As it had when Torch declared her name, utter silence fell, and the mood in the hall went from boisterous to strained in an instant. The subtle ring of metal sounded as sword and daggers were loosened, but Torch’s men looked to their leader for his reaction.
—
Bastard. How that word mocked him, and he’d heard it all his life. The only worse word was whore, and he’d heard that as well. Steelsleet’s two sons who were eager enough to form their own conclusions, both about his mother’s status and his. Especially when his brother and sister came along less than nine turns of the moon after Magnus stole the throne. It was widely believed that his mother served as the lord’s leman, no matter the truth.
But Torch couldn’t let that show. To react to the taunting was to give Thorne’s man that power over him. So he let himself smile. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that question,” he said mildly. “Because if I didn’t know better, I might think you were referring to my lady wife. And we all know you’d never intend such an insult, especially on her wedding day.”
That ought to have subdued the man, at least had he been sober. But his cheeks and nose were red with drink, and he wavered as he stood on the table. Wine, unfortunately, leant him courage he might not have otherwise possessed. “Referring to your wife? Not at all. Known the girl all her life, I have. I know her well enough that it saddens me to see her sully herself with such likes when she could have wed a king.”
So much for trying to turn this situation aside. If he was to hold any authority in the keep, he’d have to deal with this man, and now. He planted his palms on the table and rose to his feet. “She has wed a king, or did the significance of the name I claimed escape you?”
Beside him, Calista laid a hand on his arm and murmured something, but the blood rushing in his head drowned out her words.
Still mounted on the table, the Blackbriar guardsman took a staggering step toward the dais. His booted foot narrowly missed landing in a full plate of food. “A man without a name can call himself what he wants. That doesn’t change what he is.”
“A man must declare his true name before the sanctified altar of the Three or be forever damned. Or are you not a believer?”
“I…well…”
“If I’d not claimed my right name, the gods would have struck me down, would they not? None can lie before them. Therefore, all must recognize that my true name is Josse Vandal, son of Jaffe Vandal, the man Magnus Ironfist murdered in order to rule these lands. Deny my own claim to the throne as you see fit, but never, ever say I’ve lied about who I am.” He fixed the man with his iciest stare, one he’d perfected on Steelsleet’s sons.
Those boys had never been able to withstand it long, and neither did Thorne’s retainer. He took a step back, somehow managed to trip, and sat down hard, sending trenchers, food, and goblets flying.
“Take that man off,” Torch ordered with a wave of his hand. He was perhaps going soft on the miscreant. Someone like Magnus would have hewn the man’s head from his shoulders where he stood. But if Torch could present a fairer alternative, he might just win a few more followers. “He’s clearly had all that’s good for him.” He glared a challenge about the hall. His own men sat alert, while Thorne’s seemed to sink in their seats. Thorne in particular, seated on Calista’s far side, avoided Torch’s gaze.
“I’ve clearly been negligent about some of my duties,” he went on. His voice echoed to the vaulted ceiling. “Among them hearing your oaths of allegiance. But since this is a day for vows before the Three, we might as well get on with it. I’ll begin with yours, Thorne.”
Thorne glared at him behind his daughter’s back. “I’ve already yielded my keep and handed you my daughter. What more do you need?”
“I’ve just told you. Unless, of course, you don’t feel you can swear me such an oath. It will be binding on your life.” Another glance about the hall revealed Thorne’s men suddenly interested in their drinks. “Any who refuse to swear me an oath of allegiance will be escorted to the gates. I grant you your lives for now, but should any here ever raise his blade against me or one of my own, you’ll find you’ve made a deadly enemy.”
He jerked his head in the direction of the niche where he’d kneeled before Thorne’s daughter and offered his sword. “Thorne?”
Thorne planted both hands on the table and heaved himself to his feet. “You will force me to forswear any oaths I’ve given to Magnus.”
“The only thing I’m forcing on you is a choice. If you prefer not to kneel to me, you know where the gate is.”
