Romance: Bonded to the Alien Prince: (Scifi Alien BBW Romance) (Alien Invasion Space Opera Romance)

by Ruby Scott

  Anastasia turned from the quilt-covered bed to face Isabeau, who was smiling expectantly. “This is the best room we have available in the house,” she said, glancing towards the window. “You can see the mountain peaks from here.”

  Anastasia gave her a tight smile, realizing that the woman was insecure about giving her this room. She had seen the frills and flounces on Anastasia’s dress and had probably already taken into account the fact that her luggage would be worth more than most of the belongings in this room. “It is lovely,” she said, going over to the window. Her heart already ached to see the apothecary across the lane when she looked out of the window, but all she got was a long expanse of grassy nothingness that backed up to the mammoth mountains. Anastasia shivered as she realized that they were miles away from anyone else. What would be done if something bad happened to anyone?

  “It is quite lovely, is it not?” Isabeau asked as Anastasia continued to stare out of the window. Anastasia turned and watched Elise packing her things away in the huge chest that sat at the foot of the bed. Isabeau had her hands grasped tightly together, as if that were the only thing keeping her together, and Anastasia realized that she was nervous. About what, Anastasia couldn’t fathom.

  “I have never seen mountains so tall,” Anastasia replied instead of answering the question. If she outright lied, it would be plain on her face. In fact, she had never seen mountains at all, but she wouldn’t tell Isabeau that.

  Before the taller woman could respond, the resounding crack of a door being slammed shut echoed throughout the house. Isabeau flinched and hurried to the door. “Stay here,” she instructed. “Tis James and I should like to tell him that you are here.”

  Anastasia opened her mouth to ask Isabeau if she could come and meet her new husband with her, but before she got as much as a syllable out, the woman had already whisked out of the room, closing the door partially behind her. She heard Isabeau’s voice down the hall.

  “James, darling, you’re back early.” Was that a tinge of fear in her voice? Anastasia narrowed her eyes and went to the door.

  Elise looked up from packing her mistress’s things and hissed, “Mistress Isabeau said to wait here.” Her eyes were wide with the implications that came with disobedience. Anastasia shook her head and held a finger to her lips before slowly opening the door and peeking out. She wasn’t a servant and Isabeau didn’t hold a single thing over her; she wouldn’t have to wait for her to say it was okay to go out and meet her own husband.

  “The grain supply was short this year,” a rough and low voice replied. Without meaning to, Anastasia envisioned a huge brute with hands the size of turkeys. She flinched inwardly. Had she just married herself off to some oaf who wouldn’t know how to speak English properly? She shuddered and took a step out into the hall. “Why are you acting as if you have been caught sneaking a cookie from the jar?”

  “Well,” Isabeau said, and something dropped into the pit of Anastasia’s stomach, cold and hard. That tone of voice couldn’t mean a single good thing. “We have a visitor.”

  “A visitor?” The words were eloquent, and if this man was an oaf, he was at least an enlightened one. Anastasia frowned. Why didn’t Isabeau simply tell James that she was here? Why was she dancing around the subject as if it were a hot coal she refused to touch? “What would anyone want to visit us for?”

  Isabeau’s swallow was nearly audible from down the hall. “Marriage.”

  The silence was heart wrenchingly loud, and Anastasia realized something in that moment. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know why, but James McKenzie had no idea of her existence. “Marriage?” that single word brought his voice down from boulders sliding against boulders to a silky purr that sounded something like death. Anastasia felt a shiver go down her spine. She wanted to leave in that moment. She wanted to race down the road and catch up to the footman and demand that he bring her back home. This was too foreign and too strange. Too dangerous.

  No, Anastasia thought, shaking her head firmly. I will not be driven out by this man before I have even looked upon his face. My mother would not accept my lack of commitment to something that I have never even seen. She squared her shoulders and walked down the hall slowly, trying to pick up what else she could hear from the two.

