Page 9 of The Consolation Prize

“I did not recognize you,” he said awkwardly as she settled on her back beside him, resting her hands on her stomach. “You look … very different.”

“It must be very confusing,” Una agreed. “But as I am no longer a princess, I don’t have to wear the wig or the costume anymore, you see.”

He looked bewildered. “Wig?”

“Yes.”

His brows puckered. “Costume?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Your Southern royalty does not follow the same practice, but in my family, we were required to don such garb as befitted our station. It showed at a glance, you see, that we were royals. My father wore a wig such as that one his whole life.” He cast an uncertain glance at her, to find her expression was perfectly serious. “I presume somewhere in the beginning we Blechmarshes must have had very distinctive, fair curly hair. It had advantages on the battlefield, I suppose,” she reflected. “Our forces knew to rally round us.”

He shrugged at that, forbearing to point out that the North had suffered ignominious defeat four years ago, and rolled onto his side, slinging an arm around her waist. He felt the impulse to rest his aching head against her bosom but suppressed it. If that was what he had done the previous night, she was probably suffering from a lack of decent sleep, as much as he was. His eyelids burned as he let them drift shut. He just wanted to wake up and find this had all been a bad dream.

*

When next he woke, his head was admittedly sore, but he found he could string two thoughts together without pain. He reached for a cup of water on the side and gulped it back in a few swallows. The princess was missing again, but he could hear noises from the adjoining dressing room and guessed where she could be found. He lay a moment, feeling sorry for himself. His usual good luck had abandoned him. No one could have foreseen such a fate lay in store for him. Shackled to a wife he could scarcely abandon without reprisal, and from royal quarters at that. Then, with a sigh, he climbed out of bed to face things squarely.

A steaming bath was awaiting him in the far corner of the room. He approached it gingerly. He supposed it must be his. Drying cloths and soap were laid out next to it, and with a shrug Armand stepped into it and gave himself a good wash, though he did not lie and wallow as he usually did when chance afforded him such a fine, large tub. Instead he stepped out of it and rubbed himself briskly, first his body and then his freshly washed hair.

His clothes had vanished, but folded neatly on a chair a new suit awaited him, comprising of a burgundy tunic with gold detail on the sleeve and chauses to match. He paused a moment to look at them. One leg was gold and one burgundy. Doubtless, fashionable courtiers would not hesitate to wear such garb, but Armand felt a marked reluctance to do so. Left with little option, he dutifully dressed in the clean clothes. At one point, Una peered out of the dressing room and found him frowning down at his mismatched legs.

“Do you need anything, Sir Armand?” she asked politely, coming back into the room. “Ah, I see you have taken your bath.” This morning she was dressed in a burgundy gown with gold sleeves, presumably to match his own ensemble. The gown was elegant in cut, showing her tall, straight figure off to advantage. Admittedly, he had not paid her much attention the previous day, but he was sure she now looked nothing like the peculiar foreign princess who had watched proceedings from the royal box.

Seeing her tip her head to one side, he remembered she had asked him a question. “No, thank you,” he replied. He was also surprised by how obliging Northern royalty seemed to be. It was almost like she could not do enough for him.

She smiled at him encouragingly. “You look very fine. There is a hat and a cloak to complete the outfit.”

Armand winced, but seeing the worried look that stole over her face, he immediately gave her a reassuring smile. “My head,” he said ruefully, and she relaxed.

“Oh, of course. These are our going away outfits,” she explained almost shyly, then hesitated. “Do you think you are sufficiently rested and recovered for us to set forth today?” He could see she was anxious about his answer to this, though she was striving to hide the fact. “If not, we could wait until the morrow, of course.”

“Gods no, I cannot stay!” He almost shuddered at the thought. “There’s a tournament in five days’ time I mean to compete in, and it’s a good four-day ride from here.”

Surprisingly, she seemed more pleased by this than not, for the color rushed to her cheeks and he was surprised to see how different she looked when her eyes lit up. Slowly it dawned on Armand that this royal bride of his had some expectation of his taking her away from court with him, which did not suit him at all. His heart thudded in his chest and the inquiry he had been about to make died on his lips. Gods, what the hells was he supposed to do with her?

Clearly, she did not expect to be left behind. In vain, he tried to remember the precise terms of the marriage the King had offered with his royal cousin, but in truth he had paid scant attention. He had not intended winning her, after all. He cleared his throat. “What were you doing in there?” he asked, nodding toward the adjoining room, stalling for time for his sluggish brain to think.

“Packing,” she told him. “I shall be ready to set forth when you are, Sir Armand.”

He blinked. “Princess,” he said heavily. “We need to talk.”

A look passed over her face, which if he had not known better he might have thought was stark terror. The color draining from her face, she walked over to a chair and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Watching her, Armand wished to the gods he had his full faculties about him. Something seemed “off” to him, though he could not put his finger on what. Why would the princess be so scared of his reactions this morning?

Was she afraid of him? Guilt washed over him again as he faced the foggy memory of his wedding night. Had he been rough with her? At some point, he had been confused as to her identity. He hoped to gods he had not confused her willingness. He looked at her so hard his head ached but recalled frustratingly little. She swallowed and lifted her gaze to meet his.

“I am ready,” she said, and he could see her hands trembling even from where he stood.

He lowered himself onto the bed and sat facing her. He needed her to think this decision was as much her own, as his. It didn’t do to piss off royalty. Even disgraced royalty might have the King’s ear. “I apologize,” he said forthrightly. “But I think we need to be plain with one another.” He watched her fingers clutch as he considered how best to proceed.

“Sir Armand,” she said, swallowing convulsively again. “I am laboring under no illusions, I promise you. I am well aware that you did not—could not—have expected to win the prize yesterday.”

His brows snapped together at that. Clearly the princess did not have the most flattering views of his abilities. He was surprised to find that needled him, considering his livelihood depended on such misapprehensions. He took a steadying breath. “Well, no,” he agreed cautiously. “I can’t say as I did.”

She gave him a direct look. “Can we please be frank with one another?” she asked boldly.

Gods, that was the last thing he wanted! In his experience nothing good ever followed such words. Several unpleasant conversations with his father sprung to mind. He steeled himself for the worst and gave her a grim nod.

“Sir Armand,” she said with only the faintest tremor in her voice. “All I want or desire from you, is that you take me away from this court and give me the protection of your name. As for the rest of it, I promise I will make no demands on you. I care not if your estate is naught but a tumbledown hut, so long as I can be set down there, and left in peace to make it into my shelter. Into my home.”