Page 22

Aemyra watched the sun track its path through the sky as if it were marking her final hours.

In a way, it was.

She was about to be dragged in front of Athair Alfred and forced to speak the words under metaphorical sword-point. Aemyra knew that keeping her as a hostage within the caisteal would stop Draevan from launching a full-scale attack on the city, but why betroth her to Fiorean?

She thought it unlikely that the Chosen wanted more Dùileach heirs from the royals. By all accounts, the young princes could barely summon a flame between them—but they had all been Goddess blessed.

Thoughts of the priestesses swam into Aemyra’s mind. She could not see the temple from her window, but she prayed to Brigid that they were safe. Once she was married to Fiorean, she would be close enough to kill him while he slept and then she could avenge her family and Kenna.

It would be a moment worth enduring a sham wedding for.

She hoped her father would understand that she was doing this only to get close enough to kill Fiorean. If she could make alliances with Draevan’s spies, perhaps they could help her escape the caisteal afterward.

Fisting the layered fabric of her skirt, she resisted the urge to tear the dress apart. The satin was smooth against her calluses and she had never felt less like herself.

With a resigned sigh, Aemyra finally stepped away from the window to where Sir Gavin was waiting for her in the wide corridor. The priest who had been standing outside her door all day stood rigidly beside him.

“Best get it over with then,” she said dismissively, following Sir Gavin to the tower.

Today there would be no familiar faces, nor any priestesses. By all accounts they were confined to the temple until the succession was more settled. Aemyra feared for Eilidh, but all she could do was pray.

Her palms were sweating, and she tried to remind herself that even if she spoke the vows today, she would not have a husband come nightfall.

She would find a way to get out of the caisteal and, when her magic returned, she would call her dragon.

Then she would take to the sky with Terrea and burn them all to ashes.

The tower was located on the opposite side of Caisteal Lasair from Aemyra’s rooms, the imposing black stone abutting the red brick of the caisteal like an unsightly growth. Beyond the hill the caisteal sat upon, the snow-covered peaks of the Deàrr Mountains were flushed with the sunset. Today she saw no beauty in the sight.

“Princess?” Sir Gavin cleared his throat.

Squaring her shoulders and trying not to scratch at the pins holding her hair in place, Aemyra walked through the doors.

To her surprise, the circular room had been lavishly decorated. Abundant petals littered the dark floor, vines and lush flowers draped in a carousel of color spiraling upward to the high ceiling—no doubt thanks to Katherine’s contacts in ùir. The lairds gathered were bedecked in all their finery and a cold sweat traveled from Aemyra’s palms to the base of her spine, like the faint strains of the clarsach were plucking her nerves.

The people would believe this marriage to be legitimate.

Her skirts brushed the smooth floor as she advanced, light permeating the gloomy tower through the one window at the very top of the lofty ceiling. Athair Alfred and Fiorean were waiting in the middle of that beam of light, the curved pews all facing the illuminated spot in the center of the room.

Brigid, where are you?

As Aemyra walked between the pews, her father’s lectures about queenly behavior rang in her ears. If she screamed and cried, if the priests were forced to drag her in front of Alfred, if she begged to be spared this indignity, the people would forever see her as weak.

She would rather shackle herself to a murderer than have them see her as anything less than infallible.

So Aemyra held her chin high, her expression carefully masked. She walked past Fiorean’s younger brothers, who were clad in crimson clan tartan, their wives dutifully silent beside them. Exactly like they wanted Aemyra to be.

In her fine dress with her hair perfectly coiffed and shining like copper, she saw the appreciation in people’s eyes as she passed.

She hadn’t expected to see it reflected in Fiorean’s gaze as well.

The dress was white, some symbolic reflection of the Chosen’s particular views on purity. Like they could strip Aemyra of everything she was with the lack of color. Despite the plain hue, the bodice was well fitted, the satin skirts trailing heavily behind her.

Gone was the glittering gold of a queen.

As much as she hated him, Aemyra blinked in surprise as the sunlight gilded Fiorean’s hair, bathing him in a golden glow as he watched her approach. The traditional fèileadh he wore, with their clan tartan draped over his hips and across one shoulder, struck an impressive figure.

A gold dragon brooch was holding the material together, and his auburn hair gleamed as it spilled across his shoulders.

