Chapter Three
With only a few days until the funeral of the man who might have become his father-in-law, Christian is again bidding most of his family farewell. He'll travel on horseback with Elliott and Claude—plus a small retinue—while his parents and sister follow in a slower but more comfortable coach. He kisses his sister on the forehead and advises, for there's never any point commanding her, "If you stop pouting, you might manage to enjoy the journey. The countryside is quite pretty this time of year."
She literally stamps her foot, and says, "You know I can ride as fast as any of you...faster, because I'm lighter."
He shakes his head and says, "Mia, there's no point even considering it, for our parents never would." At the shrewd narrowing of her eyes, he concludes, "And I'd have to fetch you back to Mother if you disobeyed them. I could never defy her."
She pokes out her tongue and accuses, "Coward."
They both know it's not fear that binds him to the woman who adopted him, but love. He likewise pokes out his tongue, and then declares, "Brat."
She giggles and agrees "True," before quickly hugging him. Somehow, it's never painful when Mia embraces him, and she's the only person who can achieve that miracle. "Be safe. And don't do anything exciting before I get there."
The only thing he'd want is to engineer time alone with Anastasia, but cannot imagine how that might be achieved in the middle of a funeral, so he can honestly vow, "Dull as dishwater, I promise."
After being shown to their rooms, given time and facility to recover from their journey, and offered refreshments, the brothers have been granted an audience with their hostess. Christian, in the finest outfit he could pack, is doing his best to silence that snide inner voice when Elliott asks, "You're not nervous? You met her, right?"
Mortified that his disquiet is visible, Christian draws a calming breath and says, "I did." With Claude the only other person in the room, he doesn't hesitate long to add, "I want this, very much."
Elliott grins and says, "You mean you want her."
Christian laughs and agrees, "Well, that too." The brothers are close, but not in a way that is often expressed in earnest conversation. Still, he finds the courage to continue, "What if she's changed her mind? I've had no direct communication with her since I caused the death of her father."
Appropriately serious, for a change, Elliott assures him, "She won't blame you for that. The old fool should have accepted your proposal in the first place. If he'd done that, he might have lived long enough to see her happily wed."
"You have no idea if it will make her happy."
"I know that you'll always treat her with respect, like the queen she will soon be. No woman should expect more than that." Affectionately punching his brother on the arm, he adds, "The rest is just friction; you'll soon master it, just as you have every task you've attempted."
Though he no longer uses the childhood nickname—crafted by a tongue unused to speech—he remembers it well, and now says, "Thanks, Lelliott."
His only warning is a familiar twinkle in his brother's eyes, and Elliott says, "You're welcome, Freakenstein."
Claude finally joins the conversation, chiding, "You promised your parents never to use that name again."
Elliott grins and reveals, "Had my fingers crossed behind my back, so it doesn't count."
Buoyed by his cheeky support, Christian puts an arm around his brother's shoulder and guides him towards the door, saying, "Come on, let's go meet my Queen."
Anastasia is managing to be bored and excited at the same time; bored with the seemingly endless stream of guests arriving to pay their respects to her dead father, and excited because she knows that one of them is Christian. When he and his brother are announced, she shuffles in her seat, which was not built for comfort. Though she'll never be crowned in this room, she's chosen to sit on the throne that was her birthright, and no one has dared question that decision. It puts her above anyone in the room, and creates an agreeable distance between her and the nobles who are really here to ingratiate themselves in the hope of at least solidifying their position in society. Right now, she regrets that distance, because Christian is easily the most handsome man in the massive room, and looking at her as if he might damn propriety and rush into her arms. And then she remembers what he said about not wanting to be touched, though she presumes the aversion is much more powerful than mere dislike. Their confidante in his family's court had revealed more details than Anastasia will probably ever tell her betrothed; frequent beatings, torture with a heated fire iron, how he spent three days clinging to his dead mother's body, and was traumitised into muteness by what he'd experienced before then. She knows that pure chance brought the near lifeless child to his adoptive mother, who nursed him back to health and raised him as her own. How he is sane remains a mystery and a miracle. She doesn't feel pity for him, and suspects that he wouldn't welcome it if she did; what she feels is respect, even admiration, and something approaching affection.
