The Beauty of Darkness - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,33

took our reins, and Rafe helped me down. My injured leg was stiff and with my first step, I stumbled. Rafe caught me, keeping his arm around my waist. His attentions didn’t go unnoticed, and there was a lull in the greetings. Certainly the soldiers who rode ahead with a hurried message of the prince’s return hadn’t included details of a girl in the convoy.

A tall, trim man made his way through the crowd, and everyone quickly moved aside for him. His stride was deliberate, and his bare scalp gleamed in the sun. One of his shoulders held the distinction of a wide gold braid. He stopped in front of Rafe and shook his head, his chin dimpling like an orange, and then just as the captain had when we were out on the plain, he dropped to one knee and said loudly so everyone would hear, “Your Majesty King Jaxon Tyrus Rafferty of Dalbreck. Greet your sovereign.”

There was a collective hush. A few immediately dropped to their knee as well, more officers echoing King Jaxon, but the majority of soldiers hesitated, shocked by the news. It had been a secret—the old king was dead. Slowly the realization took root, and the crowd rippled to their knees.

Rafe acknowledged them with a simple nod, but it was obvious to me that, beyond anything, he wished he could forgo these formalities. While he honored tradition and protocol more than I did, right now he was only a very tired young man in need of rest, soap, and a decent meal.

The officer stood and studied Rafe for a moment, then reached out and gave him a vigorous embrace, not caring that Rafe’s filthy clothes were soiling his fresh tunic and crisp shirt.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he said softly. “I loved your parents.” He let go and held him at arm’s length. “But blessed devils, soldier, your timing stinks. Where the hell have you been?”

Rafe briefly closed his eyes, his weariness returned. He was king and didn’t have to explain anything, but he was a soldier first, loyal to his fellow soldiers. “The captain can answer some of your questions. First we need—”

“Of course,” the man said, realizing his error, and turned to a soldier at his side. “Our king and his officers need baths and fresh clothes. And quarters prepared! And—” His eyes fell on me, perhaps noting for the first time that I was a female. “And…” He fumbled uncertainly.

“Colonel Bodeen,” Rafe interjected, “this was the cause of my absence.” He looked at the crowd, addressing not just the colonel, but them as well. “A worthy absence,” he added with a hint of sternness. He lifted his hand toward me. “May I present Princess Arabella, the First Daughter of the House of Morrighan.”

Every eye turned to me. I felt as naked as a peeled grape. There was stifled laughter from a few young soldiers, but then they realized Rafe was serious. Their smiles vanished. Captain Azia gawked at me, his face flushing with color, perhaps recalling every vulgar word he’d said about Morrighan.

Colonel Bodeen’s mouth quirked awkwardly to the side. “And she is … your prisoner?”

Considering the circumstances, the current animosity between our kingdoms, and my wretched appearance, it wasn’t an unlikely conclusion.

Orrin snorted.

Sven coughed.

“No, Colonel,” Rafe answered. “Princess Arabella is your future queen.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A low growl rolled from Griz. Rafe had usurped his claim. I knew, as far as Griz was concerned, that once he had raised my hand to the clans at the Sanctum, I was queen of one kingdom and one kingdom only.

I shot him a sharp glance, and he clutched his side, wincing as if that had been the source of his untimely noise. But Griz’s growl was little compared to the pall of silence that followed. The scrutiny was smothering.

Right now it seemed that being Vendan within these outpost walls was preferable to being the impudent royal who had abandoned their precious prince at the altar.

I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, though it surely only exposed more rings of dirt around my neck. I suddenly ached with the trying, ached for a way of belonging that was always out of my reach, ached for Pauline, and Berdi, and Gwyneth to be by my side, to hold me, a tight circle of arms that were invincible. Ached for a hundred things lost and gone, things I could never get back, including Aster, who had believed in me unconditionally. It was an ache so deep I wanted to