Chapter 5

5

Corbet

Iam dangerously close to getting drunk before breakfast.

Not exactly king-like behavior. Normally I don’t give a damn about how I’m perceived. I’m confident in my ability to lead and make decisions for the greater good. I know there is no ruler more equipped to protect his people. But this morning, I am required to be present at some ridiculous joust. Instead of participating, I’m sitting on a dais beside the leader of our neighboring kingdom, nodding and giving the official signal for the competition to commence.

Someone kindly just put a sword between my ribs.

My attention does not just wander. Oh no. I am barely aware of my surroundings. There is only my constant search for Gwen in the crowd, my eyes hungry for the sight of her midnight hair and stubborn chin. She is my woman. Every fiber of my being knows it. And yet I do not have her. Is it not the cruelest irony that the woman who makes me burn is the exact kind of woman who balks at being a mistress? Was I insane to think this proud farmer would be content to make her life as my kept woman?

I’m sick to my stomach.

My eyes are gritty and red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

My skin itches with a terrible foreboding.

Gwen has her mind set on finding a husband today.

Stopping her would be an easy feat. I’ve only to turn to the king beside me and ask him to disqualify one of his subjects from the wife auction. He wouldn’t even ask me why, although he’d suspect I want to tup her myself. And God knows I do. I want to push her ankles up to her ears and ride her raw. Want to fuck her again and again until she can’t live without my cock. Want to…

Laugh with her.

Take her riding on the grounds of my kingdom.

Hold her hand during meals.

Fall into the sanctuary of her arms after a battle.

Down in the arena, a sword clashes with armor and I bolt upright, dragging myself out of my wayward thoughts—and lord were they ever wayward. For a moment there, I was imagining Gwen at my side performing activities only a wife would.

A mistress is meant strictly for relieving the ache in a man’s loins.

Not filling his castle with the warmth of her humor and personality.

But my sisters deserve to have someone who professes love for them, so I force myself to do it. Only for them. Even if it makes my face feel like it’s on fire.

Gwen’s husky confession from the night before drifts through my mind. What is that odd twisting feeling in my chest that happens when I replay those words? Surely I’m not imagining her saying the same thing about me one day. That I deserve to have her love for me professed out loud. Love isn’t something I value.

It is flimsy. Just words that people don’t mean.

People who are supposed to love someone can use them just as easily.

Cold snakes down my spine, the memory of a wolfhound’s jaw locked around my calf making me swallow uncomfortably. The memory of calling for help from someone who was supposed to keep me safe at all costs.

Yes. Love is flimsy. Now the steel of my sword? That is substantial.

Gwen really seemed to mean it about her sisters, though.

What if she has the capacity to love me where my parents did not?

“Corbet, you look ill,” Connor mutters in my ear. “Eat something.”

There is a trencher of meat and potatoes at my elbow, but my stomach turns at the idea of filling it. Where the hell is Gwen? Is she preparing for the fucking wife auction?

No. I can’t allow it. If she puts herself up for auction and someone else takes what’s mine, it will burn me alive. From dawn until dusk until the end of my days, I’ll think of her. I’ll hunger for her and wonder…I’ll wonder.

I am seconds from picking up my helping of food and throwing it as far as possible when I finally spy Gwen. She’s just walked into the arena. Two young girls are at her sides, one slightly older than the other, but both quite small, their eyes wide with excitement over their surroundings. But Gwen is watching them. Not the proceedings.

Her enjoyment seems to come from their reactions. Their laughter.

Her love for them is evident, her heart on full display and…

She is worth so much more than a half commitment.

I’m ashamed I even asked her.

“Corbet,” Connor says impatiently, leaning forward once again from his seat behind me. “The jousters are awaiting your signal to begin.”

“Oh, for the love of—” I lift a hand and drop it again. “When is this over?”

“It’s over when it’s over.” He pauses. “Then begins the wife auction events.”

“Events?”

“Yes. Do you know nothing of the Joining?”

I grunt, my eyes still glued to Gwen. Is she wearing flowers in her hair today?

