“Yes, Princess Natilde.” Anything to stop the torment.
“I’m going to untie you. You will get on your knees and kiss my feet. If you convince me you’re sincere, I’ll generously give you my dress and you’ll help me into yours. Understand? You get one chance to do this right.”
Of course she agreed. When the ropes loosened, she fell to the snow naked, her feet unable to hold her weight, drops of blood marring the white. She kissed Princess Natilde’s feet, over and over, swearing to silence, shivering so hard she could barely speak.
Finally the princess stroked her hair, then lifted her chin. “You’ve done well, so I’m willing to let you live. Here are the rules. I am Princess Natilde and you will never say otherwise to anyone. I know that monster you call a horse can talk. If it says otherwise, ever, I will have it killed and its head hung where you will have to see it, every day. The next three nights are a test. If you’re good at the inns, stay silent and serve me well, I’ll let you go free once we reach Castle Marcellum. Agreed?”
“Yes, Princess Natilde.”
“I’m doing you a favor you know. Prince Cavan would have found you most disappointing. But keep this in mind—if you forget and think to tell him who you were, he’ll find out you’re no longer a virgin. He’ll cut your throat. King Wyn will be outraged. Maybe he’ll send armies to your precious Isles. Think of all that, pet. Now, beg me for these clothes.”
Nix hadn’t stopped thinking about it, much as she wished she could. The bruises and cuts throbbed still, though days old, and she felt as if she’d never be warm again. But the dark shame pained her far more.
Her soul might never recover.
She started when Mrs. Crocker touched her hand, then tapped a purple-scabbed bruise on Nix’s wrist, where the ropes had cut in. “A servant’s life can be hard, but so can a prince’s. He might not suffer beatings from his betters, it’s true. All of us, though, king or pauper, do what we must. Prince Cavan has a responsibility to the throne and his people. The alliance with your kingdom will improve many lives and he knows it. It’s worth it to him, to sacrifice a bit of personal happiness for that end. You understand?”
Nix understood why Cavan liked to visit Mrs. Crocker in her kitchen, if nothing else.
“No one here will beat you, child,” the housekeeper said kindly. “Nor will you be sent away. You heard the prince. This is your chance to find your own bit of happiness. What responsibilities would you like best?”
The whiskey burned through the tea, warming her throat and the chill ball of terror that had lodged all these days in her belly, as if thrust there by her serving woman’s rough fingers, by the violation of that rough-carved hilt. “The stables,” she whispered. How Cavan had known, she had no idea, but there she’d be with Falada. And away from Princess Natilde’s sight.
Mrs. Crocker frowned a little. “There’s not much for you there. We have the stable lads, the grooms.” She snapped her fingers. “I know. The geese. You can mind them. There’s a young man, Conrad—a bit younger than you are—that does it, but the geese can be worse than herding kittens and he can always use another pair of hands and eyes.”
Geese. She could mind geese. Something simple.
“You’ll sleep near them in the stables, to be sure they don’t set up a fuss—which they do if disturbed, or out of just plain ornery nature. In the mornings, you take them out to graze and swim a bit, then round them up come sundown. Easy enough?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It sounded all right.
“It will get you out in the sun a bit. Cavan is right—you’re a pale wisp of a thing. We’ll get you set to rights. You’ll see. All will work out fine in the end.”
* * *
The serving girl’s haunted eyes, a bruised blue in her shivering white face, stayed with Cavan as he paced his chambers, waiting for notice that his bride had finished her bath and awaited him. He wished fervently he’d brought the whiskey up with him. Brenna had a point about the danger of whiskey dick, particularly on top of his keenly felt physical reservations, but that hadn’t been why he left the bottle behind. He’d felt strangely moved to give the girl something. To soothe the trembling that took her when he touched her chin, to calm the skittish terror in her eyes.
Servants were beaten all the time, though not in Marcellum, or even most of Erie, the same courtesy they afforded the horses and other livestock. He could hardly fault his new bride, however, for following an otherwise common practice. Or he wouldn’t, if he liked her better than he did. He needed to shake this instant aversion he’d developed for Natilde and give her time to demonstrate her good qualities. Judging her harshly would get them nowhere. It might not even have been her mistress who’d visited the scrapes and bruises on tiny Nix.