Or love?
She smiles at the counselling voice that has been oddly silent since her father's death, perhaps because there are no words for such a loss.
Maybe, one day.
Lust?
The only part missing from her extensive education. How would I know?
You know.
She knows; this feeling like lightning dancing on a lake, except felt in the most private parts of her body. Yes, okay; lust. Now be quiet.
As the two men near her position, Christian frowns in apparent concern. She must look quite haggard by now, having barely slept in the past two weeks, and poorly in the months before that. She smiles and greets them, "Welcome, My Lords. I understand that the rest of your family arrive on the morrow?"
Both men execute a flawless bow, and Christian says, "My Lady, that is correct. Our parents will want to do the same, but may I offer my deep condolences on the loss of your father? I know he will be greatly missed."
It seems as if he's content to follow her lead and keep this exchange reasonably formal. A promising start. "Thank you, My Lord." It's all that is required for now, but she doesn't want him to walk away, and enquires, "You're now Heir Apparent? I noticed just now the additions to your title."
He doesn't quite manage to avoid looking proud as he inclines his head to reveal, "Reward for success in the campaign. Though I confess it proved secondary to my other reward."
He means you.
Yes, thank you, Miss Obvious.
She should dismiss them. Indeed, she can already see in the surrounding crowd that her obvious favouritism has been noted; heads leaning together in whispered commentary. Hang them, Christian is her fiancée, and she will soon be Queen Consort. Having summoned the courage to defy convention, she's momentarily struck for something to say, and blurts out, "Are your quarters satisfactory?"
Oh, very profound.
Hush!
Christian blinks in surprise, and says, "Yes, My Lady, quite comfortable." And then she sees a hint of the man she'd met on a battlefield when he adds, "Much better than the last time I visited."
He's elbowed in reproof by his older brother, now his junior in rank, but looks unapologetic, and merely smiles up at her. A fleeting vision of kicking off her shoes, taking his hand and running out into the sunshine passes through her mind. But she was raised into duty, responsible for the population of a soon to be dissolved nation state. So she smiles and merely dismisses them, "Tomorrow, then."
The three comrades have retired for the evening, with Claude taking the precaution of pushing his bed against the only wall panel that sounded hollow when he rapped his knuckles against it. He awakens instantly when it gently thuds against his bed. By the time soft knocking emanates from it, he's on his feet with a scimitar in his hand, hissing a warning to the brothers. The knocking sounds again, and a sleepy Christian points out, "I doubt an assassin would announce themselves."
The three soon move the bed, and it opens to reveal a familiar face. Recalling the young woman who'd stood beside Anastasia in the throne room, Christian scans his memory for a moment and presumes, "Lady Katherine?"
She steps into the room and curtsies, saying, "My Lord. You are well informed."
Christian points to the previously concealed passageway and says, "Not well enough."
Katherine glances at Claude, his scimitar now held by his side, and says, "Then how...?"
The young woman is mentioned in numerous intelligence reports, and Christian knows that she has long enjoyed Anastasia's trust, so he offers a polite bow and says, "Claude Bastille, my self-appointed protector for many years now, is very good at his job. Please forgive our state of undress, My Lady." And be grateful that I persuaded Elliott to wear anything at all.
She eyes Elliott's bare chest with frank admiration—no innocent this one—and says, "Her Highness awaits, My Lord." Finally sparing him a glance, she hands over the candle in its brass holder, adding, "And bade me tell you that formal wear is not required."
He might have Anastasia this night? In a daze, Christian is already to the concealed door when he notices that Lady Katherine has made no move to follow him, so he asks, "Alone, My Lady?"
"Alone, My Lord, unless you'd prefer otherwise?"
No, thank you. "No, thank you." About to leave them, he remembers to say, "If my brother misbehaves, have Claude remove his manhood."
So fast that he doesn't see where it was concealed, a small blade is in her hand, and she says, "No need, My Lord, I can look after myself."
This lends credence to the rumour that Anastasia is not only trained in the martial arts, but always armed. Even so, Christian is not deterred, and he steps into the wall without another word. And he's smiling.