The yellow blooms probably make her eyes sparkle.

Is she ever going to glance in my direction?

Do you hear yourself?

“First there is a pie-tasting competition,” Connor says.

At this, I turn in my throne. “A what?”

My advisor does not hide his impatience, but it’s the king of Lavere who answers. “Well, the men are looking for a wife, aren’t they?” He dabs at the sweat on his brow and drones on. “It makes sense to sample their baking first. You wouldn’t want to spend all that money if the woman can’t even bake a decent pie.”

Pie?

Gwen is a farmer.

She doesn’t have enough fucking work to do without having to bake for a husband, too?

“And then, of course, there is the water carrying competition,” Connor continues, sounding kind of smug, though I can’t imagine why when my world is falling apart. “A man needs to know his newly purchased property is strong enough to carry water from the well.”

A vein ticks ominously behind my eye. “Newly purchased property?”

Connor sighs. “Sure, that’s what these women will be, at the end of the day.”

The king of Lavere nods in agreement and fire climbs up the back of my neck. “Gwen is not property. Do not refer to her that way.”

“I’m sorry, what was she going to be to you?” Connor asks quietly, studying his nails.

“She…I…” My fist comes down hard on the arm of the throne, drawing attention from the crowd, including Gwen. “It is not the same thing, Connor,” I manage, though having her eyes on me makes my throat constrict.

And maybe it’s the fact that we’re finally making eye contact. Because for the first time this morning, I’m managing to think clearly. “I just need to explain to her why I refuse to take a wife. I didn’t explain it to her last night. Of course she said no.”

“So…you’re going to discuss your past with her.”

Discomfort needles me. “Yes.”

“Wow. Fine. Thirty years of friendship and you won’t even talk about it to me. One night with this girl and it’s just, feelings, feelings everywhere—”

“Shut up, Connor.”

The nausea is slowly leaving my system, because I have a plan. Once Gwen understands my reasoning for not wanting to be married, she will back out of the auction. I know it. She’ll be mine. I can’t imagine the day ending without her in my arms, so this has to be the answer.

* * *

Gwen

I placethe strawberry rhubarb pie on the table in front of me, giving the panel of male judges my most winning smile, when what I’d really like to do is smash their faces right into it. That my ability to be a good wife should come down to the taste of my pie is galling, to say the least. This pie, baked at home two nights ago and brought to the Joining, has nothing to do with my personality. It does not speak to my determination or strength.

Still, though.

It’s a damn fine pie.

I know, because I ate two just like it while perfecting my recipe.

The eligible men watch in the audience trying to decide which oh-so-lucky lady to wed and I hate myself for comparing them all to Corbet. Sure, many of these men are warriors. Fit and healthy and well able to help provide for my sisters. But they do not shake the earth with their steps. They are not big and commanding and impossible to ignore.

They don’t look at me the way he does, either.

As if the stars have been hung from my eyelashes.

None of them fill my stomach full of butterflies or arouse me in any way.

But one of them will take me as their wife nonetheless. And I will accept them as my husband. Because it’s the only option I have at my disposal. The only good one, anyway.

Stop thinking about the king.

“The judges will now taste the pies!” calls the man who has organized this contest.

At least a hundred woman are taking part in the wife auction, but the judges are tasting a dozen pies at a time, meaning I’m competing against the eleven women in my bracket. They shift nervously, eyeballing one another’s pies.

There is one woman, immediately to my left, who seems more nervous than the others and it’s easy to guess why. She is a pretty woman, fair-haired, though she is much older than the other competitors. Her dress is frayed at the bottom. There are three children standing in the audience—twin girls, one of them holding a toddler on her hip. They watch the fair woman in such an anxious way, they obviously belong to her. They are skinny and barefoot and I know at once, some terrible misfortune has befallen this family.

Her hand is shaking as she cuts a slice of her pie.

I wince at the sparse contents revealed by the opening of the crust. The color of the fruit suggests it was old when she baked the pie and still, still it must have cost everything she had.