The fact that he was handsome would not make him any easier to kill, and Aemyra let her eyes dart to the front pew, where Evander was watching her closely. The crown and sword of the first king was firmly in place upon his person.

It wouldn’t surprise Aemyra if he wore them to bed.

When she finally reached the center of the tower after what felt like an age, Fiorean’s expression was once again cold. Like none of this was affecting him in the slightest.

He wore no weapon, save for a small sgian-dubh, and Aemyra wondered if he had already commissioned the garnet he had stolen back from her to be set into a new sword.

She supposed that in a few hours, she might find out.

In a few hours, though, he might be dead.

With that thought, she turned her gaze away from Fiorean and listened as Alfred began his sermon. The priest’s bald head glinted with sweat, his beady eyes lingering a little too long on Aemyra. As if remembering how she had looked restrained on the ground before him.

She shivered at the memory but was determined not to give him the satisfaction of her fear. Weak men would rather guilt strong women than become strong themselves, and Aemyra was content to show him what strength truly looked like.

“Please be seated,” Alfred began in his gravelly voice, bidding all those who had gotten to their feet upon Aemyra’s arrival to sit.

Having never been inside a Savior’s tower before, Aemyra didn’t know what to expect from the service. But she hadn’t anticipated being bored to tears within the first few minutes.

“Savior, we pray you remind us to remain pure in your image, to carry your faith in our hearts each day of our lives and foster this gift of life you have given us,” Alfred droned.

Forcing herself not to yawn after her sleepless night, Aemyra kept her eyes firmly on the golden brooch Fiorean wore.

As a Dùileach, she could not feel the presence of any Goddess within this dark tower. Since she would not be speaking her vows in front of the eternal fire or holding the burning branch, Aemyra felt slightly better about the whole affair.

Still, she did not look up at Fiorean.

When the long sermon finally ended and Aemyra’s feet began to protest, Alfred gestured for Fiorean to take her hands.

The gentle scent of lilac and orange blossom met her nostrils before he reached for her, and suddenly their fingers were entwined.

Resisting the urge to pull away from his grasp, she endured it.

Aemyra had never touched Fiorean before, save in violence.

His hands were warm but calloused, with long fingers and a strong grip. She could feel the undercurrent of heat he allowed to pass beneath his skin. The hands of a Dùileach, of a dragon rider. Aemyra was powerless to watch as Alfred twined a white ribbon around their wrists, binding them together.

She didn’t know why, but her heart was racing.

Finally daring to look up at Fiorean’s face, Aemyra stifled a gasp when she noticed the intensity with which he was staring at her. There was hatred there still, no doubt reflected in her own eyes, but it concealed something else. Something more primal perhaps.

“We commit your souls to the Savior, bound together now so shall you find your way back to each other in this life—and every life.”

Fiorean’s green eyes were fixed on her as Athair Alfred bid them repeat the words. She watched Fiorean’s lips move as he spoke the vows that would make her his wife in the eyes of the True Religion.

Then it was her turn.

She felt herself speak the words, her hands growing sweaty, and yet Fiorean’s grip never faltered.

“Savior save us, bind us, and mold us. I am his wife in this life…and in all to come.”

It wasn’t until Aemyra had spoken the last word that she understood the look in her new husband’s eyes.

Possessiveness.

—

The hall was riotously noisy.

Aemyra sat in the place of honor just to the left of Evander, with Fiorean on her other side. To everyone else it was probably the most coveted seat in all of Tìr Teine, but to her it felt like a trap.

Evander was already indecently drunk, having spilled his wine repeatedly over his plate of food until Katherine reached over and moved his goblet farther away.

Aemyra sat as stiffly as her new husband did.

“Come, now. Do you know how hard it was to get roast beef on such short notice?” Evander grinned wildly, gesturing to their untouched plates. “With the Balnain fleet blockading the Forc, we were lucky to have anything come in at all.”

Aemyra spun to face him, momentarily forgetting that he had attempted to behead her the day before. “Blockading?”

Evander made an offensive gesture toward her and swigged directly from the jug of wine, to the obvious horror of his mother.