“But this is my keep…”
“My keep. You yielded.”
“Your keep, my life. My family. My home.”
“It can continue to be so. The price is your sworn allegiance to defend these lands with your life. I’d prefer not to continue my days here under the constant worry that one of your retainers might plunge a knife into my back. Or indeed insult me in my own hall.”
Thorne looked back at his wife and daughter. Calista’s cheeks had paled, but Amara held her head high. Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her eyes glittered. Not a comforting expression, by any means. An understanding seemed to pass between them, and Thorne nodded before trudging to the altar, kneeling, bowing his head, and offering the hilt of his sword.
“I swear to you, Josse Vandal, my fealty and my service from this day hence and through all the days that remain to me. And should I ever betray you or yours, may the Faceless One take me swiftly, for I shall deserve no mercy at your hand.”
Thorne ended there, but Torch needed a bit more. “You will recognize me as your rightful king, denying all others, and you will swear the same in the name of your lady wife.”
Thorne pressed his lips into a line, and held firm.
“When we negotiated this marriage, I asked for your trust that I could prove my identity. I say to you as I said to your man. If you are at all a believer, you cannot deny my true name.”
Thorne stole a glance up at the carved images of the gods, raised his fingers in the warding gesture, and complied.
“I recognize you as my liege. Stand and be faithful in your service.”
When Thorne regained his seat, Torch went on. “And now your guardsmen. I will see about the drunkard later.” He turned to Calista. “Sweetling, I’m afraid my position comes between us already. I deeply regret putting off our wedding night, but this may take a while. I’ll forgive you if you’d prefer to await me abovestairs.”
Chapter 18
Tamsin slowly pulled the brush through Calista’s hair. Normally the action soothed, but not tonight, not when Torch had been down in the great hall for what seemed like half the night. Josse. His name is Josse, and he declared himself.
He still hadn’t come to claim his right. She listened, but no sound filtered up the staircase from the hall below. If tensions had led to drawn blades, she’d have heard the metallic clatter of swordplay. She’d have heard the cries.
She’d taken him at his word and left after her father had bent the knee, but a queer sort of tension had begun emanating from her mother from the moment Torch had called her father out. A tension that had followed Calista up the stairs to her chamber. Father had sworn an oath in Mother’s name, but Calista wasn’t at all certain her mother agreed. No, not one bit.
Tamsin set the brush aside. “D’ye want me to unsew you from your gown, m’lady?”
Calista shrugged. “You may as well.” Although unpicking all the tiny stitches might easily occupy the remaining hours before sunrise. “By the time you’re finished, my lord may have finally heard all the oaths.”
She tamped down a certain disappointment. Her gown was designed for a single wearing, and in theory, her new husband was supposed to help her remove it—with a dagger if necessary. Part of her had been looking forward to Torch forcibly divesting her of the garment.
“Do you believe such oaths even carry any weight?” She posed the question that had lingered in the back of her mind since she’d
come up here to wait.
Tamsin produced a pair of scissors and began snipping at the tiny stitches about the armscye. She leaned close enough that her braid dangled against Calista’s arm, the end tickling the back of her hand. “What d’ye mean?”
“They invoked the Three down there. The Faceless One most of all. My father did. Yet in doing so, he forswore the oath he’d made to Magnus. Surely he invoked the gods then as well. In that case, which one holds?”
“I’m sure an’ I don’t know, m’lady. I tries to swear as few oaths as possible so’s I don’t have to worry over such things.”
“Very wise of you.” But Father had no choice. Calista would think the oath he’d sworn to Magnus would take priority, but the gods hadn’t struck him dead where he stood. Nor any of the others. Nor her, for that matter, if her father had ever sworn fealty to Magnus in her name. “Perhaps Brother Tancrid knows the answer.”
She could hardly go to him with her questions now, though.
“My lady.” The low rumble of Torch’s voice nearly made her jump out of her skin. She turned her head to find him filling the doorway. In the dim light of the dying fire, his eyes seemed to glow. “Perhaps you ought to dismiss your maid. You’ll have no more need of her.”
