The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles #3) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,67

inches away. The heat of his body surrounded me, filled the tent, filled my head.

“I don’t want it to be this way between us,” he whispered. He reached out and touched my hand. His fingers slowly slid up my arm to my shoulder, and his thumb traced a slow, lazy circle over my collarbone. Hot embers burned in my chest. He knew I wanted him, that I wanted nothing more than to reach out and close the hurtful space between us.

Almost nothing more. “Are you here to apologize?” I asked.

His hand slipped behind my back, drawing me closer, his hips meeting mine, and his lips brushed my earlobe. “I have to do what I think is best. I can’t let you go, Lia, not in good conscience. Not when I know the danger you’d be heading into.” He loosened the laces of my dress. My breaths skipped through my chest, uneven, singeing my thoughts.

His lips skimmed a burning line from my temple to my mouth and then he kissed me, hard and deep, and I wanted to melt into the feel and taste and scent of him, the wind in his hair, the salt on his brow, but another need—a greater one—flamed brighter, blazing and persistent.

I wedged my hands between us, gently nudging him away.

“Rafe, haven’t you ever felt something deep in your gut? Or heard a whisper you had to listen to against all reason?”

The tenderness receded from his eyes. “I am not going to change my decision, Lia,” he said. “I need you to trust me. You’re not going back for now. Maybe later when it’s safer.”

I stared into his eyes, praying he’d see the urgency in mine. “It will never be safer, Rafe. It’s only going to get worse.”

He stepped back, sighing, everything about his stance conveying impatience. “And you think you know this because of an ancient text?”

“It is true, Rafe. Every word is true.”

“How do you know? You’re not a scholar. You may not have even translated it properly.” His boorish skepticism snapped the last of my patience. There would be no more explaining or groveling.

“We’re done.”

“Lia—”

“Get out!” I yelled, shoving him away.

He stumbled back and stared at me, stunned. “You’re throwing me out?”

“No, I don’t think it’s possible to throw you out. You are after all King Jaxon, and you decide who comes and goes here—or so I’ve been told. But I suggest you leave before I find another way to dispatch you.” I placed my hand at my side over my sheathed dagger.

Pure rage flushed his face.

He turned and stormed off, nearly ripping the curtain from the door.

We’d see which of us came to our senses first.

* * *

Madam Rathbone appeared at my tent early the next morning, along with Vilah and Adeline. Curiously, Madam Hague accompanied them, though she never had before. Inwardly I sighed. Yes, the officers and all their wives had heard our ugly argument, and certainly Madam Hague was hoping for additional juicy details, even if the official purpose of their visit was to deliver the accessories to go with my dress for the party that evening. Adeline held up a silver chain-mail belt encrusted with sapphires. Once again, I marveled at the extravagance, especially here at this remote outpost. Next Vilah laid out a jeweled silver pauldron, embossed with an intricate pattern.

“Tell me, have Dalbretch women ever actually worn these in battle?”

“Oh, yes!” Vilah answered. “That’s why they’re part of our traditional dress. Marabella was a great warrior before she was a queen.”

“But that was hundreds of years ago,” Madam Hague added, raising her brows in distaste. “Our ladies and queens don’t go to battle anymore. It’s unnecessary now.”

Don’t be so sure, I was tempted to say.

Madam Rathbone took a last inventory of everything laid out on the table and said, “We’ll be by early to help you dress.”

“And do your hair,” Adeline said.

“With silver cording,” Vilah added clasping her hands together in anticipation.

I heard a strained eagerness in their voices, as if they were trying to erase the dark pall of last night’s argument. “You’ll all be busy getting ready yourselves,” I answered. “I can manage on my own.”

“Really?” Madam Hague asked doubtfully. “Is that how it’s done back in Morrighan? No one to attend you?” Her lip lifted with patronizing pity.

“Yes,” I sighed. “We’re nothing but savages in Morrighan. It’s a wonder your king would arrange a marriage with one of our kind at all.”

Her lashes fluttered downward and she left with a faint apology that