The Winter King

by C. L. Wilson

  The two of them were talking in voices too low for her to hear. Valik murmured something and headed back towards the doors. She heard them open and close. Then the Winter King walked past her line of vision again, and she heard the sound of water running in the bath, muffled by the closing bathroom door.

  Time to leave. She stuffed her mother’s things in the deep inner pockets of her skirts and crept out into the bower, turning to close the solar door behind her but not daring to lock it for fear the White King would somehow hear the click of the bolt. She hadn’t taken more then two steps when a mocking voice froze her in her tracks.

  “Well, well, what do we have here? A pretty little assassin come to slay the Winter King in his bath?”

  Wynter watched the girl—a slender young thing in a gray servant’s dress—freeze like a doe scenting the hunter. Her head came up, eyes wide and frightened. She stiffened when she caught sight of him standing in the bedroom doorway, the sound of his bath still splashing merrily away in the empty bathing chamber. Her eyes met his. He smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant expression.

  She bolted.

  With a darting speed many a runner in his land would be hard-pressed to match, she leapt across the room towards the doors. He didn’t chase her. He didn’t even call out though the guards stationed outside the door would easily have put an end to her flight. He just crossed his arms lazily over his chest and waited while Valik emerged from his concealment behind a large breakfront and blocked her escape route.

  She skidded to a halt, half-crouched, arms outflung, and sucked in her breath with an audible gasp.

  “Stay a while, won’t you?” Wynter murmured. He sauntered closer as she straightened and turned warily back to face him. He’d given Verdan the rest of the day and night to decide which daughter would wed Wynter. Was this assassin Verdan’s answer?

  He let his gaze wander over the girl’s smooth, unlined face. She was quite lovely. Her skin a fine, warm, Summerlander brown, her heart-shaped face blessed with high, sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and a pointed little chin that had the look of stubbornness about it. Dominating it all was a pair of flashing, storm gray eyes beneath dark arching brows.

  “Such a pretty face for such an ugly profession.”

  “I’m no assassin!” she protested. “I’m just a maid. I came to freshen your bath before you returned.”

  “Truly? But that way”—he tilted his head towards the door in the south wall—“does not lie my bath.” His brows lifted in mocking inquiry.

  She swallowed, and he could see the vein in the hollow of her throat pulsing like a fluttering bird caught in a snare as she tried to figure her way out of the lie. “I . . . er . . . I . . .” Stammering, openly nervous, she began to back away. Her eyes darted to the left and right, seeking a possible path of escape.

  Well, that was interesting. Wynter’s initial assumption underwent an immediate reversal. Whatever she was, this girl was no assassin. A professional would have planned an entrance, and exit, and a plausible excuse for her presence if she were caught. And Verdan would have chosen someone older and colder, someone who would have killed Wynter, died trying, or slit her own throat if she failed at both, just to keep from revealing who’d hired her.

  One other thing was also clear: whatever her reasons for being here, they had nothing to do with tending his bath.

  So, if not to kill him and not to serve him, why had she come?

  He nodded at Valik. “Search her.”

  She stood, trembling and white-faced, as Valik quickly patted her down. Valik’s shoulders stiffened when he reached the voluminous skirts. The girl lurched back, trying to keep Valik from revealing whatever he’d found.

  Gunterfys flashed. A single drop of scarlet blood welled at the girl’s throat and trickled down her skin in the shadow of the shining sword tip tucked just below her chin. Wynter didn’t believe she was an assassin, but then again, astonishing though the thought might be, he could be wrong.

  “Don’t move,” he advised. “My blade is very sharp, and Valik’s life far more important to me than yours. You wouldn’t want to make me nervous on his behalf.”

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t dare. If she even swallowed, she’d pierce her throat against his blade, and he could see she knew it.

  Slowly, watching for any sudden moves, Valik crouched down and reached once more for her skirts. His hand disappeared into what appeared to be a deep pocket hidden in the gray folds.

