Chapter 7 #3
“I studied a text on medicinal flora of Tremore after the announcement of our betrothal,” she said. “It noted that plume moss, found only in northern wetlands like yours, could draw poison from blood.”
He turned to face her. “You’ve studied our medicinal plants?”
She lowered her eyes. Her voice softened, as though suddenly shy. “I only wished to familiarize myself with the place I will now call home.”
He stared at her. For a princess uprooted from her home, he’d expected fragility, not resolve. Their betrothal had been a matter of months—yet here she stood. Diligent, steady. Not a helpless maiden, but a woman of substance and resources.
When she rose and smoothed her skirt, her voice carried relief. “With rest and plenty of water, he should recover. I will check on him in the morning.” Her gaze lifted to his. “Does anyone else require tending?”
His brow arched. “You’ve tended enough. My men know how to care for their own scrapes.”
She bobbed a curtsy. Before she stepped away, his hand closed around her wrist. The gesture was instinctive, unthinking—yet once made, he couldn’t release her.
Even through his gloves, he felt the delicate bones beneath, the subtle strength of someone who’d chosen to kneel in blood and poison rather than turn away.
“You’ve saved Conrad, Princess.” His voice came out low, slightly hoarse.
“I’ve watched over him since he was eight summers old.
If the worst had come to pass, his father would be broken, his mother would never forgive me, and his three brothers would carry grief for the rest of their lives.
Tonight, you spared them all. Six hearts and more will never know the weight of that sorrow—because of you. ”
Her blush was so prominent, he saw it creeping up her temples. “I only did what anyone would’ve done,” she said softly.
Alexander shook his head. “Most ladies would’ve fainted. Or worse, turned their backs entirely. You went above and beyond. I’m grateful.”
Her posture shifted—spine rigid, chin dipping low. His compliments and appreciation seemed to have distraught rather than pleased her. Other women would’ve preened and simpered, but not his bride. Something in his chest tugged.
What kind of life bred the instinct to shrink from gratitude?
He released her and inclined his head. “Tedric will show you to your tent. Rest. You’ve had an arduous journey.”
Alexander watched her leave, each step placed with painstaking care. Her gait was more pronounced now, her body clearly straining after all she’d done. Guilt coiled in his gut. He’d asked too much of her.
He turned to the cot when he heard Conrad stir.
“Water . . .”
Alexander grabbed a skin of water and touched it to Conrad’s lips. “Here, pup. Drink slowly. You’ve been spared tonight—by fate and the hands of my bride.”
The boy’s cracked lips curved in a slight smile. “I feared I wouldn’t live to present her to you, my lord. How is the princess?”
“She’s safe. She stopped me from bleeding you and treated you herself. Your ability to converse now is due to her wisdom and hard work.”
Conrad’s eyes lit up. “You’ve met her, then? Shame she hides . . . behind that veil, though I’ve no doubt her face matches her kindness. She thanks . . . the men for every little thing . . . unlike her ladies.”
Alexander frowned. He remembered seeing three women in X?en garb sitting idle while the convoy laboured to raise camp.
Their only contributions were sneers and handkerchiefs to their noses.
The princess had been outside the carriage during the skirmish while they cowered within.
Had she stepped out willingly to shield them?
“Why didn’t you keep my bride inside the carriage?” he asked. “She was nearly taken before I arrived.”
“She seemed sensible enough to stay inside. But”—his mouth twisted, though not from pain—“those harpies . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if they pushed her out themselves. They’re that self-serving.”
Alexander’s scowl deepened, but beneath the anger, a colder understanding settled.
He watched Conrad as the boy dozed off again, fingers gripping his knees.
What palace spawned such cruelty that her own ladies would turn on her?
He didn’t know the full shape of her past, but he would investigate.
If Conrad spoke true, those ladies weren’t just useless.
They were snakes he should not let into his den.
Outside—tents pitched, fires lit, a perimeter established—the lake stretched wide and still, shimmering like molten crystal under the moon.
Dragonflies skimmed its surface in flashes of blue and grey, heedless of the day’s violence.
His gaze lingered on the water. He couldn’t shake the image: the princess’s gown stiff with blood, stains dark against silk.
She’d worn it through the attack and everything after.
She might welcome a bath. A long, quiet soak to wash away the grime and terror of the day. Something gentle and peaceful after so much brutality.
He turned on his heel and cut a path across the camp—straight to her tent.