  They were at the top of the staircase, and James’ back was to her. Isabeau saw her first, and a sort of panic lit her gaze. She opened her mouth and words tumbled out, nonsensical and too fast to comprehend.

  Anastasia continued walking, trying to gauge what kind of man James was from his back. He looked muscular enough—which most likely came from working on a ranch his entire life, and his clothes were like Isabeau’s; well-worn and not the best of quality. Most definitely not in fashion. His hair was cut just short enough not to be called long; it touched his shoulders in places but stopped well above in others, creating a grizzled look that immediately made Anastasia want to shy away, but she simply kept walking.

  Isabeau, on the other hand, looked close to tears, her face panicked and her voice notched three octaves higher than what Anastasia had come to expect in the past few minutes. Her eyes were pleading Anastasia to leave, begging her to simply turn around and wait in her room like a good girl. Anastasia gave a resolute shake of her head and stopped a few feet away from the two.

  James’ gaze eventually followed Isabeau’s. When he turned to look at Anastasia, she braced herself for the worse. Perhaps he had an ugly scar that bisected his face. Or maybe he had the nose of a pig that would drive her insane for all of the years they were together.

  He was clean-shaven and surprisingly handsome. Grey eyes were the first thing that caught Anastasia’s gaze. They were hooded and tired, but piercing at the same time, looking right into her soul. The rest of his face came into focus shortly: thin lips that weren’t tastelessly so, a strong and squared jaw that matched high cheekbones in a strangely harmonious way. The cold, hard anger was a close third. He would have been pleasant if he would have eased the frown on his face and uncurled his lips from their snarl.

  He was looking at her like that, and it didn’t change a bit as he took her in slowly, head to toe. Anastasia felt herself blush a deep crimson as his gaze traveled along her body. It wasn’t lewd, if anything it was borderline disinterested, but it was so piercing that she couldn’t help but feel as if she were outside again. Every single flaw was displayed, every single inch of skin was examined mercilessly. This man’s eyes were like the outside of this ranch; they disarmed her in seconds and left her feeling vulnerable as a newborn babe.

  His face was blank for several moments, and Anastasia felt the cold ball of lead that had dropped into her stomach trying to come back up. He was displeased. He would send her away. He would leave their family desolate and barren, and she would have to bear the brunt of her mother’s quiet disapproval for the rest of her life. There would be no escaping it, and there would be no escaping the fact that she had failed—

  “So this is my wife,” he said, and his voice was once again the sliding of huge rocks together, deep and rough. It didn’t go along with his body that looked as if it had been made for the courts of England, refined and almost beautiful, if a man could be called such. His face slid into something more normal albeit mocking.

  Anastasia curtsied shallowly, much as she had when the door had been answered. “Yes. There seems to have been a mistake. I was under the impression that you knew I was to arrive today.” Or at all. James gave Anastasia a cold smile in response to her innocently posed not-question that she had perfected the art of over teatime and gossiping with fellow ladies of high class who loved a good scandal.

  “You sound as if you have come straight from the city,” he scoffed. “You will find those manners useless out here.”

  Does that mean that I get to stay? Anastasia thought with shock. Surely since he had been so displeased by her presence, she and Elise would be kicked out without so much as a farewell. “Sir?”

  James walked past her and looke
d into the room that Anastasia had recently vacated. “Good evening,” he said to Elise, and Anastasia heard the maid mumble something back. “Would you be so kind as to take your mistress’s belongings out of that room and move them to the one next door?” He turned back to Anastasia and gave her a flat look. Anastasia felt herself go cold at that look, and then it shifted past her and onto Isabeau. “Really, Isabeau?” he said. “Marie-Anne’s room?”

  “I thought—

  “That is your problem,” James growled, striding past Anastasia as if she didn’t exist. Anastasia flinched at the smell of wood smoke and pine combined with the sharp words. “You never do think. You did not think when you wrote those letters under my name, seducing this poor girl out to our home and you did not think about putting her in my wife’s room without asking a single thing of me beforehand. Perhaps my permission, or at least my bloody opinion.”