An ill-fated name, indeed. He’d given her the whiskey partly out of fear she’d fade to nothing at all. Though the fate of this foreign servant girl shouldn’t matter.
She shouldn’t have captured any of his attention, truly. Far too timid—almost irritatingly so—fragile as a sunbeam on new snow, her hair so blond it resembled the ivory of his favorite chess set. Unreasonable that she pulled at him, that he’d even for a moment considered cuddling her close, caressing that petal-thin skin and stroking her until she shivered with delight instead of the quavering of an abused hound dog. Until she welcomed him into her slight body, her slender hands like flowers on his skin, his name sighing on her breath like a warm breeze.
Impossible that he entertained such thoughts at all, let alone on his wedding night. To another woman.
Yet those fantasies of her worked to rouse him in a way that all his previous determined imaginings had not. His cock, steadfastly uninterested in duty or responsibility up to this point, stirred and hardened. Going to the window, Cavan looked down at the now empty inner yard, violet with dusk, and pictured Nix again as she’d been, leaning against the horse, murmuring to it, delicate white hands moving over the mare in a kind of benediction. Almost he could believe in enchantments, the way the horse had gazed at her with rapt affection, and seemed to speak to her in turn.
Nonsense, but he stroked himself over his clothes, preserving the arousal, fantasizing that he might sweep her up onto his horse, pull her to straddle him and ride him in turn. With her fey build, she’d be light enough, barely a feather as she clung to him, her ivory hair spilling around them, her slight breasts pink and white as the cherry blossoms of spring. He slowed, needing now to hold back what his body urged, saving the arousal to service his bride.
Good timing, too, as his valet knocked just then and informed him Princess Natilde invited him to join her. Holding firmly to his warm thoughts—after all, it mattered not whose visage he held in his head and it did matter that he manage to perform—he strode down the hall and entered the bridal chambers for a second time.
Natilde had changed into a peignoir, gossamer thin and nearly transparent. It seemed too small for her, though he supposed such garments were made to be. Her full breasts strained the silk, dark nipples thrust as boldly as her sensual gaze, the dark thatch at her thighs as lush as the rippling chestnut waves flowing down her back. Would little Nix have ivory hair at her sex, like a lace of frost barely veiling the pink that would peek through? Guilt at the disloyal thought pricked him, but it also rejuvenated the lust that had flagged at the sight of his bride and the chill at the triumphant tilt of her smile.
Taking Natilde’s hand, he brushed it with a kiss, relieved to find the heavy perfume mostly gone. Nix had nearly laughed at his question, the somber blue lighting with a glint quickly banished. The princess would not have listened to advice on heavy scent, but Nix had known. Perhaps had even mischievously kept silent. It made him smile to think of it—and tempted him to see what it would take to coax more mischief from her guarded self.
“What makes you smile, husband?” Natilde asked, eyes narrowing as if she could read his thoughts indeed.
“Pleasure how beautiful you look,” he returned smoothly. His wife would not catch
him out in the lie. He’d trained too well for too long to present only what the world should see. Determined to see the consummation through immediately, lest his enthusiasm flag again, he led her to the bed and helped her onto it, then eased her into lying back. She pulled him with her, a sensation uncomfortably like being sucked underwater by a tangle of old submerged limbs. His instincts shouted at him to kick away from the danger, but he firmly directed his thoughts back to the fantasy of Nix’s gleaming arms, her hair spread beneath them, white as bone.
Natilde’s mouth parted under his, hot and provocative. His bride. His queen. Mother of his heirs and bringer of prosperity to the lands. His destiny and accepted fate. Even as he pushed up her gown and her eager hands freed his cock, the bleakness of the future rolled out in his mind’s eye, a winter that never ended. She stroked him deftly, coaxing his flagging member back to full attention. Not her hands, but the image of Nix doing the same did the trick, touching him as she’d touched her mare. Natilde moved urgently under him, guiding him to her entrance. Nix’s waifish blue eyes seemed to accuse him, so he tore his mouth from Natilde’s and pressed his lips to her collarbone, imaging it as the delicate wing he’d glimpsed above Nix’s rough garment. Her silken skin under his tongue.
