from my rough and tumble down the ravine. “Lord, you still feel like a steel bear trap with those embraces.”

  Ezran beams, and I pat his gristly black beard. “My father – is he here?”

  “Yes. It seems Rysin Claymore directly summoned for us. We wondered if it might have been a trap, but so far the hosting seems genuine.”

  I shoot a questioning glance over to the Claymore and Hartson groups, and he lets out an uneasy laugh. “We've got a fair amount to work through, but the fact no one's been killed yet is a miracle in itself.”

  “Our honor will make sure that our lord's son's wife remains healthy,” a dour faced Claymore vassal says. He looks ridiculously similar to Ezran, if perhaps a little plumper, and with a lighter beard contrasting with his clan colors. “I am... pleased that you have made a good recovery,” he says, doing a slight bow towards me.

  Are you, though, I think, thoug
h this isn't voiced out loud. It's astonishing enough to see that there are Hartsons and Claymores in the same corridor, and they're not in a free-for-all shootout. It feels honestly like I just recovered and ended up instead in some alternate dimension. One where we're not cursing each other's names by the second and thirsting for death.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Have they been treating you right?” Ezran says softly, though the nearest Hartsons can hear.

  I decide to be honest.

  “I think considering the shit our families have gone through, they've been doing a good job. I've had some problems with some of the servants, but I never expected a warm welcome when I came here. They are sticking to their word.”

  Never mind the Claymore vassal who took a fun pot shot at me beforehand. Mentioning that will not foster better relations. It's enough they're here now. I have to let go of that pain and hate.

  Forgiveness will be slow, but I don't want to jeopardize this.

  Perhaps the Claymore guard realizes what I've done, because I see something akin to gratefulness cross his face. “It's hard to change people's attitudes so quickly,” he says in an unctuous voice. “But our lord and his son have been extremely accommodating.”

  Just the one son, I think wryly, but Ezran doesn't ask any more questions. The other Hartsons give me similar greetings, and the posturing Claymores all manage curt nods towards me. Just before I go into the study, where I know my father awaits, I turn to face them.

  “Thank you for this. It's not easy, I know. It probably never will be. But we've got to start somewhere.”

  No one says anything to my words as I enter, and I feel just a tiny bit foolish. They were childish. It is fanciful to want things to change. But, well, it is exhausting to have to shoulder that burden by myself. It is exhausting to be the one people stare at in burning hatred, and know that I have to carry that to my grave.

  Opening the door, after the guards nod their acceptance makes me nervous as hell. My hands are slick. It's the first time I'm seeing my father in a long time, and I have no idea what kind of scene will be waiting for me behind the doors.

  My eyes settle on the livid posture of my father as he faces down Rysin, who stands opposing him, hands clasped behind his back. Desmond stands next to my brother, and they both clearly have the posture of people who don't want to be there.

  “I'll never forgive you for what you did to my brother,” my father's saying, before attention turns to me. “Pearl!”

  I greet him, but the mood between everyone seems to be awkward, to say the least. My father's justified in his words. Of course he is. But it doesn't revert the changes forced upon us. Changes that I pushed forward with my thoughtless actions, but would have perhaps happened at some point anyway. If not me who did something incredibly stupid, then someone else, surely.

  “As you can see,” Rysin says, “she is fine. Though I thought you needed longer bedrest?”

  “I've had way too much,” I say. “I'm getting bored sitting around doing nothing.”

  He twitches a smile, and then my father's on me, along with my brother, and I'm being squished, and they're asking if I'm okay, and it's hard to get any kind of word in edgeways. I appreciate their enthusiasm, nonetheless, and allow myself to be swamped in the familiar scent and joy of my family. My father fussing over me as if I was still his little girl is wonderful, but that can't be allowed to go on for long. Because I'm not a little girl anymore.

  “Why did you invite my father and brother over?” I ask Rysin, because this is his responsibility. The older man, the person my father hates so much, sighs.

  “Partly at your uncle's urging. Ronald,” he says, and I nod. That makes sense. “Also because for all intents and purposes, we should be working towards an alliance, and your family deserve to hear if something happens to you.”

  “I've half a mind to call this whole arrangement off,” my father says gruffly, and I take a chance to look into Desmond's eyes. He's clearly happy to see me up and walking, but my father's words dampen that emotion. “I knew nothing good would come of my little girl being here.”

  “You mean, asides from everyone living?” I reply, tarter than I intended. “Of course I'm not completely happy with the arrangements, father. But this is my choice, and you respect this to be my choice.” My palms are turned upward to my father, imploring. There's still the small hint of a bruise on my wrist. “My husband has been nothing but supportive. He and his father have tried to make me feel at home. Sure maybe we could find a house separate somewhere, but this is entirely a political marriage and we know it. The situation between our families can improve, but I'm not sure if just us two are enough for it. There needs to be more examples.”