Aemyra pursed her lips in distaste but committed the information to memory. This was a very good sign. If the Balnain fleet held the Forc, and her army was pressing northeast…

Her eyes flicked nervously to her new husband. Fiorean’s hands were flat on the table, and his posture stiff. If she could kill him tonight and slip from the caisteal using the servants’ passageways, she could be at the northern Forc in four days, even without her dragon.

Aemyra fiddled with the serving knife.

Feeling Fiorean’s eyes on her, she picked up her fork to sample some of the food.

It was truly a shame she had no appetite. The feast was immaculate.

The guests could be forgiven for forgetting that a war had broken out, as the minstrels played a lively tune that many a fair couple danced to. But Aemyra recognized the heavy cloud of grief that permeated even this supposedly happy event. The Covenanters lurking behind the tables did little to dispel the feeling of doom, and Charlotte was notably absent.

Athair Alfred whispered into Evander’s ear almost continuously and Katherine was trying to listen so subtly that it became glaringly obvious. Elear and his wife, Elizabeth, were stoic at the far end of the table and Aemyra thought of their children, briefly wondering if what had killed young Fergys was infectious. If so, they would have a much bigger problem on their hands.

Seated closest to Aemyra, Nael and his wife seemed happy in each other’s company. The telltale bunching of Margaret’s dress spoke of the growing bump underneath. Fiorean’s youngest brother was evidently about to father another child.

Platters of food groaned and ale flowed, but through it all Fiorean and Aemyra avoided looking at each other. The only words they had spoken that day were their marriage vows.

At the thought of what might await her in the next hours, Aemyra gulped her wine and choked slightly.

While it may have been the choice of most brides to get drunk in anticipation of their wedding night, Aemyra knew she needed to be clearheaded when the time came.

Fiorean himself had barely drunk more than a few sips of the vintage and had yet to touch his food.

“I don’t think th—”

Turning at the sound of the dowager queen’s voice, Aemyra saw Katherine reach across Alfred to place a gentle hand on Evander’s arm. The king brushed off his mother’s touch, and Sir Nairn loomed protectively behind her.

“It is time,” Evander said with a grin as Alfred folded his hands over his stomach contentedly.

Startling Aemyra, Evander stood from the table, his chair scraping loudly enough that the musicians stopped playing. As the fiddles died out, the dancing pairs and dining lairds turned expectantly to their pretender king.

“My honored guests. I raise a toast to the bride and groom—Prince Fiorean and Princess Aemyra Daercathian!”

A thunderous roar went through the crowd and Aemyra grew even more still. She swore that Fiorean was barely breathing beside her.

Evander drained his goblet and looked down at her, his expression wicked.

“We have had our wedding, now we must ensure that the couple consummate the marriage.”

The thunderous cheering grew louder as the guests began banging on tables and stomping their feet, calling for her to be carried to the royal bedchamber. Most disturbingly, the priests began to pray.

“What?” Aemyra asked, whirling to face Fiorean.

A flush was creeping up his pale skin, but he did not look at her.

Evander was grinning, but even Katherine had a distasteful look on her face as Sir Nairn whispered in her ear. Was this some tradition of the True Religion? Aemyra had heard priests preach chastity until marriage as one of the rules dictated by the Savior in order to save one’s soul, but were they about to examine her?

Aemyra wished she hadn’t attempted to eat anything, as the thought of what was about to happen threatened to make her sick.

“The ladies should take her to undress,” Margaret said in a small voice.

With a feral grin, Evander reached down and hauled Aemyra up to her feet, her chair clattering to the ground.

“Why wait?” he asked, waving Margaret’s protests away dismissively. “Shall we get started, then?” Before she could free herself, Evander dragged Aemyra out from behind the table and she heard Fiorean’s muttered curse.

Evander laughed. “You’ll get your chance soon enough, Brother.”

Her arm smarted, bruises already flowering under his tight grip.

“You’re drunk and not thinking clearly. Let her go,” Fiorean said carefully, knuckles straining white on the back of the chair he had vacated.

“Sober as a judge, Fi,” Evander replied. “And believe me, I wish I wasn’t.”

The hard edge had returned to his voice and Aemyra promised death with a glare.

“Let’s get you bedded,” Evander said in her ear.

They were soon engulfed by the riotous crowd, and Aemyra struggled to see where she was going, only the faces of leering men who dared a grope or a squeeze were visible as she passed.

