Chapter Two #2
Irritation wound through him—partly at himself, for being curious and starting this pointless conversation in the first place, and partly at her, for asking annoying questions.
The decision to marry her had been an opportunistic one and he hadn’t had time to think through the implications of it yet—let alone what he would do with her outside official appearances.
She wasn’t as important as the work of surveying the damage Renzo had done to Kasimir and putting in place plans to fix it.
He didn’t want to waste time thinking about what to do with an unwanted wife.
‘We will discuss that later,’ he said dismissively, turning towards the doors. ‘I will call the priest in. He can perform the ceremony now.’
Her eyes went wide. ‘Now?’
Tiberius paused and lifted a brow. ‘Of course, now. There is vital work to be done, and the sooner we are married, the sooner I can start fixing my country.’
‘But… But—’
‘Need I remind you that your father is responsible for nearly destroying Kasimir? If you want to make up for that, may I suggest no more protests?’
She stared at him for a second, with what looked like bewilderment on her face, then she bent her gaze back down at the floor, whatever spirit that had burned in her before now gone.
‘Very well,’ she said colourlessly.
For some reason that only increased his irritation, though he couldn’t imagine why.
Yes, courage and strength were important in a queen, but if she didn’t have them, then she didn’t have them.
He didn’t need to fight her. He was tired of fighting anyway.
Now was the time for peace and the chance to rebuild.
His country would always be more important than his curiosity about one little Accorsi woman.
Annoyed with himself, he turned and strode to the closed doors of the throne room, throwing them open. His guards and aides were on the other side, waiting patiently for him.
‘Father Domingo,’ he said curtly. ‘You are required.’ Then he glanced at his guards. ‘I need witnesses. You and you.’
The ceremony commenced at the foot of the throne and was over in approximately five minutes. The rings would come later, as would the licence, but such things were insignificant details. What was important was the marriage certificate and her signature on it.
Guinevere was silent throughout, except when she was required to speak, and then she was as good as her word and didn’t protest. But she didn’t look at him either, keeping her gaze firmly downcast.
He couldn’t have said why that needled at him. Why it made him want to put out a hand, grip her chin once more and have her look at him. See exactly what she was feeling in this moment. Whether it was fear or anger or something else…
But no, he didn’t need to see it. This wasn’t about her, anyway, nor even about him either. This was about Kasimir, and doing what he needed to for the good of his country, and that was the only thing that mattered.
Besides, he wasn’t going to force her into doing anything she didn’t want to do—not beyond having her signature on the marriage certificate. He wouldn’t touch her, and they’d only meet for official engagements. She wouldn’t find marriage to him…onerous.
As the ceremony finished, Tiberius turned to his new wife. ‘Tomorrow we will speak of the details,’ he said. ‘Tonight I will have my staff ensure you’re comfortable.’
There was nothing more to say, and he had a day’s important work ahead of him, so before she could speak he turned around and strode out of the throne room, followed by his men.
* * *
Guinevere felt almost in a daze as a guard led her through the corridors following the wedding ceremony.
Somehow, she was married.
Somehow, she was a queen.
It was almost inconceivable that the day she’d thought she’d escape the palace and Kasimir for good, instead she’d found herself trapped yet again.
Trapped first by her name and then by his.
Trapped by a crown and by the ring he’d told her he’d get for her later.
She didn’t know how the whole thing had happened so fast, or what she’d done to have fate imprison her so completely like this. It was wrong. Even the concession she’d managed to get from him—that he’d let her go once he had no more need of her—didn’t feel like one.
But really, the wedding wasn’t even the worst part of what had happened in the throne room. The worst part had been when he’d stalked down that dais and come close to her, and then had put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head back.
He’d seemed so tall to her, and so broad, overshadowing her like an oak tree, and she’d been expecting cold fear to run through her the way it always had whenever she’d caught the notice of her father and brothers.
Except this time it hadn’t. The touch of his finger on her skin had felt scorching, creating an odd tension inside her that had fear as one of its components, yet also something else.
