Iloria

by Moira Rogers

  “No.” It came out sharp enough to cut, and he winced. “I should have waited and brought you home during the new moon.”

  She bit her tongue. “I’m afraid I’ll have to rely on your instruction,” she whispered helplessly. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  He moved so fast his chair was still clattering to the floor when he reached her side, looming over her. He curled his hands around the arms of her chair and leaned low. “You have done everything right,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want you to not blame yourself for my faults.”

  She couldn’t think with him this close, much less act as though she wasn’t hungry for his touch. “This isn’t about blame. It’s about the way we spend the rest of our lives.”

  “No. This is about how we reach the rest of our lives.” His breath spilled over her cheek as he bent to her ear. “First, we must reach the end of the week.”

  She shivered and nodded. “You’re right, of course.”

  “Of course.” Somehow, the words held a silky edge of promise. “Tonight, my wife. I’ll return at dusk.”

  She wanted to take that promise, answer it with one of her own. “For dinner,” she said instead. “Dinner, Farran, nothing more.”

  He stayed there, frozen above her with his lips so close to her ear that every breath teased over her skin to shake her resolve. “Dinner,” he said at last, then pushed himself upright.

  “Dinner,” Iloria echoed shakily. “Do you have objections to me visiting the village?”

  “On your own?” His rough tone made his inherent objection to that possibility all too clear.

  Noble women did not travel unaccompanied. “I thought perhaps Magda might join me, if she can spare the time.”

  “And a guard.” He paused and shook his head. “Two guards.”

  “As you see fit.”

  “I’ll choose the guards and have them waiting for you.”

  The tension hadn’t left his tone, and Iloria rose, reaching for him instinctively. She curved her hand around the back of his neck, shivering at the warmth of his skin, and pulled him closer, touched her lips to his.

  A low growl was her only warning before he circled her waist with strong hands. Dishes clattered as he hoisted her to the table, more than one spilling to the floor. Growling again, he opened his mouth, kissed her with a hunger that made her hands tremble.

  And then her own hunger rose, eclipsing everything but the need to feel more, deeper. Now. Her fingers caught on leather and linen as she tugged at his vest and shirt, desperate. Mindless.

  Soft footsteps, leather on stone. A muffled gasp reached her ears even as Farran stumbled back, revealing Magda’s shocked face in the doorway.

  The housekeeper schooled her features with haste before stammering out an apology. “I—I heard the dishes, my lord.”

  “It’s fine.” Iloria struggled to sit and smashed her hand down on a block of soft cheese. “No harm done, am I right?”

  Clearing her throat, Magda glanced at Farran. He refused to look at her, standing with his shoulders tight and his expression stormy. “You may leave.”

  With a quick curtsy and one last worried look at Iloria, the housekeeper obeyed.

  Iloria couldn’t suppress her mortified blush. Her cheeks heated, and she slid off the table and reached for her napkin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

  “I caused the scene.” The firm statement allowed no room for argument. “And to avoid another, I need to be about my business. Magda will know which guards to bring if you want to visit the village.”

  As simply as that, she was dismissed. “Very well.” She almost stooped to pick up the mess they’d made but caught herself just in time. It was rude to leave it, but she couldn’t kneel before Farran; the submissiveness inherent in the position would rake at his nerves, not to mention put her at eye level with his—

  Allowing her thoughts to wander down that path was madness, so Iloria squared her shoulders and walked out.

  The full moon came and passed, taking with it the worst of the curse’s agony.

  A pity, then, that Farran had so much agony of his own making.

  Iloria dined with him every evening, and only because he’d asked her to. She never challenged him in any way, never gave proof through word or gesture that he was intruding, but only a fool would think he was welcome. Her impeccable manners and her polite smiles couldn’t change sheer fact.

