“You cry for him,” Rowan whispered. “You offer tears for this man Daire.”
“Why not?” she yelled in his face. “I have always loved him. I will never love you who talks to me of vows and begging, who does not understand what a guardswoman is trained to do. Go to her. Maybe she can make a man of you.”
Rowan’s jaw hardened. “Maybe she can. Yes, you are right, this marriage will be good for Lanconia. I should have thought of it at first rather than calling the Honorium in hopes that—” He paused and looked at her. “I have allowed my heart to lead me so far but no longer. The king of the Irials and the queen of the Vatells shall marry.” His eyes narrowed. “I wonder if the prince of the Vatells shouldn’t marry the princess of another tribe instead of merely the adopted daughter of the old king.”
He didn’t stop Jura’s hand when she slapped him. She was strong and the slap resounded through the forest, but Rowan didn’t so much as turn his head. They stood looking at one another for a long moment.
“We will ride tomorrow,” he said. “Brita will gather young Vatell men and women and we will bring the Irials to the border. The marriages will be performed there.”
“And I will take Daire then, married or not,” she said. “I will be a maiden no more.”
He stared at her for a moment, the left side of his face livid with her handprint, then he turned back toward the hut. “Do not leave alone,” he said over his shoulder, “or I will hunt you down.” He walked away.
Rowan did not walk far from her, just far enough that she was no longer in sight, and then he leaned against a tree and rubbed his aching jaw. He felt like crying himself.
It seemed like from the moment of his birth he had known that he was destined to be a king and he had willingly sacrificed everything for that kingship. But there was only one area of his life that he had withheld from old Feilan’s constant criticism and that was his choice of wife. Rowan knew that the comfort of a wife could make up for much unpleasantness in life and he meant to have a wife he could love. That is why he risked the Honorium. He hadn’t wanted to offend the people of Lanconia but he had wanted Jura above all else. Except for a few moments during the Honorium when it looked as if Mealla might win, Rowan had been sure that Jura would win—she would win because she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
But that had not been so. She had not wanted him at all, and the night he had found that out he had wanted to die.
And since then things had gone from bad to worse. He didn’t understand her at all. Every attempt he made to protect her seemed to enrage her. Was he to show that he cared for her by tossing her a sword and asking her to risk her life fighting to help him? That didn’t make sense. She went from one harrowing escapade to another, never even noticing that Rowan was so worried about her safety that he could barely concentrate on the task at hand. She screamed at him every time he tried to ensure her safety. Nothing he did pleased her.
And now she wanted him to marry someone else and thus free her to marry Daire.
He had been so angry at Jura because of her attitude about Brita. Brita was charming and had ordered her men home, placing her life in Rowan’s hands. He had been immensely flattered by the trust she placed in him and he meant to honor that trust with his life.
Then Jura had arrived and had once again stated that she thought he was a fool and had refused even to meet Brita. She had stormed off into the darkness, acting as if she were immune to attack and could single-handedly fight off an army. He had had to excuse himself from Brita and make sure Jura was safe.
The stubborn little cat had sat up all night and watched the hut. He wavered between thinking she was an idiot and being grateful to her. What if she were right and Brita’s acquiescence had been a farce and her men were to attack during the night? When morning came and Jura began to doze, Rowan knew his instincts about Brita were right. She wanted peace as much as he did, and he resented Jura’s insinuations that Brita was untrustworthy. He had been angry at Jura for not trusting him, for always doubting him, for always believing he was English and not Lanconian.
Then there had been that awful scene in the hut when the two women had fought a verbal battle that he feared would sour negotiations between the two tribes forever. This time he did not follow Jura when she ran off into the forest but had stayed with Brita to plead for her understanding and forgiveness. He meant to say that Jura was young and hot-tempered, but before he could speak, Brita dismissed the peasants so that the
y were alone—and she proceeded to run her hand up his thigh.
Somehow, Rowan managed to control his shock. Brita was beautiful, oh heavens yes, she was stunningly beautiful and no doubt vastly experienced in bed, but he did not feel lust for her. It had been the same in England when women had offered themselves to him. He had been pleased and flattered by the women’s attentions, but he had never felt driven to carry them away and make mad love to them.
Only Jura had driven his senses into ecstasy. Only Jura had made him mad with the wanting of her.
Brita had whispered to him in a seductive way that she would marry him and they would unite the tribes and they would rule Lanconia together and they would spend their nights in wild pleasure. She even mentioned a few things Rowan had never heard of.
But she didn’t tempt him. All Rowan could think of was not seeing Jura, of not being near her, of not hearing her taunting him. He looked at Brita and her beauty made him feel nothing, and he wondered if he could even perform with her, much less spend all night trying to please her.
He had left Brita and gone to Jura to tell her she was right about the Vatell queen, but then Jura had said she wanted out of their marriage. Jura, his Jura, who yelled and fought, had shed tears at the mere mention of the name of the man she loved. Rowan remembered too clearly how he had felt the night he had heard her say she hoped he would never touch her. He had made his vow to God then gone home and brooded for weeks.
But when he saw her again, he had been overcome with the power of her. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, hold her, caress her. But she was so cold to him, never trusting him, always against him, while he lay awake at night just looking at her.
And now she wanted to end their fragile marriage. She wanted to get away from him completely.
So be it, he thought angrily. He wasn’t going to force her to stay with him, and if she wanted to go back to another man, he wasn’t going to stop her. He would marry Brita and he would somehow make himself content.
He moved away from the tree and started back to the hut. He must tell Brita that he would marry her.
“You are a fool of an Englishman,” Jura hissed. “You know nothing of our ways.”
“Can you say nothing else to me?” Rowan said back to her, glaring.
They were in the woods before the hut saddling their horses and making ready for the ride back to the Irial border. Behind them were a hundred Vatell guards who looked at Rowan and Jura as if they were snake spit. And behind the guard were a hundred and fifty young men and women. Brita had given no persuasive speech to her people but had ordered her guard to gather suitable men and women and bring them. Many of them sported bruised bodies and the women’s faces were tearstained.
“Brita will not help you in your plan to unite the tribes,” Jura said. “She hopes to join forces with the Irials and conquer the whole of Lanconia, and when all is hers, she will turn on the Irials. I tell you that she hates the Irials. Thal killed her husband.”