Something…more. A kind of anticipatory excitement that had made her skin feel tight and her heartbeat sound loud in her ears.
The intensity she’d seen in his silvery eyes as he’d looked at her had called to a part of her she hadn’t realised was even there, and abruptly she’d become very, very aware of him.
Of not just his height, or the broad width of his shoulders, but the gleam of the crown against his black hair.
The curve of his bottom lip. The stretch of his army fatigues over his muscled chest. The warmth of him, so at odds with those icy eyes, and the scent of him—something fresh and outdoorsy, reminding her of the sun and the sea and the wind that blew between them.
She didn’t understand why his nearness had felt that way, because by rights she should have been terrified.
Perhaps she was getting braver.
Or perhaps you were just stupid.
Guinevere thrust the thought away and all her strange feelings with it. They didn’t matter anyway—not when he’d made it clear that the only times she’d see him was for public appearances. That was a good thing. The less she saw of him the better.
The walk back through the winding palace corridors wasn’t easy.
They were horribly familiar, these corridors.
She’d been walking them all her life and she hated every inch of them.
They were a both a maze and a prison, marking the boundaries of the small, insignificant life she’d had within these walls.
A prison she’d thought she’d be free of today, and yet—
No, there was no point thinking about that. One day she’d get out of here. Eventually, she would.
She swallowed, shaking her hands to ease the tension that drew tighter and tighter the more they walked. Because she was starting to understand where she was being taken, and every cell of her being rebelled.
‘My room is down there,’ she said tentatively to the guard as they passed by a branch in the hallway.
‘I was not instructed to take you to your room,’ the guard answered, without even looking at her.
‘But all my things are there and—’
‘I was instructed to take you to the royal apartments,’ the guard said without inflection, making it clear that he was going to follow those instructions come hell or high water.
Guinevere swallowed again, her throat closing.
The royal apartments. Where her father had lived. Where her brothers had once hunted her down and where she’d hidden, almost wetting herself with fear.
That same fear seemed to grip her now, her breath catching, her fingertips going numb. She hadn’t had a panic attack for months, but today she had clearly pushed things too far—because she felt close to one now.
She tried to ignore the feeling as the guard stopped outside the big double doors that led to the royal apartments, yet the fear kept on rising, swamping her.
The guard pulled the doors open and waited, making it clear she was expected to walk inside.
Dread slid through her like a fine sliver of glass, cold and cutting. She wanted to tell the guard that she couldn’t possibly stay here, that she needed to go to her own room, but there was no give in the man’s expression.
Come on, pull yourself together. It’s just a room. Also, there is an escape, don’t forget.
Yes, there was. She didn’t have to stay if she didn’t want to. And also her father was gone, and so were her brothers. There was no one left to frighten her any more.
No one except the King. Your husband.
Guinevere shoved that particular reality aside and forced herself to cross the threshold, walking through the doors into the private receiving room beyond.
This room wasn’t as much of a mess as the throne room, but there were signs of a hurried tidy-up.
A mound of what looked like shattered pottery in one corner.
A priceless Persian silk rug in front of the fireplace stained.
There were a few pictures missing, also, and in one place the panelling on the walls had been kicked in.
The doors shut heavily behind her, then the lock clicked, and no matter how much she tried to resist it panic closed cold, sharp talons around her throat.
Oh, God, they were locking her in.
Breathing fast, she whirled around and went to the door, rattling at the handle and of course not getting anywhere because the guard had turned the key.
‘You don’t need to lock it,’ she called through the door, trying not to let her voice shake. ‘I—I promise I won’t leave. Please. Just…don’t lock it.’
‘Sorry.’ The guard’s voice was unapologetic and flat. ‘His Majesty’s orders.’
A scream rose in her throat, but she fought it down hard. That wouldn’t help, she knew, and it would only make her panic worse. And as for the guard—well, no one had ever listened to her screams, so why would he?
But you’re the Queen now, remember?
Was she, though? She didn’t feel like one. She had a feeling that if she gave an order the guard would only laugh in her face, and she wouldn’t blame him.