With Nix firmly fixed in his mind, he thrust into his bride’s body. She cried out in delight, a sound not unlike a warrior beheading his enemy on the battlefield, and wound her thighs around his hips. He pumped into her willing body, on the downhill crash now, ready to release his seed to her fertile soil, thinking now of the sons and daughters they would make. They would be his joy, his family.
Complete the alliance, get an heir, then dally with all the maids you like.
It no longer sounded vile, but like a promise. His reward for completing his duty to the throne. Once he got Natilde with child, she would be content to breed and he would seek out Nix. Perhaps by the time spring arrived, he’d hold her sweet body in his arms, have her kisses rain upon him with the benediction of her gentle spirit.
With a cry, a surge of triumphant relief, he spilled his seed into his bride. He’d managed it. Done as he should. Natilde cried out her own pleasure, fortunately, as he hadn’t had the wit or, to be honest, the interest in seeing to it. It made him a terrible person. Even as he collapsed upon her, buried in her slick flesh, sweat soaking their garments, he felt no affection for her. If anything, he forced away a sense of growing revulsion, of terrible wrong.
“Husband,” Natilde murmured in a tone of deepest pleasure.
It took everything he had not to deny it.
4
The stables turned out to be very fine, indeed. Far more so than Nix had imagined they might be. Of course, she’d no more stepped foot into the stables at home than she had the kitchens. Falada, as befit her elevated status, as resident Court Faery and companion to the princess, had enjoyed her own small cottage, designed to suit her specifications and with a door she could operate herself, to either go out and enjoy a run or close against chilly weather.
The geese were kept in a room off the main stables and Mrs. Crocker led her there by a path that did not take them past the stalls. Nix would have to find Falada later. When Mrs. Crocker opened the door, the geese set up a racket, their honking quickly hitting a bass crescendo that had Nix clapping her hands over her ears.
“Hey now!” A young lad—probably several years younger than she—came around the corner, face red with irritation. “Who in the Twelve—oh, Mrs. Crocker.”
“Conrad.” She gave him a placid look that nevertheless conveyed a warning. She closed the door on the geese. “You’re not in with the geese?”
He looked abashed. “I was just on my way back. You’ll see they were already settled.”
“Well, I have help for you, so you can take turns staying with the fretful creatures. This is Nix, our new goose girl.”
Far from seeming pleased, Conrad wrinkled his nose at her. “I handle the geese.”
“Now you’ll have four hands. Once Nix learns the tricks of the trade, perhaps we can move you up to stable lad or even groom.”
That appeased him. He lost his black scowl and looked Nix over. “Fine. I’ll teach you what you need to know.”
“Thank you.” It wasn’t difficult to sound meek. Her old self might have laughed at the boy, for pompously sounding like herding geese took great skill. But her old self hadn’t realized how little she really knew how to do. Or how little worth she possessed.
Mrs. Crocker noticed her shiver. “I’ll get you some warm clothes and bedding. You’ll be just fine.” She patted Nix’s shoulder, reminding her of the kiss Cavan had planted on her forehead. These people touched far more than hers did.
Once she’d gone, Conrad drew himself up in grave self-importance. “The first rule is to keep the geese calm and quiet. If they get riled up, they’ll keep half the castle up all night and you don’t want to see what happens then!”
She nodded, following him around the corner to a small room with a bed and an unlit lamp. A half wall overlooked the goose pen, their continuing indignant honks echoing off the walls as they strutted about, hissing and flapping wings.
“Since you riled ‘em up, you can settle ‘em down. Consider it your first test.” Conrad awarded Nix another of his superior smiles, then abandoned the field, back to whatever he’d been doing when Mrs. Crocker caught him out.