At the rasped suggestion, Calista let out a gasp. Tamsin giggled and scuttled from the room, ducking around Torch. He strode into the chamber, his long legs devouring the space that separated them. Calista felt as if her feet had frozen to the spot.
“Thank the Three Gods, you’re still awake. I thought your maid had robbed me of a certain pleasure.” Not taking his eyes from her, he pulled the tooled sword belt from across his chest and set the weapon against the wall. Then he began his advance. One step. Another. Before she knew it, he stood facing her. “One I’ve been looking forward to all evening.”
Calista had to swallow to find her voice. “A certain pleasure?”
By the Three, could she have sounded any more innocent and naïve? She knew very well what he expected to pass between them. She expected, hoped for, yearned for, the same thing.
“Why, yes.” He reached out with a forefinger and traced the neckline of her gown, from her collarbone to the upper swell of a breast. “Your maid was undressing you, but I claim that right.”
Her heart pounded, and filling her lungs became a difficult prospect. Indeed, with her lacing, she’d been trussed up like a chicken for the spit, but this was something more. She’d managed all day without this shallow, light-headed feeling taking her over. Even the wine from their shared cup hadn’t had such an effect on her.
His fingers played along the smooth fabric, tangling amid the lace, teasing her with the possibility. Her lips parted of their own accord, and her breasts felt heavy. “Have you much experience as a lady’s maid, then?”
“As a lady’s maid? Hardly. With ladies’ maids and the ladies themselves?” One half of his mouth quirked upward in a lopsided grin. Full of wicked intent, that grin, just like the fire reflected in his eyes. “I suppose prudence ought to keep me from answering that.”
“Hmm.” She could hardly expect a man of his upbringing and years to be chaste, but she was just as glad he preferred not to dwell on his past encounters.
“However, I will admit to a certain efficiency of divesting a lady from her gown.” His fingers skated down her ribs to the dangling laces at her sides. “Would you like me to demonstrate?”
“On one condition.”
He arched a brow. “You would make demands of me?”
Holding his gaze, she nodded. “I think you’ll have few objections if I ask you to divest yourself as well.”
His laugh was low and lingering. The sound settled into her chest and further into her midsection, where it melted into a liquid heat. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll ask you to undress me.”
Her cheeks stretched into an answering grin. “Do I look like your squire?”
“No, and thank all the gods.”
She placed her hands on his jerkin. The leather was soft and warm beneath her fingertips. Years of wear had formed the garment to his body, almost as if it were another skin. She breathed in the clean scent, the leather mingling with the man himself. She raised her lips to his and tasted the wine lingering there, teasing him with light kisses until he tightened his embrace and hauled her close.
She closed her eyes and gave herself over. Her hands slipped from his shoulders, her fingers searching for the row of small buckles down the front of his leather jerkin. The straps slid easily from their moorings, one after the next, down and down, but then she encountered something on his front.
Something warm and wet and sticky. Odd. It was like touching…
She stiffened, tore her lips from his, and glanced down. Red stained her fingertips. More red marred her fine golden gown, splotches of it, as if someone had taken a dagger to her.
“What in the name of the Three?” Her hands trembled as she snatched at his garments.
Strong fingers circled her wrists, pinning her hands against his chest.
“It’s not my blood.” He said it quietly, calmly, in the kind of tone one might use on a skittish filly.
“Not your…” She closed her fingers into fists to hide the stains, but she could not cover her ruined gown. “Then whose? What happened in the hall after you sent me away?”
“The drunkard on the table.”
“Rand. His name was Rand.” For some reason, she had to force those words past a rapidly closing throat. One of her father’s guards, he’d been a fixture about the keep for as long as she could remember.
Torch caught her chin in his hand. “It still is.”
“He’s not…”
He shook his head. “No, but I will not tell you falsehoods. He refused me his oath.”
“Yet…Those who would not bow. You said you’d let them go free.”
