“No.”
Beloved across the spectrum of time!
“I—”
Mother of your unborn—
“QUEEN,” Ambrose said loudly.
The cloak started to object, but Ambrose shooed it away.
“It’s just…after that…that…rousing applause…it would look strange, don’t you think? If we didn’t dance together?”
Imelda stared at the crowd. “I suppose.”
She did, on some level. But every other part of her screamed in protest. She did not dance unless she was totally alone. Around other people, dancing only reminded her that she was trapped, and she was free now, wasn’t she?
Imelda lifted the hem of her gown an inch higher, sucking in her breath the moment she glimpsed her bare feet. No one to track her every move, to tell her where to go, to corner her in a hall and tell her to return to the stuffy rooms she hated, to remind her to do what she was told—
“Imelda?”
They were nearly at the bottom of the stairs. Imelda realized that she had gripped Ambrose’s arm to the point where her knuckles had whitened.
“What’s wrong?”
“I…I don’t have good memories of dancing. I don’t like it. Not anymore, at least.”
Even the sensation of silk on her heels felt like chains.
“I don’t have good memories of dances either,” Ambrose said quietly.
“Always stepping on your partner’s toes?” she asked.
“No.”
Did your smell repel partners?
Ambrose ignored the horse cloak.
“The truth is that I’m quite good at dancing. I used to enjoy the music and the precision of every step. My brothers adored the dances for the charming women, and I have to admit, that certainly was one of the more enjoyable parts…but what I most loved was that every person had a place and a step and a position to fill. I loved how the music lulled you out of your own world, let you lose yourself to something greater. But things changed in my life…and the thought of losing myself to anything sounded terrifying.” Ambrose faced her, holding out his hand, a look of determination flashing in his eyes. “But this time…this time I’m not scared.”
Every place where Ambrose’s gaze fell struck her like a fresh bruise, as if just by looking at her, he’d unearthed a tenderness she couldn’t bear to touch. His words echoed in her mind:“This time, I’m not scared.”
But Imelda was scared. She still felt that slow panic building inside her. But when her fingers met his, something eased away. A corner of her heart whispered soothingly:He won’t trap you; he won’t keep you here.Her pulse skittered, and her cheeks warmed when his hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer. This close, she could smell him. Therealhim, not the badger who wore his face and stole a kiss. He smelled like the meadow they had crossed to get here, like the vast pines that bowed overhead when they walked through the woods. Like something that could not be trapped in a fist. His chest was solid with muscle, and he fit her to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She closed her eyes as the music swept over her.
Ambrose hadn’t lied.
Hewasa good dancer.
Light on his feet, as if tempting the music to chase him. Her bones seemed to expand in her chest. Every new breath she sucked in chafed a bit, like she had never breathed properly until now. And Imelda realized with growing wonder and alarm that it was here—clasped tightly in the arms of someone she had grown to trust, someone who made her laugh and who had fought his own imprisonments—that she finally felt free.
Chapter 12
AMBROSE
Ambrose knew there was no trust in love.
Love made no promise to stay, to put down roots. It could always be taken from you. It was one of the few things in life he believed with certainty. Even love you didn’t remember possessing could be taken from you, and so the best thing one could cultivate when faced with such an emotion was distance.