As soon as Fiorean was dead, she would put this right.

No woman in her territory would ever have to suffer such indignation. She might not be able to travel to Tìr ùir or Uisge to right the wrongs done by the Chosen there, but she would purge the ways of the Savior from this land with fire and fury.

Aemyra tried to walk faster, hoping she would find some sanctuary in the corridors.

But some of the crowd followed.

As Evander led them toward Fiorean’s rooms, the jeering and laughing continued in a more restrained way.

Heartbeat loud in her ears, Aemyra failed to hear what was being said, or perhaps she was subconsciously blocking it out, but somehow Evander ripped the ivory dress from her body, leaving her standing before the group of men in nothing but her corset and shift.

“This is barbaric!” Aemyra shouted, refusing to cover herself.

She had never been ashamed of her body, but she would never have wanted to publicly expose herself in such a way. The leering eyes of the men who had followed from the hall looked over the thin fabric as Evander’s grip grew fiercer. Aemyra suddenly understood why the women of Tìr ùir were so shy and quiet. They had been disrespected and abused by men their whole lives.

“Brother.”

Fiorean may have only uttered one word, but it held such deadly promise that Evander’s hold slackened. He threw Aemyra’s wedding dress to his friends, several of the men fighting over the scraps of satin like dogs. Then he drew his dagger.

Evander sliced the laces of her corset, ripping it from her until she stood in only her thin shift.

Afraid for what he might do next, Aemyra twisted in his grip and Fiorean seized his opportunity. Thrown off balance by her movement, Evander stumbled and Fiorean pulled Aemyra against him.

“I believe you entrusted me to keep her in check?” Fiorean asked, the words clipped.

Despite her rage, Aemyra stood stiffly, feeling Fiorean’s heart beating against her spine.

“Oho! My brother knows his duty.” Evander laughed.

Flushing a deeper shade of red, Aemyra was forced to remain in Fiorean’s hold as Evander ushered them up the stairs. Even after multiple protests and outright threats from his younger brother, he did not leave.

Ten lairds accompanied them to Fiorean’s chambers, joking and laughing among themselves. Some were reminiscing about their own wedding night, others offering unhelpful advice to Fiorean.

Aemyra committed every face to memory for the day she once again held a weapon in her hand.

Evander opened the doors to Fiorean’s bedchamber with a sadistic smile before backing away.

“From a blacksmith whore to a prince’s bride. You better be worth it.”

Aemyra strode into the room like she wasn’t afraid. Two of the lairds whistled appreciatively as her curves snagged against the thin shift.

“Fiorean’s a lucky one.”

“Sure you don’t want to share?”

“She’s got a temper, maybe your little cock can’t handle her.”

The lairds continued their jeering as Fiorean followed her into the room, boots loud on the flagstones. A few hasty jokes slipped in before he slammed the door closed.

Shivering in the cold, and more rattled than she cared to admit, Aemyra eyed the room for something she could use to cover herself. The only place that made the most sense was the bed.

As if issuing a challenge of her own, Aemyra lifted the sheets and climbed in.

Fiorean cleared his throat, his eyes downcast as he strode slowly toward the small settee in front of the fireplace. She watched him in silence, noting the way his fèileadh hugged his hips.

Her heart stuttered despite herself.

But he only pulled the fur blanket off the settee and threw it onto the bed.

“You seem cold,” he said curtly.

Aemyra frowned, pulling the fur around her shoulders to cover her bare arms, which were indeed prickled with gooseflesh. Unarmed and vulnerable as she was, it comforted her to be covered and she looked around the room.

It was bigger than the one she had been staying in. Far larger than her rooms in Caisteal Penryth. Anything was an improvement on her tiny attic bedroom in the lower town.

But as she sat in what was to become her marriage bed with the man she hated most in the world, she realized that she would have traded this luxury for that lumpy cot in a heartbeat.

Fiorean sat down on the ottoman at the end of the bed and began removing his boots.

She knew what came next. Knew what he would expect. She also knew when he would be the most vulnerable.

“I am not going to touch you,” Fiorean said, so quietly that she swore she had heard him wrong.

“What?”

He finally looked at her, his hair parting to reveal a conflicted expression.

