Chapter Eighteen #2
We’ve only been on the road for a day, and I already want to kill him.
With a great stretch that takes up most of the low-roofed carriage, he yawns, and his shirt creeps up above the waist, revealing a flat stomach hardened by lean muscles.
Not that I’m looking.
Not that it makes my own stomach quiver with butterflies. Get a grip. He’s probably doing it on purpose, to distract me from the mess. And it’s totally working.
My boots are still muddy, and I make a point not to look at Dietan as I kick them up on the seat next to him. Goddess bless the poor servant who will have to deal with it later.
“Oh, come on, I was just about to lie down!” he exclaims in annoyance.
It’s so immature, but it feels good giving it right back to him. It reminds me of how Ophelia used to tease the blacksmith’s son.
“What did you say? That I can do whatever I’d like here? Well, I want to stretch my legs out…like a princess.”
He brushes the dirt off the seat with the back of his hand, but the dried mud is too fine and only becomes more ingrained in the fabric. He lets out a huff. “Then I suppose I have no choice but to join you on your side.”
This is not at all how I’d planned this to go, especially not when Dietan grunts and settles in beside me. He, too, kicks up his feet, crossing them at the ankles, and grins. “Better.” His shoulder presses into mine. Ugh.
“How much longer until we reach the next town?” I ask.
“Couple of hours, give or take.”
“Hours?” I’m really starting to regret traveling with him in such close quarters for such extended periods of time. He’s just so…close.
“Unless you want to get out and walk. You’ll definitely be able to clear the way with that glare of yours. Everyone will be so afraid of you.” Dietan chuckles, folds his arms, tucks his chin toward his chest, and closes his eyes.
I peer over at him. He’s not sleeping.
I think he just doesn’t want to argue anymore.
…
The carriage stops suddenly, jolting me awake to find my head is resting on something warm and solid.
I lurch upright, pulling myself off Dietan’s shoulder, and wipe my face to get rid of the feeling of his soft shirt on my cheek.
I must have been lulled into sleep by a full belly and the gentle rocking of the carriage.
“I’m not contagious,” he says, watching me with bemusement. “Am I really that awful to be around?”
“Why didn’t you push me off you?” I retort.
“Why would I do such a thing? You looked so comfortable,” he says. “Besides, it was nice. Cozy.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Thankfully, he makes no more mention of it, especially as the door is flung open and he steps out into the warm afternoon sun.
There’s murmuring outside, as it seems a dozen or so people have surrounded the carriage.
We’ve reached a town south of Evandale called Elspeth.
It’s known for its flower fields, which are often used in medicine as well as for decoration.
I see rows of beautiful blue flowers off in the distance, and I wonder if the devil’s breath the marquis used to drug me was grown here. The bastard.
Dietan reappears at the doorway, his hand extended.
I look up from collecting our things from the carriage, since again, he can’t be bothered to pick up after himself. I put his book and cloak into his waiting hand.
Turning his face toward me, away from the crowd, he looks like he wants to burst out laughing. I feel I should be offended, but I don’t know why. Dietan sets the items down on the carriage seat and holds out his hand again.
I don’t move, confused as to what he wants from me.
He clears his throat. “Your adoring subjects await, my love,” he says pointedly, and it’s only then that I remember: I have a role to play. Princesses don’t handle the luggage.
“Don’t call me that,” I tell him as I finally accept his hand and step out of the carriage.
Cheers and applause wash over us, and I’m taken aback by the enthusiasm all around as Dietan presents me to the village.
His hand is warm in mine as he raises it above his head, like we are victors coming home from battle.
I look out at all the faces of people who could have been from Evandale—rough, bronzed, and worn but smiling. They cheer and clap.
Dietan lowers our hands and squeezes my fingers, drawing my attention.
I widen my eyes in question.
“Don’t hit me,” he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.
Before I can ask why, he sweeps me into his arms, into a close embrace. One hand is still clasped around mine, while the other is gently but firmly on the small of my back. No one has ever touched me there, and I freeze.
“Try to look like you want me,” he says, again talking out of the corner of his mouth.
“What?”
He leans in close and looks like he’s about to plant a kiss on my lips, except I turn my head at the last minute, and his lips land on my cheek instead. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, placing a gentlemanly peck there as if that’s what he meant to do all along.
