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“She is new to court, and I would prefer to stay with her,” I say, as sternly as I dare. “If it pleases you.”
Cettina looks back and forth between us.
“It does not please me.”
Something is amiss. This is not the Cettina I know, and I will not leave Reyne alone with her.
But my wife’s fierce side makes another appearance, and she lifts my hand and disengages her arm.
“We will do as the queen bids,” she says, as if she has experience navigating the whims of royalty. Her eyes implore me to do as she asks. Hesitant, I relent only when she more forcefully pushes me away.
“Go,” she says. “I will join you shortly.”
With a final glance at the queen, I reluctantly bow and turn to leave.
Uneasy, uncertain, and very much aware our marital celibacy will not end this night as I’d dared to hope, I knock and the doors are opened.
This does not bode well at all.
23
Reyne
Erik and I will never consummate our marriage.
If the act hinges on my heart being free of uncertainty about Queen Cettina, I should pack my belongings this very day and leave for home. Or at least resolve not to have the kind of marriage I’ve hoped for these past days.
Sitting before me is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Nay, not only beautiful, but self-assured as well. As she spoke with Erik, each word fell from her lips like an arrow, quick and sure. It left me feeling like I always do at river crossings. Although I no longer break out in tears anymore, my hands still shake. My heart still pounds with visions of the current carrying me away.
The queen stands now, her hair the color of straw, but brighter and glossier, a silver circlet around the top of her head. She looks younger than I expected, no older than I am, but also much, much wiser, as if she’s lived many lifetimes.
The queen’s face is kissed by the sun, with smooth cheeks and perfectly formed brows. In short, she is . . . perfection. And seemingly very unhappy about my marriage to Erik. She walks toward me now, head held high, but I stand tall.
As she approaches, her scent wafts toward me. The sweet smell of berries, something I hadn’t expected. Something in me quails, but I force myself to imagine my father, defiant and proud. He allows nothing to sway him. Whether he is right or wrong, he always acts with complete conviction, which can be a curse as often as it is a blessing. But in this moment, I need his confidence.
I am Lord Moray’s daughter, and I will not cower.
She stops.
“I bid Stokerton to gain the Highlanders’ support, and he returns with a bride. How did this come to be?”
Why is she not asking Erik that very question?
“My father saw an opportunity in Lord Stokerton’s request. To ally our families. To see me married, finally.”
Her eyes flash in anger. Does she love my husband after all?
“Was this marriage against your will?”
“Nay,” I say as forcefully as I am able.
Her shoulders sag, her eyes close. Her reaction is so surprising, I know not what to do. Or say. So I just fold my hands in front of me and wait.
Her eyes open, considerably softer than before.
“When I heard about your marriage, I feared . . . Erik would do anything for Edingham.”
For the first time since I came into this chamber, the queen smiles. A broad smile that appears so genuine, I am taken aback.