Nix didn’t mind. Being left alone now felt comforting and allowed her the time she needed to settle her stomach after the wrench at being reminded of tests. She had a little room with a door to bar and something to do. Something, surprisingly enough, that she might know how to do—though it would never have occurred to her to articulate it to Mrs. Crocker. Settling herself on the low wall, she dangled her feet over and began to sing a song of her mother’s, a very simple magic. The ancient strains came to her easily, the words in a language long since lost. But she shaped them carefully, knowing the curve and glide of them by heart. There wasn’t much magic in the Twelve, but the song didn’t require much. It soothed her to sing it, though the soft sounds didn’t rise above the chaos at first. Gradually, though, the geese quieted, turning bright black eyes to her and folding their wings.
She sang them back into sleep, into a slumber so peaceful that not one fluttered a feather when Mrs. Crocker knocked, bringing a wooden box with her when Nix opened the door to the little room. She cocked her head at the peaceful sight and raised her brows. “Sing to them where you come from, do you? Never thought of such a thing. Works a charm though. Pretty song, too. Didn’t know you spoke a different language there.”
“We don’t,” Nix offered, feeling a little shy to be discovered. “It’s an old song, an ancient dialect, from before Common Tongue.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Crocker nodded, though she clearly didn’t understand. Perhaps, along with no magic, they also lacked old songs. “I brought you blankets, some warm clothes for tomorrow, supper for tonight and more tea. Here’s a stand with a candle, to keep the pot warm. You’re welcome to come eat in the kitchen with the other servants, but something made me think you’d rather be alone tonight.”
She did, taking the things with relieved gratitude.
“Good. I snuck you a bit of what the prince and princess will be having. After all, I figure, it’s your first night here, too.” Then Mrs. Crocker cleared her throat and fished out a squat glass jar with a cork in the wide mouth. “This is a balm I brew, for bruises and such. Use it well, child.”
Unexpectedly, Nix’s eyes filled with tears. It shouldn’t have reminded her, with the setting, the circumstances so different, but the memory rushed back of her mother, a few forever-ago weeks before. The queen’s long illness had sapped much of her strength, but she’d called Nix to her chambers and bade her hold vigil while she worked the enchantment. With a sharp knife, she cut her own finger, letting three drops of blood fall onto a piece of white cambric. Giving the cloth to Nix, she’d said, “I regret I cannot go with you, but I give you this, my heart�
��s blood. Keep it with you always and know you have my protection. Use it well, child.”
But she’d lost it under the ice, in that same irrevocable way she’d lost herself. Mortified, Nix wiped away the tears and Mrs. Crocker frowned at her.
“Is there aught you need to tell me, little Nix?”
“No.” Nix shook her head vigorously. “I’m just tired and grateful to you, for everything.”
“All right then.” Mrs. Crocker glanced over the slumbering geese. “I expect we’re grateful to have you, too.”
After Mrs. Crocker departed, Nix ate the delicious meal, then slipped out to find Falada. They’d given her a roomy box stall, at least, but Falada gazed at her balefully.
“I feel like a prisoner,” she said, when Nix let herself in.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll set you loose and you can run free. Or make your way home.”
“No, Princess. Your mother sent me with you and I’ll stay. I’ll see this through.” Falada lipped her hair and Nix leaned into the horse’s warm strength.
“Don’t call me that anymore,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to hear it—and I told them my name is Nix.”
“If your mother only knew, her heart would break.”
“She can’t ever know.”
“It’s my fault she has power over you still,” Falada said in a sorrowful tone. “It’s mete that I should suffer also.”
“I’m the one who let it happen, who didn’t fight hard enough.”
Somehow that failure galled her as much as anything.
* * *
Custom dictated that Cavan stay closeted with his bride, so they dined together in the bridal chambers. When he’d planned the meal with Brenna, he’d indulged in a fit of idealism, thinking perhaps he and Natilde would eat it together in bed, feeding each other morsels, so he’d chosen finger foods with tasty sauces. Abysmal decision, in retrospect. The supper only made the lack of romantic intimacy between him and his new bride more starkly apparent.
The Twelve Kingdoms: Heart's Blood Page 3