  My father listens to my speech, looking sourer and sourer by the moment. “These monsters killed my brother,” he says. “They've killed so many of my people.”

  “You've killed many of ours, too,” Desmond points out. “And we both think we're defending ourselves. At this point it really doesn't matter who is right anymore,” he says, and we all stare at him for these highly unusual words. “What matters is that it stops. Neither of us want to see our people wiped out. Which means the only way forward is marriages like mine and Pearl's. The Graves had a good idea. It's a shame it had to be forced down our throats.”

  There's silence between all the men, and I take the opportunity to hold my husband's hand.

  “They hurt you,” my father finally says, his blue eyes in agony. “They shot you, like my brother. You're not safe here, baby girl. Not from these monsters.”

  The atmosphere grows tense. I lick my lips. “Our people would have done the same to my husband, if they saw him riding alone in our territory, wearing his colors. The grudges don't go away. You're proof of that. They also punished the person responsible, I believe?”

  “We did,” Rysin says. “Rest assured he will not be bothering you again. He shakes his head. “We are enemies,” he says to my father. “We have been enemies for long. But there is one thing I want to say to you. You know your brother?”

  My father directs a hostile glare at Rysin. “What?”

  “He raped a teenage girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That little girl was my aunt's daughter. My cousin. When I struck him down, I did it gladly, because he was ignoring her screams. He was laughing.” Rysin's face twitches. His calm resolve looks as if it's a second from collapsing.

  Desmond stares at his father. “You never mentioned this.” Something akin to an epiphany is in his eyes. “You never liked rape... you'd always be strict on that. Is this why...?”

  Rysin closes his eyes, looking like an old, tired grizzly bear. “My cousin is dead. So is your brother. You know how justified I feel?”

  My father's mouth opens and closes wordlessly. “You've raped our women, too. You've hurt us.”

  “We have,” Rysin agrees. “So I ask you this: when does it end? When does this misery stop? When all our men, women and children are dead? When there's no one left to curse our names?”

  Both men are silent for a long, long time. I hold Desmond's hand as if it's a lifeline. My father looks at us, and my brother, if anything, seems sad.

  It is sad. It is horrible. And the blood keeps spilling.

  After what seems like an age, my father's jaw cracks open. “I don't want to see anyone else dead. No more good men, women, children.”

  “That's a sentiment we share.”

  Both men continue to eye each other grimly. Then my father, out of all people, reaches one hand out to shake. “This hand is stained. It's nothing something I can wash off.”

  “So is mine.” Rysin clasps my father's hand, and I gape at the bizarre exchange. “You will be guests here. I can't promise that everyone will be happy, but I will make sure you are fed and watered, and rested for your journey back. And I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to make sure your daughter is safe.”

  It's the most positive words I've ever heard someo
ne say about the situation, and it seems to mollify my father enough to accept. No one can ever be truly happy about the situation, but this is far more than we could ever expect. I hug my father once again, and he holds me tight, almost as tight as Ezran's monster hug,

  I still have a sneaking suspicion that both men will smile their toothy smiles at one another, then go find a quiet place and fight to the death. I know enough of my father's anger in that he's not about to let it go. But I'm permitted to leave with Desmond, and we run the gauntlet through the Hartson and Claymores, trailed by the Graves guards, all the way back to our quarters. I have to assure Danny and Morgan that I won't leave the suite, that I'll be fine for at least the night, and they should go and rest. A little more nudging from Desmond finally sends them packing.

  There's a vase of fresh flowers set on the dressing table allocated for me, and Desmond says that Jay left them there. “She's a good girl. My father's thinking of promoting her position but he doesn't want to aggravate the Claymore staff any more than necessary.” He orders food for us, and I accept it gratefully, hungry enough to eat several horses at this point.

  “We're going to have to attend the feast with them later,” Desmond says, looking less than pleased at the idea. “It most likely will turn ugly fast. My father's barring Rayse from the meeting. He doesn't think Rayse will be able to hold his tongue long enough without inciting one of the Hartsons to try and crack his skull open.”

  “Sounds about right. I want to bash his skull,” I say, and Desmond smiles.

  “Me, too.”

  My eyes travel up and down Desmond's body, concealed by a black, long sleeved wool sweater and jeans. Casual but comfy wear, but he could be wearing a sack and I'd still find him attractive. But there is one pressing issue.

  “Rayse said something to me, the night when I chose to leave. Something that bothers me a lot.”

  “What is it?”