Beast (15 page)

The knight still had not looked up at her. A pity, for he could have helped her when she inevitably fainted. “King Albart never named a new heir, after denouncing Philipe as a traitor. By law, he must inherit. There was no fighting to be done.”

“Make way for the king!” a far-off voice called, and Johanna felt as though her first act as queen might be, regrettably, to vomit in front of a few of her husband’s knights.

The crowd clustered on the road parted, and Philipe and Wilhelm, both looking immensely relieved, rode up. Philipe swung down from the saddle and made his way to her, but she’d already closed most of the gap. She dropped to her knees before him. “Your Majesty.”

He gripped her wrist and pulled her up gently, enfolding her in his arms. Only then did she feel his trembling. She pressed her lips to his neck, the barrier of her veil between them. “I am sorry about your father.”

His arms tightened around her, and she knew he did not speak for fear of displaying too much emotion before his men.

“You didn’t let me say goodbye,” she whispered, and he drew his head up from atop hers, to look down at her with red-rimmed eyes.

“I didn’t want to say goodbye. Not yet.”

“Your Majesty,” Wilhelm said beside them. He held the reins to Philipe’s horse, and handed them over when Philipe released one arm from around her to take them.

On the ride back up to the castle, Johanna looped her arms around Philipe’s waist and leaned her head against his shoulder. He explained the details of the morning, how the parlay had turned to the planning of a royal funeral, and the need for him to return to the palace as quickly as possible.

“You’ll come with me?” he asked her, his voice tight.

She had an overwhelming urge to knock him off the horse, but doubted that was correct etiquette for a queen. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m your wife.”

“I worried…” he grimaced as he looked into the trees. “I worried maybe you married me…because you pitied me. Because you thought I would die.”

“You…” She might push him from the horse, etiquette be damned. “You thought
I
married
you
out of pity? Me, with the scars and the home in a burned-out tower?”

“Don’t be angry! You don’t know what it’s like, being a prince. It’s difficult, always wondering what people’s motivations are.” He faced ahead, his back rigid as the shaft of an arrow.

“It will be more difficult, being a king,” she reminded him, blowing at his ear.

He ducked his head. “Stop it, now. I want to be cross with you.”

“And I want you to be cross with me. It means you’re not dead.” She closed her eyes and sighed happily. “I feel, Philipe, that surviving this is not the tragedy you believe it is.”

Though he laughed, he was still shaken. Not by the battle that hadn’t taken place, she was certain, but by the enormity of his new responsibility. Perhaps he’d never seriously considered his future, either.

“You will be a fine king,” she told him, tightening her arms around him.

He reached for one of her hands, and stroked the backs of her fingers with his thumb. “And a fine husband. I never want to hurt you, Johanna. That was why I didn’t wake you this morning. I never want to be the reason for your tears.”

She pulled her hand back to swipe furtively at her eyes. “And tears of happiness?”

“Oh, well, of course, those are fine,” he said, looking over his shoulder to smile at her. It gave her the urge to knock him from the horse for an entirely different reason. “I think,” he continued, “we can expect many, many of those.”

Johanna looked over her shoulder, at her brother, whose long-suffering face broke into a reluctant smile. Her arms around her husband, she looked up to the ruined towers of Hazelhurn, and for a fleeting instant saw them as they had been on that day he’d first told her he loved her, fifteen years before.

Epilogue

The winter snow drifted outside the palace windows, in no particular hurry to reach the ground. The night sky, like a wash of ink, seemed neither dark nor threatening from the gentle glow of the sitting room. Philipe stroked the line of silk-covered buttons down the back of his wife’s dress. The wine-colored gown reminded him that his glass was empty, and he lifted it expectantly.

“You dismissed the servants, so they could join in their midwinter celebrations,” Johanna reminded him. She sat on the marble floor, leaning against the backless sofa her husband and king reclined upon. She reached up and took the glass from his hand. “Besides, you don’t need any more, or you’ll fall asleep here. Not terribly regal behavior, passing out all over the palace.” Her voice was low and sleepy. She plucked absently at the wax pomegranates that decorated her towering wig, which sat in her lap.

“That is, by far, the most ridiculous one yet,” Philipe teased sitting up. He slid to the floor beside her, pushing the fashionable—and utterly frivolous—headpiece aside.

“I am a slave to the latest style,” she sighed, leaning against him.

He looped an arm around her shoulders, keenly aware of her breasts, mounded up by her corset, straining above the dark gown. It amazed him that he, the man who’d had a different woman in his bed every night, was still so affected by the sight of his wife after a year of marriage. Truth be told, his lust for her had only grown, making sitting through long official dinners and receptions damnably difficult. It was hard enough concentrating on politics during meetings with his ministers and advisors, but it was impossible when she tucked sly notes into the scrollwork of his desk, promising all sorts of delights to come as soon as he finished his dreary work.