  He stomped over to the stairs with heavy footsteps that contained such controlled and violent anger that Anastasia felt herself quake inside of her traveling boots. He shot Anastasia a cold glare that was as harsh and unforgiving as a summer storm. “I hope that you find your accommodations to your liking, ma’am. Dinner is at eight and I do not tolerate tardiness.”

  Anastasia stared, open-mouthed as her husband disappeared, muttering words that sounded fowler than the air of the sewers itself. A few moments later, the door slammed loudly enough for it to echo throughout the entire house. Anastasia felt as if she had been hit in the chest, and she simply stood there for several moments.

  When Isabeau moved, it was to take a deep, shuddering breath in. Anastasia looked over at the girl. She wasn’t shaking, not physically, but Anastasia could almost feel the mental instability that she felt. Isabeau dragged her gaze away from what must have been the front door and looked up at Anastasia. For a moment, the two of them simply stared at each other, and then Isabeau gave Anastasia a shaky smile. “Why, I think that a lovely cup of tea would be the perfect thing right now,” she said in a quavering voice.

  ###

  Once Anastasia was settled in the armoire with a blanket draped around her shoulders and a cup of tea wrapped in her fingers, she watched Isabeau stoke the fire. Anastasia had been surprised when Isabeau had been the one to bring the tea in and pour it. One of Victoria’s endless maids would always be on hand during tea time to do every deed that Isabeau had taken upon herself, and Anastasia had realized that she didn’t know how to pour a cup of tea without sloshing it over the sides, let alone start and stoke a fire. She had always relied on the maids as well.

  Isabeau replaced the fireplace poker, the resounding ding of metal the only sound in the room for quite a while. The wood wasn’t warm enough to pop quite yet, and it was eerily quiet to watch such a raging fire make so little noise.

  Isabeau delicately placed herself on the edge of the parallel couch and picked up her own glass of tea, taking a sip before replacing it in the saucer. “I suppose I should explain,” she said to break the silence.

  Anastasia nodded once. “I would like that,” she said. She didn’t feel as if Isabeau had betrayed her, even though she assumed that was what the normal reaction would be. She simply felt empty.

  Isabeau took a deep, shuddering breath and began. “Three years ago James’ wife Marie-Anne became ill. At first we all thought that it was a chest cold—James, Mary and I. But it would not let her alone even after months, and we called a doctor. He said that she seemed to be fine and that he would give her some medicine. The medicine did not a thing, and before we knew it, she was always in bed, unable to move from all of the coughing.” She paused, looking over into the fire. “She was a beautiful thing, Marie-Anne. She had hair that was dark as the night and eyes that were nearly the same color. Her skin was the same color as the fairest horse’s coat, as if she had been dusted in bronze.” Isabeau’s voice was soft as she continued looking into the fire. “Even when she started coughing up blood, she was the most beautiful thing I had set eyes on.” Suddenly, her gaze snapped back to Anastasia, who was feeling that ball of lead in her stomach again. “It took her two years to die. It killed James every day to see his wife wasting away before his eyes, and when she finally died, I think that it unburdened him in some ways and gave him new shackles. James has been down constantly, you see. My brother used to laugh and he used to smile; actually smile. But ever since she died, he has not smiled or laughed once.

  “It killed me inside, seeing him like this and being unable to do a single thing. I wanted to be able to care for him as he has always cared for me. James is always caring for people who do nothing to deserve or earn it. He has such a large heart. So I wanted to bring his smile back. You look nothing like her,” Isabeau added, waving a hand at Anastasia’s general vicinity. “That is why I thought he would receive you better.” Isabeau looked as if she expected to be hit by Anastasia, whether physically or with words.

