Chapter Five

"S he is here?" Philip strode into the vast Aula Magna with Thomas close behind him. His dusty boots clipped on the floor. He was hot. He'd just ridden in from Ghent. He was also thirsty.

"Yes. She is," Margaret said.

A courtier poured him wine.

Philip took it. "And?" He gulped the drink back then studied his sister.

"I think you will agree it is a good match."

"Mm." Philip intended to decide that for himself.

"Apparently, she was not impressed," his grandmother, who was seated on a black chair and dressed, as usual, all in black, said, "that you were not here to greet her."

He frowned briefly then sent his scowl over the collection of nobles and courtiers who stood around the room. He didn't want to disrespect the dowager with his irritation. "It was for her benefit I wasn't here."

"Really?" the dowager said.

"Yes. I went to Ghent to source some local fabric. A gift for my bride."

"I am sure she will be very pleased," Margaret said. "Would you like me to bid her to enter?"

"Yes. Go ahead." Philip gestured for more wine, then took a seat on the big, golden chair at the head of the room. It was set up on a red-rugged platform and had a matching chair at its side. Behind it hung the Habsburg crest—a black, double- headed eagle—the golden embroidery sparkling in the sunshine streaming in through the vast windows.

Margaret waited a moment, as though checking her brother was truly ready for this momentous meeting, then turned and walked to the door.

The huge, long room was silent, except for her footsteps and the swish of her gown. Once at the door, she pulled it open, the hinge creaked and in the distance, a bird sung loudly.

Philip's heart raced, despite the fact he'd told himself it wouldn't. This marriage was a business arrangement. Heirs must be produced and Joanna of Castile had the necessary bloodline for those heirs. What did it matter if he liked her or not?

What did it matter if he desired her or not?

Margaret stepped back, leaving the door wide open.

In its frame stood a small figure flanked by two knights in full body armor and gripping long, polished swords.

Joanna. Finally. Here was his bride.

He stayed seated, glad to be, for a rush of anticipation and awe had poured into his veins and frozen him in the moment.

He took her in. Her floor-length gown was the color of fresh cream with the neckline and the long sleeves lustrous black. She wore a white headband with a black hood and escaping from it were long curls of pale hair.

She walked forward, slowly, with her chin held high and her arms at her sides. She stared straight ahead.

Straight at him.

His belly tightened and he pursed his lips. She was different to any other woman he'd ever met, he knew that instantly. She was regal, proud, and graceful. It was the way she moved, filled the space despite her delicate stature, and kept her attention firmly on him.

It was as if she saw no one else in the crowded room.

When she reached halfway she stopped, her entourage halting behind her.

Philip swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, then finished his wine and set it aside. He stood, unfolding to his full height. His long dagger hung from his belt and he straightened his scarlet tunic that was emblazoned with the Habsburg crest.

The room looked to him.

He raised his head, kept his expression neutral, and stepped down from the plinth. It was here he was close enough to make direct eye contact with Joanna.

And when he did his breath caught in his chest. For she held his gaze with confidence, something that was a rarity in anyone he met.

He liked it.

A lot.

Still, he didn't speak. Each step closer grew his curiosity and his intrigue.

When finally he was but four footsteps from her, he stopped. The tension in the room was knife-sharp, as if the nobles, along with his grandmother, sister, and Thomas had all held their breath.

But he didn't care.

Right now, there was only Joanna and him in the Aula Magna. Everyone else had ceased to exist.

Her skin was like the finest porcelain. Her small nose was straight and slightly upturned at the end, and her lips were the color of peony petals. Her hair, although it was pale, had a hint of strawberry running through its blonde strands.

He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to pull a curl into his finger and know its softness.

Dragging in a long breath, he studied her eyes again. They were dark brown—at odds with her paleness—and the color of his favorite bay horse.

She was staring at him unblinking, not giving away any of her emotions—a sealed scroll. A tight barrel. An enigma of the most enchanting kind.

A little thrown by her boldness—most people bowed to him—Philip pushed his hand through his hair and cleared his throat.

He stepped up close, so close that he could speak into her ear. "You are real?"

"What do your eyes tell you?" she whispered in reply.

"That you are beautiful." He looked into her face, so close now. "More beautiful than I could ever have imagined."

"And your ears?" She tipped her head slightly and swiped her small, pink tongue over her bottom lip. "What do they tell you?"

"My ears tell me your voice is a sweet as any songbird."

"And your nose?" She raised her eyebrows.

His heart was pounding, his senses alive. He dipped his head to the crook of her neck. A lock of her hair tickled his nose as he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with her. He repeated the action with his eyes closed. She smelled of lavender and sunshine, an intoxicating mix that did strange things to his belly. "My nose tells me you smell of everything I need."

A flash of gratification crossed her eyes. As if she'd achieved something she'd set out to. As if she'd won a game he hadn't known they'd been playing.

He didn't care. She had won him. He wanted to learn what every flash in her eyes meant. Each tilt of her head and curl of her lips. He wanted to know her.

His wife.

"So you believe I am real now?" she asked.

"I have thought of you for a long time." He stepped around her, studying her gown, her slender shoulders, and narrow back. It was all very pleasing. "Many images of your appearance came to my mind in that time."

"You prayed that I wasn't an old hag." She twisted her head and once again raised her eyebrows.