“You know,” he said, pulling one of the curls to watch it spring back into stiffly starched shape, “you
are
the queen. You could always change the style yourself.”

“Never!” She laughed and swatted his hand away, running her own hand over her hairless head. “Besides, I don’t want the court to resent me. It was difficult enough getting them to even respect me.”

That had been sadly true, and Philipe wished he could have spared her the mockery of the fops and she-snakes who’d welcomed her to court with backhanded compliments and open jests. He’d made it clear by banishing any who’d been open in their disrespect that he would tolerate no slight against his queen, but Johanna had never asked that of him. That she would be content just to be with him, after his horrible, spoilt, misspent life, made him feel all the more protective of her.

“Did you have a nice Midwinter, Your Majesty?” Johanna asked, pushing the wig aside so she could lay one of her legs over his. Her bare foot peeked from the hem of her gown, and she hooked it around his ankle, over the soft brown leather of his boot.

“I did.” It had been a splendid day at the palace, with parties and feasts, ending in fireworks over the gardens. Indeed, the celebrations continued even now, with courtiers gambling and drinking late into the night, long after their regents had retired to their private chambers. Philipe reached into his doublet, to the inner pocket that held a small lump of metal. Before he produced it, he told her, “And I have a present for you.”

She sat up, her perfect mouth spreading into a suspicious smile. “Do you?”

“I don’t wish for you to be disappointed, so I warn you now, it isn’t gold or jewels.” He took her hand and dropped the piece into her palm. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers. A tiny, dull steel rose lay there. She looked up, an uncertain smile ticking at the corner of her mouth. He lifted the rose and held it between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s the arrow that shot me. Or the head of it. I thought it would make a nice anniversary present.”

“Our anniversary isn’t for another week,” she reminded him.

“But today is the anniversary of the day that this arrow pierced my shoulder and brought me back to you.” He made a face, upon reflection. “I can’t believe I’m happy to have been shot.”

“Would it be churlish of me to be happy as well? Not that I wasn’t happy then. It’s just for an entirely different reason now.” In response, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her into his lap, struggling with her billowing skirt and the contraption beneath it that made her hips wide enough to block a door. By the time she was settled, kneeling astride him, she was breathless and flushed. She leaned forward, the cage of her skirts crumpling between them, and kissed him, long and slow. When she pulled back, her face fairly glowing with pleasure, she said, “I have a gift for you, as well. But I’m embarrassed. It isn’t ready yet.”

“Oh?” He gripped her hips—or at least, some handfuls of her ridiculously complicated clothing near to where her hips should have been—and pulled her tighter to him. “When can I have it?”

“In the summer. The middle of the summer, if I’ve calculated correctly.” She studied his face very carefully, waiting for something. That, more than her answer, gave him his.

He took a breath, hoping, and bracing himself against that hope, if he were wrong. “You mean…”

A tear rolled down from one violet eye, in a halting path over the scars he occasionally forgot were out of the ordinary. “Your heir, Your Majesty. My apologies for not producing him sooner.”

“It was not for lack of trying, so I don’t fault you.” He could no longer keep up the pretense of formality, and wrapped his arms around her in a crushing embrace. He buried his face in her neck, mumbling “I love you,” over and over, until he was certain it constituted blubbering. He lifted his head, a list of preparations growing to a scale of thousands in his mind. “We’ll have to announce it, formally. And have some kind of celebration. Not too large, it can’t overshadow the celebration of his birth. We’ll have to be very careful with the invitations, we can’t snub any of our allies. Charitable donations, of course, will have to be made to commemorate—”

She put a finger to his lips, cutting off the ramble that sounded increasingly insane to his own ears. “There will be time for that, later.”

“You’re right, of course.” He pressed his palm to her cheek, and she covered it with her own hand. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you
,” she echoed. “For giving me this life. And for sharing it with me.”

He kissed her again, marveling at the feel of her in his arms, at the many small mercies of fate that had brought them together. “My love, I cannot imagine sharing it with anyone else.”

About the Author

The alter-ego of USA Today Bestselling Author
Jennifer Armintrout
, Abigail Barnette was born during a conversation with author
Bronwyn Green
, who encouraged Jennifer to develop an elaborate fantasy persona-- complete with nom de plume-- under which to pen erotic romance. Abigail enjoys long naps in fairy-filled glades, running through corridors in tragically romantic haunted castles, and drinking goblet after goblet of spiced wine.

Abigail loves to talk to her readers and can be found at abigailbarnette.com.

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