  And the fact was that she avoided him at every other time. Grand as his castle was, it wasn’t so large as to prevent accidental meetings. He should have come across her during the course of his day, but wherever he happened to be, Iloria was not. Through design, he was sure, and with the assistance of his army of formerly loyal servants, who expressed their disapproval of their new lady’s unhappiness in thousands of tiny ways.

  On the seventh day after their disastrous breakfast, he grew tired of being ignored. When Talen brought the morning meal to Farran’s study, he pinned the old servant with his fiercest glare and pointed to a spot in front of the desk he almost never used. “I don’t care what Magda’s told you to say or not say. For once you are going to show loyalty to your lord over your wife and answer my questions.”

  Talen sighed and stood before Farran’s desk. “You’ve always been a determined lad. Very well. Let’s have out with it.”

  This would not likely end well. “My wife is avoiding me.”

  “Is she, now?”

  “You damn well know she is, and everyone in this castle is helping her do so.”

  “Ah, I see.” Talen nodded slowly. “Assuming this is true, why do you think that would be?”

  It wasn’t a question he cared to consider, given the likely answer. But hiding from the truth wouldn’t change it. “I imagine she doesn’t wish to be married to me.”

  “What woman would, Farran?” The older man shook his head with a grumble. “You brought her here, ignorant of the life she’d face, and left her to fend for herself. You say she’s been avoiding you, but you know as well as I that you’ve been letting her.”

  “And what should I do? Force my presence on her?”

  “Most women respond well to the little gestures. Flowers and the like.” Talen hesitated, his shoulders tensing, as if in preparation for a fight. “If you don’t sort it out soon, the kindest thing would be to send her back to the capital.”

  Naturally, he had to be twice cursed—with lunacy and with servants who’d known him all his life and had little fear of his temper. Farran choked on a growl and fisted his hands. “Flowers. I’ve half-terrorized the girl, and you think I should give her flowers.”

  “I think it would be better than letting her go on thinking you wish you hadn’t brought her home.”

  He opened his mouth to insist he did wish exactly that, but the lie wouldn’t come. “Fine,” he snarled finally. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You asked,” Talen reminded him mildly. “Though I suspect...” He trailed off and shoved his hands into his vest pockets. “Never mind.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  When the man spoke again, it was with careful deliberation. “I think saying you’ve terrorized your new bride might be overstating matters a bit. To be blunt, she seems mostly...irritated.”

  They’d never get anywhere with Talen dancing around the heart of the matter. “Are you trying to tell me she’s not frightened, but furious?”

  “I’m trying to tell you that you’re mucking this up.” Talen growled and scrubbed a hand over his face. “If you wish for Lady Iloria to remain, you’d best get on with things. She’s liable to ask you to let her go.”

  Surely he hadn’t misjudged her that badly. Then again, he’d never been very good with gentle women, and Talen had tamed Magda, which proved he possessed some modest understanding of the female mind.

  Or maybe not so modest. Holding a firm grip on his temper, Farran managed a nod. “I’ll consider the possibility.”

  “Of course.” Talen bowe
d and backed toward the door. “Will that be all?”

  Excepting one thing. “Where is my wife?”

  “In the gardens.” The corner of Talen’s mouth ticked up. “Planning, my lord. What to have planted in the spring, I believe.”

  So she hadn’t given up entirely on making this place her own. She was every bit as stubborn as he’d first imagined, and it gave Farran hope. “Can you make sure she’ll be alone?”

  “Of course.” Talen bowed again.

  As soon as the man had left, Farran dropped his head to his hands and cursed himself roundly. He’d been trained from childhood to be a warrior. To be Ciar’s First Warlord. The battles of years past had been the culmination of decades of patient tutoring in the art of dealing death.

  He was good at it, because it was all he knew. Now he’d have to start learning all over again. Learn to be a suitor, to woo his wife before it was too late to win her affections.

  He wasn’t a creative man, but he could take direction. So he pushed himself to his feet and went in search of flowers.