“And I would have, except he decided to make matters difficult.” Torch voiced that vague statement with a certain finality. Do not beg for details, he might as well have said. “I had no choice but to confine him.”
Unable to speak, Calista nodded.
“Was he…was he anything to you?”
“Beyond my father’s retainer, no,” she said thickly. “I…I…”
“I never claimed what I mean to do will be easy. People would paint me as a ruthless monster. I am not, but at times I shall have to do things that may seem heartless. It will be no less difficult for you. No less dangerous. But I swore to protect you, and I mean to keep that oath.”
Once more, he traced the neckline of her gown, up one breast and over the next, and warmth trailed after his finger. “Marriage to me is going to demand a lot of you.” He leaned even closer, and his voice lowered to a husky rasp. “I’m going to need you. I need to know you’re with me.”
Gracious, what had that admission cost such a proud and independent man? “I am.” She set her hand in his. Squeezed, as if that one gesture could transfer all the feelings welling in her chest to him. She hardly knew why or how, but she believed in him now. “I don’t want to think about those things now.”
“No,” he agreed. “Not tonight. Tonight is about what we want. I want you. I want your naked skin branded with mine. I haven’t yet seen you, and I want that, too. I want to see all of you.”
Mother and Father, she wanted the same. She grappled with the fastenings at his front, but he grasped her wrists and set her hands by her sides. Drawing his dagger, the same weapon he used to cut off a lock of hair to burn on the altar, he set the blade against the swells of her breasts. In one swift motion, he slashed the front of her gown. The breath raced from her suddenly expanded lungs, and her gown and chemise parted, leaving her bared to the waist. Bared to his view.
But he wanted more. He peeled back the tattered sides of her bodice, easing her arms from the tight sleeves, one fingerbreadth at a time. The costly fabric draped about her hips, a river of gold flowing to pool at her feet. Her hair fell about her shoulders in dark wav
es, the soft ends teasing her nipples to hardness.
Or perhaps that might be ascribed to his utter focus on her. His gaze fixed on her chest, and his eyes darkened with raw need. His jaw firmed, and he muttered a curse under his breath. One calloused finger reached out to trace the contour of her breast, skimming the areola, barely glancing against the aching bud at its tip.
Still, even that mild contact provoked a gasp.
“Does my lady desire more?”
An impish impulse rose inside her. “What if I told you no?”
“I would not believe you. Not when you’re looking at me like that.”
Her eyelids had drifted halfway shut. “How am I looking at you?”
“Like you want me to do this.”
He dipped his head and caught her nipple between his teeth, biting down to the barest edge between pleasure and pain. The moment she moaned, his tongue darted out to soothe, but that small comfort only intensified the need that roared to life inside her.
She tangled her fingers in his hair and held him to the spot while her back arched in offering. A firm hand covered her other breast, and she felt as if she were swelling to fill the cup of his palm.
Her head dropped back, her lids fluttered shut, and she let the sensations he roused lick her body like the flames on the hearth. Like his tongue on the peak of her breast.
“Perfection,” he muttered about the bud. “You are perfection.”
He raised his head to claim her lips, while his arms encircled her. His hands spread across her shoulder blades to press her close. As the rough leather and studs of his jerkin chafed at her sensitized nipples, arousal and abrasion vied with each other, but soon enough she placed her palms on his chest and pushed him back.
“You’re wearing too many clothes.” The throaty intonation took her by surprise. Goodness, she sounded like an accomplished seductress.
His answering grin was the embodiment of wicked promise. “I believe you offered to help me with that.”
That grin was also infectious. “So I did.”
With trembling fingers, she slipped the belt at his waist through its buckle before attacking the remaining fastenings down his chest. The leather separated to reveal his hauberk of polished rings. He shrugged the jerkin to the rush-covered floor, and tugged the heavy mail over his head. Beneath, a soft well-worn shirt of padded wool protected his body. Her eager fingers tore at the laces until his shirt joined the rest of his garments, and he stood before her in nothing but his breeks.
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