* * *
Numb.
That was what she was. Devoid of all things. Of emotion, of reaction…of caring. Her father was dead. Her family had shunned her. Her best friend in the world had died at the hand of the man who was now her husband.
The same man who was now walking her into a castle he claimed he owned, far away on the northern coast of Germany. He was being so patient with her, so kind and gentle—soothing and caring. She could not have asked him for more than what he gave her.
But it did not penetrate the strange, empty nothingness that filled her mind. It was not even a coldness, for a cold would imply that there was something there at all. It was merely …nothing.
Johann had murmured to her of traumatic experiences, and how this would all pass. How she would mend in time, and a new setting and a view of the coast would rejuvenate her before she knew it.
She remembered the wedding as if it had been a dream. She had stifled her tears long enough to take part in the ceremony. Johann had looked overjoyed, as if he truly were the happiest man on Earth. It sat in stark contrast to her own mood.
Her family had not attended.
No one had attended.
It had just been her…the priest…and her husband.
And the carriage had waited for them outside the palace.
Leopold was dead, and she did not even have the chance to place flowers on his grave.
They had ridden through the night, and she had slept leaning against Johann, lulled to a strange restless peace by his warmth and his strength. His wound was healing quickly—she was impressed he had survived at all, as he had said. It should have been deep. It should have been a killing blow.
Luck, he said.
The first night they stayed in a tavern along the road, she expected him to make good on their marriage. She was his wife. She was his property. Her body was his to take. She lay on the bed in her shift, waiting for the inevitable to come.
She had expected to dread the moment. Or perhaps to be excited about it. Johann was beautiful, handsome, and passionate. She had no doubt that he would not hurt her, and that the night would be enjoyable.
Yet she did not care.
For she felt nothing at all.
But as he disrobed down to his breeches—which should have been a distracting sight, had her mind and soul not been stolen away by death itself—he made no advances upon her.
There was only grief and regret in his eyes as he lay on the bed beside her. He held her to him, kissed the back of her head, and murmured words of love to her.
Every night in roadside taverns went precisely the same way.
But now they were in his castle. His home. The servants who cared for it kept it in meticulous condition while he was away. It was enormous and lavish, and while it did not match the ostentatiousness of the palace, she knew he had not been bluffing in regard to his wealth and standing.
“Do you like it?”
“It is beautiful.” She found herself studying a large painting over the fireplace. It was a landscape scene of a city she did not recognize. It was surrounded on three sides by water, and along another, a large wall. The buildings were packed close together, and the architecture was foreign to her.
“Constantinople. Istanbul, now. But that is a depiction of the way it was before Mehmet the Conqueror and his siege.”
“Oh.” She had nothing else to say.
Hands rested on her shoulders, and he tenderly kissed the back of her head. “Do you know much of history?”
“No more than what stretches to the edges of France, and enough of English history to know why we are to dislike them. It is not a ladylike pursuit.” A hint of bitterness crept into her voice. It was the first emotion she had felt since Leopold died. Perhaps it was not the best place to start, but it was a start, nonetheless.
“Speak no more of what it means to be a lady in this household. My library is yours. My knowledge is yours. My wealth, my power, all that I am is yours.” His arms slid around her waist, and he held her against his chest in an embrace.
She could not help but let her eyes slip shut as she leaned against him. “And you have taken all I am in return.”