"As you likely prayed I wasn't an old toad." He smiled and stood before her.

She smiled too and it changed her face, softened it, made her even prettier, even more becoming. Not least because he saw the amusement dancing in her eyes. She was a woman with a sense of humor, and he'd wager, spirit.

"Perhaps I haven't decided if you are an old toad or not yet," she said.

For a moment, he was quiet, surprised by her words, then he chuckled. She did indeed have spirit. "I hope to convince you that I am not in the least bit like a toad." He knew he wasn't. He'd been told from a young age how handsome he was. And it wasn't just words; it was the way people, girls, studied him, reacted to him. He was thankful to God that his wife was the prettiest of all the women he'd ever known.

He looked up and over her shoulder, suddenly landing back in the room full of people. "Who are you?" he directed at the man standing between the two knights.

"Your Grace, I am Lord Belmonte of Aragon. Here at the behest of the King and Queen of Spain."

"And why are you here at their behest?" He frowned at the knights who didn't have Habsburg crests on their armor but were in his court.

"The princess's parents wish her to have some protection." Belmonte paused. "This is an unknown country and within a stone's throw of King Charles, their mortal enemy. I believe they sleep better in their beds knowing that she has loyal soldiers of Castile and Aragon watching over her."

Philip felt his breaths quicken with each word. Prickly heat traveled over his skin. " I will be her protector." He stabbed his thumb on his chest. "She is mine and as such, my responsibility." His voice rose. "No harm will come to the princess. Not one hair of her head."

"I believe you, Your Grace," Belmonte said. "But I ask you to respect the wishes of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. They do not know of you or this country. This has been a dealing with His Majesty Maximilian, also a man they do not know well."

"As I know not of their country. My much beloved sister will soon be traveling to—"

"And if you wish to send protection, that would be most welcome in Castile," Joanna said. "For anyone who loves a daughter or sister would wish for that. God would wish for that too."

Philip looked at Joanna. His jaw tightened. "You understand my frustration?"

"Of course. And maybe that you feel slighted too. But I beg you not to. I have made a long and arduous trip by sea—it is nice to see a face I have known since childhood. Lord Belmonte has been like an uncle to me."

Philip studied the older man again. Had he been placed as protector or spy? "And you mean to follow my wife everywhere?" He set his hands on his hips, the tip of his dagger angling forward when he touched the handle. "You and your knights?"

"The knights will be vigilant but silent at all times," Belmonte said. "Their job is to stop any physical harm befalling your wife, nothing more."

"And you?"

"I am here if Joanna needs me."

There was a collective intake of breaths. A few people shuffled.

"You dare to call my bride by her first name?" Philip raised his eyebrows.

"Forgive me." Belmonte dipped his head. "Please."

Philip frowned then drew his attention back to his betrothed. "You are safe here." He took her hand, raised it to his mouth, and kissed her knuckles. Her flesh was warm and soft and she tasted of petals and powder.

"I thank you," she said quietly. "But I also wish to be happy here, as well as safe."

He kept hold of her hand and stepped closer, so close, there was barely a hair's breadth between them. "I can make you happy." He looked into her dark eyes and whispered. "I can make you feel many things."

Her breath hitched and her pupils widened.

He touched his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Many wonderful, breath-stealing things that will have you begging for more."

"Why… I…?" She pressed her hand to her chest. "What an improper thing to say."

"But a truth." He enjoyed seeing the flush rising on her cheeks. "We are to share the same bed, are we not?"

She swallowed and nodded.

"And we are to create heirs. We should have some fun with that, don't you agree?"

"You speak of things that—"

"Starting this very night." Philip stepped back and clapped his hands. "Thomas. Get the bishop now," he shouted. "This marriage needs to be blessed immediately. I will not wait to make this woman mine."

Joanna gasped again.

"But, Your Grace, the wedding is tomorrow." Thomas stepped from the crowd. "It has all been planned."

"You think I don't know that?" Philip marched up to him. "Tomorrow is too long to wait. Get the bishop now. That is my order."

Thomas frowned, then dipped his head. "Yes, of course. Straightaway."

Philip spun around. "And everyone out. Out!" His skin itched to be alone with Joanna. It was a sudden and desperate need to speak to her without the judging, curious eyes all around.

"Your Grace," one of the noblemen, Samuel, said. "This is most untoward."

"You think I care?" Philip waved his arm through the air. "This is my palace and these are my lands and this is the woman to whom I am wed to by proxy. And I want this marriage blessed now . And I wish to be alone with her. Now ." He spun around. "Out. Everyone. Now!" He pointed at Belmonte, the knights, and the woman supporting Joanna. "Including you. Get out."

The murmur of conversation rose as people moved. Margaret helped their grandmother to standing.

Philip stood with his hands on his hips before Joanna. He felt as if his heart were beating a new rhythm, one that was wild and exciting and urging him on.

She tilted her chin, her jaw tight and her chest rising and falling with her rapid breaths. The first rise of delicate flesh at her neckline caught his attention and sent a rush of interest to his groin.

He would say a hundred thankful prayers later. Because if ever a woman had stirred a need in him it was Joanna of Castile. And it was more than her sweet prettiness. It was something deeper—a bewitching, intoxicating, fascinating sensation that had gripped him in the most seductive of ways from the first moment he'd seen her.