  Chapter Four

  The gardens behind her husband’s ancestral home had been woefully neglected. Not in basic care—every hedge was trimmed, each stone carefully placed—but it was obvious that no one had bothered in years to direct any planting.

  It was, perhaps, the saddest thing about the forbidding gray structure, the meticulously groomed but ugly garden.

  Iloria turned the paper in her hand and bit her lip. Roses were the obvious choice, but she hesitated to sketch them on the plan. The blooms would be beautiful, even if she was no longer in residence to see them, but the thought of putting more thorny brambles anywhere near the castle made her chest ache.

  Her husband had plenty of his own.

  The sound of boots crunching on gravel drew her gaze, and she looked up to see Farran, dressed in his customary leathers. The dark expression he wore was no surprise.

  His handful of slightly crushed flowers was. “Iloria.”

  “Good morning.” She dragged her gaze away from the strong angle of his jaw and attempted a smile. “Are those for me?”

  With the speed he thrust his arm away from his body, one would think he held something dangerous. “Yes. I picked them.”

  He looked steady enough, so the possibility that he’d been drinking seemed unlikely. “Thank you.” She took the flowers and tried surreptitiously to straighten their broken stems.

  His awkward look of discomfort intensified. “I’m not used to handling delicate things.”

  There was more than one way to interpret his statement, and Iloria chose the safest. “They’re beautiful. I appreciate you thinking of me.”

  “I’m glad.” So much relief from so few words. His tense stance eased, and he almost smiled. “I wasn’t meant to be a good husband, Iloria. I’m a warrior. I’ve done my job, but done it so well that there’s peace now. And I don’t know how to live in a peaceful world.”

  She could show him how—if he would trust her. But she wasn’t free to say such things, not yet. “Am I here because you want to try, or because you made a terrible mistake?”

  “I made a selfish mistake.” His obvious pain did little to soften the words. “And now I wish to try, but it seems too much to ask of you.”

  Conscience prodded at her, urged her to tell him she would be fine if he sent her back to the capital. If he ended their marriage. But Farran was so defensive, worried. What if he saw it as her way of trying to ease him around to the notion? “Why was it so selfish? Tell me.”

  He gaped at her. “I brought you here with no idea of the life you’d be forced to live. How is that not selfish?”

  It could only be selfish if he’d had something to gain, and she didn’t realize until that moment how desperately she needed that to be the case. “Did you want a wife so badly, or did you want me?”

  “I never wanted a wife. I never planned to have one.” He laced his fingers together and half-smiled. “I hadn’t planned for you.”

  “No, I suppose not.” He couldn’t tell her what she needed to hear, but he was trying, and Iloria resolved to do the same. “I never got a chance to visit the village. Would you like to show me today?”

  He leapt at the chance so quickly that the depth of his clumsy uncertainty became clear. “There’s an inn where I sometimes eat. Are you interested in enjoying the midday meal there?”

  “I trust your judgment. Shall we ride or walk?”

  Farran studied her dress with a slight frown. “Is your dress attuned to you?”

  “This? Yes.” Most of her day dresses were, though she supposed she’d have to find someone locally who could handle the process of attuning magic for her newer clothes.

  He nodded, satisfied. “Would you care for a run?”

  Her mother had frowned on such things, except in case of ritual celebrations. Most noble wolves preferred more sedate breeding and proper behavior in their mates.

  But Farran wasn’t most noble wolves.

  She reached for his hand and smiled. “I would love to run with you.”

  One tug, and he’d pulled her close enough to kiss the back of her hand. “Change, Iloria.”

  The freedom of it sang through her, releasing a wild spark of magic inside. The wolf rose, ready and eager, glad to be unleashed, even for such a short time. In moments, Iloria stood before Farran on four legs, pawing at the grass, her plans for the garden forgotten.

  The villagers treated him as they always did, with polite deference and a hint of wary affection. Farran had taken a casual approach to managing the people who owed his family their allegiance, walking among them more than his father had. In return, they’d given him loyalty.