  Wynter wasn’t sure what he was expecting. A knife perhaps, or some sort of poison. Odd how disappointed he felt to see the jeweled comb and hairbrush, followed by a matching mirror. Obviously old, obviously of great value.

  “Not an assassin, then,” he murmured. “Just a common thief.” He pulled the razored tip of his sword back slightly.

  The storm gray eyes flashed. With his blade no longer pressed directly against her flesh, she’d rediscovered her courage. “I’m no thief! And even if I were, it would be better than being a cold, merciless killer like you!”

  Valik reached into her pockets again and retrieved a small, leather-bound book which he handed to Wynter.

  With his free hand, Wynter cracked open the book and leafed through the handwritten pages, frowning over the detailed sketches of plants and the instructions for their care. “I can understand the gold and jewels, but this? You would risk my wrath to steal this? A gardener’s journal?”

  The girl surprised them both. She leapt back, away from the tip of Wynter’s sword, and delivered a swift kick to Valik’s jaw that sent the steward sprawling against Wynter’s legs, knocking them both down. She started to lunge for the journal, which went skittering across the gleaming floor, but thought the better of it when Wynter freed himself from the tangle of Valik’s limbs and tossed aside his sword to advance on her with unmistakable determination. She spun and raced for the doors.

  He caught her just as her fingertips skimmed the brass door latch. One hand wrapped hard around her wrist, the other came up to block the close-fisted blow she plowed towards his head. The little fury meant to black his eye if she could!

  He laughed with a mix of amusement and surprised appreciation. She couldn’t win. She had to know that. Yet still she fought. He hadn’t known there was a Summerlander alive still willing to confront him with such spirited defiance. Entire armies had fallen before him, yet this slight wisp of a girl dared to grapple, barehanded and defenseless, with the Winter King, a man who could slay with a glance.

  He dodged a fist meant to break his nose and laughed again, enjoying himself for the first time in a very long while. How lucky for him so few of Verdan’s soldiers had possessed such raw, reckless courage! A thousand like her in their ranks, and the war might have ended quite differently.

  His humor apparently didn’t sit well with her. She snarled and aimed another blow at his chin, which he blocked, as well as a vicious kick to his groin. He managed to block that, too—barely—but the hard toe of her boot still came close enough, with enough force, that his balls tingled from the near miss.

  He quit laughing. There were some things a man just didn’t find funny.

  “All right. That’s enough!” He shoved her hard up against the wall, one hand curled around her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make his point. He’d let her have her fun, now he would get his answers.

  The struggle had dislodged her cap. Long black ringlets of hair, streaked with gleaming white, spilled halfway down her back. His eyes narrowed on the pale hairs threading through the much darker curls, and he recognized her at last.

  “The little maid from the bailey.” He regarded her with even greater interest than before. She was the last person he’d ever have expected to find here. “Do you know how very rare it is for anyone who has ever felt my Gaze to risk invoking my wrath a second time?”

  Panting, she glared at him. The heat of her Summerlander skin soake
d into his hands. She was so soft, so warm. So brave and defiant. More intriguing than any woman he’d met in a long, long while, and undeniably pretty.

  “Tell me, little maid, was one brush with death not enough for you? Or did the danger of it simply whet your appetite for more?” He pressed his thumb against the vein pulsing so rapidly beneath the soft, oh so vulnerable skin, and felt the answering leap as her heart pounded faster.

  She felt like warm satin. Smooth and creamy to the touch, reminding him how long it had been since he’d tasted the sweeter pleasures of life.

  “Is that it?” His voice grew husky. “Was the thievery just an excuse to seek a greater thrill? Perhaps you wondered if the Winter King’s blood could run as hot as it does cold? It can, I assure you.” He moved closer, pinning her lower body, letting her feel the unmistakable—and growing—bulge in his trousers.

  Her face paled, then flushed with color. Her eyes grew huge in her fine-boned face. His free hand slid up her waist to cup one firm, full breast, fingers dancing across the fabric until he felt the satisfying jab of her nipple drawing tight and hard. A bolt of static electricity snapped between them, and a tremor shook her from head to toe.