  Anastasia was quiet for several moments. She had seen the deeply layered sadness in those remarkable eyes, now that Isabeau mentioned it. “I forgive you,” she said simply. She knew what it was like to watch a loved one waste away until they are nothing but flesh and bone and jagged breaths. She had gone through the exact same pain as James and Isabeau watching her father die. It had only taken weeks, and Anastasia couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like if she had been forced to watch her father’s health decline over two years. She shuddered at the thought.

  Isabeau gave her a tentative smile. “You are not obliged to stay.”

  “I am,” Anastasia said, not bothering to explain to the woman exactly why. Isabeau didn’t question her, and Anastasia decided that she like the woman’s non-prying nature. Everyone back home would have picked every word she said apart until they came up with their own conclusions. “However, I doubt I am any position to make that decision. James should be the one to decide.”

  Isabeau nodded. “He will let you stay.”

  Anastasia scoffed, not even needing words to express her doubt on that matter.

  Isabeau’s gaze took on an earnest countenance. “You will see. James is actually a very nice person. Once he gets over the shock of you arriving suddenly into his life, he will come to like you, if not to love you.”

  Anastasia raised a single eyebrow, sipping her tea. “I would like to see that happen,” she said wryly.

  ###

  The first few months passed exactly how Anastasia had predicted they would. Every time James saw her, he turned away and refused to look at her. When he did, she would always catch him staring at her hard, as if trying to figure out exactly who she was simply by observing her long enough.

  Anastasia was given work. She had never worked a day in her life with the maids all around to help, and Elise had to teach her how to do many things: wash the dishes, cook, feed the animals, and sew clothes. While she complained at first, she found that she liked being useful. Anastasia had never realized what she had been missing out on when she had never touched a brush to scrub clothes before, but she enjoyed the hard work and the fact that she could get something done with only her hands.

  The lack of noise slowly got better. Anastasia made herself go outside, if only long enough to feed the chickens or milk the cow, but that slowly got better as well. Isabeau became one of her closest confidants. They found that they liked the same literature and discussed books sometimes hours at a time.

  It was quiet, and there was no tea and no consistent visitors. Once, the animal doctor had come to help a horse give birth, and the neighbors from miles away came to have Thanksgiving Dinner with them. They congratulated James on his new wife, which he took with great dignity. He acted very well throughout the entire thing, making Anastasia almost believe herself that he liked her—if not loved her—as Isabeau had said would happen.

  That was the first time James had ever given Anastasia a smile that hadn’t been cold. It had also been the first time he had embraced her. His arms had been strong, stronger than even her own father’s arms, and despi
te the fact that she knew that she would never likely get another embrace from him, she couldn’t help but think that his arms were the safest place she had ever been on the planet.

  After the first six months, her mother wrote her and asked how she was. Anastasia delayed writing back for almost a week. She constantly thought about her answer and tried to determine the correct response. If she said that things were going well, her mother’s next letter would press her on the details of their wedding—which hadn’t happened yet. If she told her the truth, she would get the smug reply she knew Victoria was itching to write. She eventually asked Isabeau, who ended up writing the letter for her and posting it the next day without Anastasia even reading it.

  She didn’t want to know what Isabeau had told her mother.

  That night, Anastasia was awoken by a strange sound coming from the room next door. Marie-Anne’s room. That had been off-limits ever since she had stepped inside the first time, and Anastasia felt her eyes widen in the near-dark as she heard footsteps in the room. They were light, but not light enough to be Isabeau’s. The slender girl could walk across the floor as silently as a ghost if she so wished. Wrapping her nightclothes around her that she had sewn when Isabeau’s had proved to be too small, Anastasia crept out of the bedroom, walking as silently down the hall as she could. The door was partially open and she peered inside. The window was situated in a way so that the entire room was bathed in pale moonlight. Anastasia saw James sitting on the bed, hunched over as if he were in physical pain. He had something clutched between his hands, something that looked suspiciously like a wedding dress. It was a grand thing, the most expensive thing in this house. Even from her vantage point of eight or so feet away, Anastasia could see the moonlight glinting off of the pearls that had been sewn into the bodice.