  Now they gave him curiosity as well, though most averted their gazes quickly enough when caught staring. Not at him, of course, but at Iloria, who was beautiful and graceful and more refined than any woman these people had seen since the High Lord’s parents had visited thirty years before.

  She held her head high, a small smile curving her lips. “Am I such an oddity?” she whispered to him, a hint of laughter in her voice.

  “A bit.” An oddity the village folk would most likely come to love as quickly as his own people had. Charm and compassion were not virtues often found in his family, nor in the women who’d been forced to marry into it. She had no idea how rare she was.

  Or how beloved she might become. Farran drew her to a stop as the innkeeper appeared, bowing low. His young daughter trailed behind him, her big blue eyes fixed on Iloria’s gown.

  An adorable moment—until the girl spoke. “Are you the High Lady?”

  Farran barely choked back a growl as Iloria withdrew her hand from the crook of his arm and regarded the girl thoughtfully for a moment. “No, I’m not.” She bent down to meet the child’s gaze. “I am a lady, though. Lord Farran’s wife. What’s your name?”

  “Vina.” She smiled, showing two missing teeth. “I like your dress.”

  Iloria looked down at the lush, dark velvet and laughed. “Thank you very much, Vina.”

  Behind the girl, the innkeeper twisted his hands together, torn between pleasure at Iloria’s attention and worry that Farran would be offended.

  Reining in his temper, Farran managed a civil nod. “Rhion.”

  “My lord?”

  “Has your wife prepared her beer bread today?”

  “She has.” He glanced between Farran and Iloria. “Shall I have her set a private table?”

  A quiet, unspoken plea for Farran to give the man enough time to prepare a spread suitable for serving a lady. Rhion never went to such effort for his lord, but Farran supposed his muddy boots and rugged leathers made a different sort of impression than his wife’s finery.

  Taking pity on Rhion, he nodded again. “Please. We’ll be back after I’ve shown Iloria the rest of the village.”

  Iloria rose as the girl scampered away, her father at her heels. “She’s beautiful.”

  “There aren’t many children her ag
e here. We’ve been at war for so long.” Though Farran imagined that, a year from now, the streets of his village would be filled with the screams of newborn infants.

  “I should have realized.” She lowered her gaze. “It must have been difficult for them, as well, to have you away for so long.”

  “I’m sure Talen kept things well in hand.” But the thought that he might have been missed pleased him, and he didn’t bother to hide it.

  Her eyes sparkled as she slipped her hand once more into the crook of his arm. “What will you show me next?”

  What a pity there was so little of interest. The smithy turned out reliable farm implements and horse shoes. The tailor’s wife was a seamstress, and together they produced sturdy, practical clothing. The only exception...

  Clearing his throat, he turned her toward the opposite side of the village. “The weaver will be making new tapestries for your rooms. Perhaps you’d like to meet her and discuss what colors or patterns would please you.”

  “My room is fine,” she protested. “I have no need for new hangings.”

  “I want you to have them. If you must live with my curse...” The very least he could do was give her some measure of comfort and luxury in return.

  The words seemed to trouble her. “Possessions mean little to me. All my life, I have had things. If you must give me something, I prefer this—a walk to the village on a pretty day.”

  His mother had counted her worth in the pretty baubles she coaxed from her husband with stony silence and icy rage. Clearly, Farran would have to work much harder to please Iloria. “Still to the weaver, then, if only so you can meet her. If you wish to take charge of the castle’s needs, it will be important for you to know our crafters.”

  “Mmm.” She let him lead her on, a thoughtful look on her face. “I admit, I wasn’t sure you would want me to stay, after all.”

  Farran nearly stumbled over his own feet. “Whyever not?”

  One slender shoulder rose in a shrug. “Your situation isn’t one that lends itself to intimacy. You might be better off with a wife who could content herself with your gifts and silence.”