  “Get your hands off me!” she demanded. “Let me go!”

  Behind him, Valik cleared his throat in disapproval, but Wynter ignored him. He was toying with the girl—in part, just because he could, but also because every cell in his body was stinging with life and heat for the first time in three long years.

  Nor could she hide her answering attraction from him, even though she obviously wanted to. One of the gifts of the Snow Wolf clan was a heightened sense of smell, and though it had been three long years since he’d shared the warmth of female companionship, there was no mistaking the scent of sweet, warm musk emanating from her.

  If she were even the least bit as willing as her body so obviously was, he would get rid of Valik and coax her into something a little more mutually satisfying than fisticuffs.

  His thumb stroked her peaked nipple through the thin wool fabric. The static sparked again, and she gave a helpless moan. The sound burrowed oddly deep inside him, rousing a response like none he’d ever felt before. Possessive, dominant, compelling.

  The little maid felt it, too. And it obviously terrified her. She began to struggle in earnest, slapping his hand away and pulling at the other hand still circling her throat. Her eyes had changed color, going from their original storm-cloud gray to a bright, strangely shifting silver, as unique as her white-streaked hair. Outside, the wind whistled, picking up enough speed to rattle the windowpanes.

  Valik cleared his throat again. “Enough, Wyn,” he chided. “Let the girl go.”

  Wynter felt his nostrils flare with an instant stab of aggression, and his upper lip curled back to bare his teeth. He even growled, low in his throat, like a snow wolf warning another male away from his female.

  His response shocked him. Rationally, Wynter knew Valik was right. He was many things, most of them unpleasant, but one thing he’d never been was rapist. He had to let the girl go. But another, far more primitive and fierce, part of him refused. He had to touch her. Just this once at least. He couldn’t explain the compulsion, but he couldn’t deny it either.

  He caught her hands and pinned them over her head, against the wall. He lowered his head towards her soft, parted lips. His lips claimed hers, his tongue plunging deep to conquer the sweet cavern of her mouth, while his free hand swiftly released the top few buttons at the front of her bodice. Her skin felt hot to the touch, as if fire burned just below the flesh. He started to slide a hand inside her loosened bodice, but she tore her mouth from his with a cry.

  The window at his back exploded with a deafening crash.

  Wynter cursed himself roundly and released her. He staggered back two steps and shook his head until the strange, almost hypnotic sexual compulsion faded, and his normal, cold clarity returned.

  Fool! Idiot! She wasn’t the assassin. She was the diversion sent to lower his guard!

  He spun around, reaching for his power. It leapt at his command with crackling, lethal force. To his right, Valik’s sword flashed free of its scabbard with a familiar, deadly hiss.

  Khamsin dove for the bower doors. It wouldn’t take either Winterman long to realize there were no attackers, that there was only a broken tree branch, lying on the floor amidst a sea of scattered glass shards, flung into the room by a fierce gust of wind.

  Outside, it was storming for the second time that day, the sky dark with clouds. The wild strength of the tempest matched her own mad, riotous feelings. Anger, fear, and—Halla help her—lust roiled in a fierce tumult in her belly. The skies echoed her emotions as they always did when temper or other strong feelings made her lose her grip on the powers of her giftname, Storm. Lightning flashed, and the first, deafening booms of thunder rattled the windows in their panes. Wind howled through the shattered window, and gusts of still-snowy air whirled inside.

  The bower doors burst open before Kham reached them. The crash of the window had brought the guards running. She ducked to one side as the guards rushed in, then slipped out behind them and ran for the tower steps.

  Time to leave, before she landed in even bigger trouble than she already was.

  Halfway to the stairs, she stopped dead in her tracks. Too late.

  The large imposing figure of Maude Newt, Mistress of Servants, blocked the only path of escape. She stood at the top of the stairs, flanked by two young maids who’d obviously come to tend the very tasks Khamsin had used as her excuse to get past the guards.

  Kham instinctively reached up to pull her cap tighter over her telltale hair, only to plunge her fingers into bare curls. Her cap!