“You do not need to fear me tonight. I take no pleasure in forcing a woman to bed and I certainly would not relish killing you while you are without weapon or magic.”

Aemyra lifted her chin. “How gracious of you. As repulsed as I am by the idea of sharing your bed, I’ll remind you that there are ten lairds and a false king waiting outside of this door for proof that you have bedded me.”

As if to prove her point, a fist began pounding at the door, followed by sniggering laughs.

Fiorean suddenly stood.

She watched as he undressed himself by the light of the fire. He unclipped his belt and unfastened the brooch at his shoulder, letting his fèileadh unravel to the ground in one long bolt of wool until he stood in nothing but his long white shirt and socks.

He was lithe like a mountain cat. Muscular, but without the bulk. She found that his legs were shapely.

He caught her looking.

“Appraising me like I’m a bull at auction?”

Aemyra glared at him. “I think I got rather the worst of it, being dragged through the revels like a prize sow.”

“Mm.”

But as she looked, she could admit that Fiorean was a handsome man. Handsomer even than his elder brother, she supposed. Were it not for the scar.

Odd, that he had removed almost all of his clothes and yet his hair was still carefully placed to cover it. Bending down, he pulled off his thick socks, placing the sgian-dubh carefully on the bedside table.

Anger hardening her heart, she braced herself as he ripped the cover off the bed, rumpling the sheets.

She bit her lip in apprehension. Men frequently lost themselves in the throes of passion. At least the few Aemyra had taken to bed had proven to be so lost in their own pleasure that they had seemed to forget she even existed.

When Fiorean was sufficiently distracted, she would stab him through the eye with his own knife. All she needed was an opening.

Knowing this was the price she had to pay to save her territory, Aemyra let the furs drop from around her shoulders.

Then she lifted her shift over her head in one defiant motion.

Fiorean’s gaze finally left her face, lingering on her breasts, where each nipple was taut in the cold air. He drew in a deep breath and jerked his head back up, eyes on the ceiling.

Climbing onto the bed, he knelt beside her, his hands gripping the post behind her head.

Aemyra pressed her lips firmly together and reminded herself why she was doing this.

But instead of touching her, Fiorean began to rock back and forth so the wooden post banged rhythmically against the wall.

Aemyra’s eyes shot open in surprise as she heard riotous laughter and cheering coming from outside the room.

He wasn’t even looking at her.

She lay there, immobile, as Fiorean rocked the bed. As the seconds slipped by without him touching her, she relaxed slightly.

Fiorean must have noticed because he finally dropped his gaze to her face. He held her stare as his arm moved rhythmically back and forth, hitting the bedframe against the wall just an increment faster each time. Even as her full breasts undulated with the motion, his gaze did not wander.

His emerald eyes held such depth of emotion, each one fighting for dominance, that she found herself wanting to ask what he was thinking.

Before she could chastise herself for taking an interest in any of Fiorean’s inner thoughts, she tensed again as he reached for his sgian-dubh.

“If you cut me with that, you’ll not live to regret it,” she said.

He lifted one finger to his lips before slashing the meaty part of his palm until bright beads of blood pooled onto the sheets.

Aemyra’s mouth dropped open as Fiorean wiped the small cut to stop the bleeding, pulling his shirtsleeve down to cover his hand.

Then he stepped off the bed and crossed to the door.

“The marriage is consummated,” Fiorean announced into the corridor and his expression sparked to anger as his brother shouldered his way into the room.

Taking one look at Aemyra lying naked on the bed beside a small pool of fresh blood, Evander clapped Fiorean on the shoulder.

“Bit quiet for my liking, Brother. Next time try to liven things up a bit, eh?” He chuckled madly to himself.

Fiorean stiffened. “Your behavior is unbecoming of a king. Grieve how you see fit, but at least bathe before appearing before the court tomorrow?”

Before Evander could reply, Fiorean threw him bodily out of the door, slamming it closed.

Sitting up, Aemyra gathered the sheets to her chest.

“Why?” she asked.

Remaining silent, Fiorean draped the fur blanket around his own shoulders and made himself comfortable on the settee. As the fire in the brazier burned low and the room grew dark, Aemyra heard his breathing from across the room as loudly as if he were lying sleeping beside her.

It wasn’t until she was dozing off that she realized she hadn’t even tried to grab the knife.