Oh.
The crowd roars with approval, but I don’t hear any of it. It’s as if every nerve in my body is suddenly turned toward the sun. I’m acutely aware of every place his body touches mine.
His lips are warm and soft. His stubble scratches against my skin like sandpaper, in a strangely pleasant way.
His breath tickles my neck while his fingers curl slightly on my back.
His other hand engulfs mine like a glove.
He’s so close to me that I can see the beginnings of his beard, every smile line, every lash touching the soft skin under his eyes. He’s beautiful. A true prince.
Thankfully, he doesn’t linger, though the brief moment his soft lips touch my cheek feels like an eternity.
When he opens his eyes—blue today like the deep, summer sky—they twinkle when he smiles.
“Good job,” he whispers.
As he pulls away, I feel like I’ve been thrust into a blizzard after sitting by the hearth. If not for his steadying hand on my back, I would have stumbled. Is this what women mean by swooning? Goddess damn it all. I can’t feel this way about him. This is all just pretend.
I stand still, trying to collect my thoughts and not blush, hardly aware of what’s happening all around me. Dietan greets the mayor of the town and introduces me and his entourage. He thanks the village for their hospitality on the grand tour with his chosen bride.
Little girls lay bundles of pink-and-blue flowers at our feet.
Old women place wreaths on our shoulders, draping them so high that I can barely see over the stacks of greenery and blooms. My nose is full of their heady scent, making my head swim.
All the while, Dietan’s hand is clasped tightly in mine, as if he knows I’m overwhelmed.
And I am, because my skin is still tingling where he kissed me.
I’m thankful that the wreaths hide my face, because otherwise everyone would notice that I’m completely stunned. What the hell is happening? I hate this guy. Well, maybe I don’t hate him—but I don’t think much of him. He’s just some dumb prince. Plus, that wasn’t even a proper first kiss.
But I feel like I’m floating on a cloud, and I let myself be led inside the inn. It’s a relief; I immediately feel right at home. Inns are the same everywhere: a tavern occupies the ground level, and a staircase at the back leads to the rooms on the upper floors.
I follow Dietan up the steps into the finest suite in the inn. Of course, this is a small town like Evandale, rather than the lap of luxury Dietan’s probably used to, but the room is clean, the bed has new sheets, and there are fresh flowers in a vase on the nightstand.
The bed.
Oh.
We’re supposed to be getting married. We’re supposed to be in love.
There’s only one bed.
Does he expect me to sleep in here—with him?
In Evandale, brides and grooms don’t share a bed until their wedding night, but maybe Loegrians do things differently.
My body begins to buzz like a wasp’s nest, but before I can ask, we’re brought to a small foot-bathing station: two chairs in front of a steaming tub of water, with oils, sponges, and towels.
Candles have been lit all around the room, despite the warmth of the sun pouring through the windows.
It lends the room a distinctly romantic quality.
An older woman, old enough to be my mother, is already kneeling on a cushion near the bath, smiling and waiting for us both.
Thinking of my mother makes my eyes tear up a bit.
What would she think if she saw me here, a bride to a prince?
Would she be proud? Or would she be worried about me, if I told her the truth of our arrangement? Would she have told me to go or stay?
After we’re seated, two girls remove our flower wreaths, then begin removing the petals from them and mashing them with a mortar and pestle.
I’m unaware of the customs in this town, and I’ve never been a guest of honor, but I assume it’s all part of the ceremony.
Dietan looks so at ease, giving me a reassuring smile that only awakens more butterflies in my stomach, so I just follow his lead.
The girls sprinkle the ground-up petals in the water, and the woman says a blessing over it. Dietan bows his head, so I do the same, watching him out of the corner of my eye. The woman dips her hand in the water and places her wet thumbs on both of our foreheads.
“It’s a ritual for safe travels,” Dietan whispers. I’m reluctantly impressed that he’s so well educated about customs from all over Alarice. “It’s supposed to give your feet the ability to always find the path you need.”
“And your head the sense to know when you find it,” the woman adds, pointing to her own forehead. She smiles and then leaves.
“Go ahead,” Dietan says when we are finally left alone.
I put my feet in the bath and sigh in pleasure.
“Not so bad being royal, huh?” he asks, soaking his own feet. “Perks of the job.”