  Newt’s beady eyes narrowed, and her face pruned tight with triumph and naked loathing. “You!” she exclaimed. Her hand shot out to clamp around Khamsin’s upper arm, the meaty fingers almost as strong and viselike as the Winter King’s earlier grip. “I knew I’d seen you skulking around here earlier. What are you about? You have no business up here.”

  Her hard gaze swept over Khamsin, missing no detail of her disheveled appearance, not the loose, wild tangle of hair, not the flushed face, and definitely not the bodice unbuttoned low enough to bare the cleft between her breasts. A sneering, speculative look entered her eyes. “Or did you? Aren’t you the sly one. Come to do a little negotiating of your own, eh?”

  “You know this girl?” The White King approached, straightening the cuffs of his silk shirt. He’d obviously realized there were no assassins lurking outside in the storm, and he’d leashed his terrible power. His steward Valik followed close behind, rubbing his jaw where it had met the hard edge of Kham’s shoe.

  Newt gave the White King a tight, obsequious smile. “Indeed I do, sir. A wild, mannerless tatter who hasn’t yet learned her place.” Her fingers squeezed so tight Kham knew she’d wear a collection of bruises come morning.

  She didn’t need the warning to hold her silence. The last thing she would do was let the White King know who she really was. Even facing her father’s wrath was a more welcome prospect than admitting she was an heir to the throne the Winter King had vowed to destroy.

  “I hope she didn’t . . . upset you . . . Your Grace?”

  Newt looked rather hopeful when she posed that last question, but to Kham’s surprise, rather than admitting he’d caught her stealing from the solar, Wynter Atrialan merely gave the Mistress of Servants a chilly look, and asked, “Do I strike you as a man who could be upset by some slip of a servant girl?”

  The woman blanched and hurried to recover from her gaffe. “No, Sire, of course not.” She bobbed a rapid series of bows and curtsies. “Not in any way, Your Greatness. I never meant to imply any such thing. Please accept my apologies.” She started to back away, dragging Kham with her as she went. “Forgive me for allowing this girl to intrude on your privacy. It won’t happen again.
”

  He looked at Khamsin, and murmured something she could have sworn sounded like, “Pity.” But then his ice-pale eyes flicked back to Newt, and he said, “See that it doesn’t,” in a voice so cold she was sure she must have imagined the other.

  “Pansy and Leila will freshen your bathing chamber, sir.” Newt jerked her chin in silent command, and the two trembling maids standing behind her bobbed nervous curtsies and fled past into the bower, all but running as if they couldn’t wait to finish their work and leave.

  Her hand still clenched tight around Kham’s arm, Maude dragged her towards the stairs. Khamsin cast one, last glance back through the veil of her hair, and found the Winter King watching her. He had the strangest look on his face, something oddly wistful and bemused. Then the look was gone. He turned to reenter the bower, and the doors closed shut behind him.

  “I’ve caught you now, girl,” Newt crowed with swaggering glee. “Caught you red-handed.”

  Kham waited only until they were out of sight of the bower doors before yanking her arm from Newt’s harsh grip. “Get your hands off me.” The idiot woman actually tried to grab her again, but Kham evaded her and gave her a fierce glare. “Touch me again, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t,” she vowed. Little sparks of energy popped and crackled at her fingertips. She was in no mood for further manhandling, especially not by the likes of Maude Newt.

  “You won’t be acting so high-and-mighty when the king hears what you’ve been up to!” Newt snarled. But apparently the threat and the little show of power convinced her that Kham meant business, and she kept her hands to herself. “Get on downstairs now,” she snapped. “We’re going to see your father.”

  Khamsin briefly contemplated the idea of running for it and leaving Newt empty-handed, but gave up the idea almost immediately. Newt didn’t need Kham in tow. She had witnesses. Half a dozen of them. Even if the White King kept silent, Pansy and Leila wouldn’t. They’d seen her distinctive hair, and their livelihoods depended on keeping in Newt’s good graces.