In short, this woman needs a support even more than I do.

It’s why she’s in this competition, but there is no way she’ll succeed.

Not when she’s up against pies with the best ingredients, heaped with cream.

I’m distracted from my troubled thoughts when a huge shadow is cast over the table. Before I even glance up, I know who is responsible, but the stirring and shuffling of the audience confirms that King Corbet has arrived to watch the proceedings.

I only last eight breaths before I glance up and find him watching me from the dead center of the crowd. Unlike last night, he wears his crown, his eyes storming with intensity and appreciation beneath the golden band. And jealousy. There is quite a bit of that, too. He only removes his attention from me for a matter of moments and he uses the time to rake every man in attendance with a death glare, before settling back into his rapt perusal of me.

Resolutely, I look away, focusing on the competition.

The judges have already tasted the first six pies and will reach me very soon.

There is a terrible gnawing in my stomach, though. My attention continually strays to those children hovering on the outskirts of the observers. My own sisters aren’t too far away, their cheeks covered in chocolate from the desserts I bought them before the contest, so they would be occupied. At least I can afford to occasionally buy sweets for my family. The fair-haired woman might not even be able to feed hers at all. If she gets low marks during this contest, she doesn’t have a hope in hell of attracting a suitor. Whereas I can make up for a bad showing in the water carrying round…

With a quick sleight of hand, I switch my pie with hers.

She gapes at me and I put a finger to my lips, trying not to cry when her features transform with gratitude. Honestly, I am not a crier, but the Joining seems to be turning me into a soppy mess. It’s horrible. I’m supposed to be the tough one.

“Thank you,” she whispers, just as the judges reach us.

“Dear God,” the first one says, recoiling from the pie.

They all have varying degrees of the same reaction, one of them even refusing to try a bite, but I accept their criticism with my chin raised and wait for them to move on. My pie, which now belongs to the fair-haired woman, receives top marks and I exhale with relief, warmth flooding my chest at the overjoyed smiles from her children. After that, it’s time to move on to the next round—water carrying—and I’m collecting my things when my spine tingles and I know Corbet is standing behind me.

“I saw what you did, woman.”

With a flip of my hair, I turn to face him and am momentarily tongue-tied by the affection on his battle-scarred face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, you do, though. You might have a tongue as sharp as my sword, but you’ve a soft heart, Gwen. She never would have succeeded without you. Such a sacrifice should be celebrated, but you ask for nothing in return.” I try to ignore the stirring in my chest brought on by his praise, but it’s impossible when his voice is so low and passionate. “You’ve acted nobly. And I’ll have you know it.” He moves closer, which panics me, because my body apparently wants him closer more than anything. Delight races up my skin, leaving goose bumps behind. “I won’t pretend I’m not relieved. Now that you’ve sabotaged your chances in the auction, I don’t have to worry about another man thinking he can have you.”

“Sabotaged myself?” I raise an eyebrow. “There’s another event, Your Majesty.”

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows. We are alone now, the crowd having roamed toward the hillside where the next event will take place.

A vein ticks in his cheek as he regards me, a storm gathering in his blue-gray eyes. “Surely there’s no point in continuing after your pie was the worst of the bunch.”

“There are men who value hard work over a woman’s skill in the kitchen.”

His nostrils flare. “Gwen, I forbid you to carry buckets of water for these cockheads who need to buy a wife instead of wooing one properly—”

“Properly. You mean, like dragging them to the loch?”

He growls at my interruption. “I had need of your mouth. Only your mouth. As I do now. There will be no water carrying. For one thing, they should be carrying water for you. And second…” He draws me up against his chest roughly, tipping my chin up with his opposite hand. “You belong to me. I can think of nothing else. You’re my woman, goddamn it to hell. I will bring you back to my castle and you will remain there with me for all time.”

“In your dreams, perhaps,” I breathe, unable to keep my gaze from dipping to his lips.

Corbet visibly reins himself in and says calmly, “I came here to have an important discussion with you, Gwen. There are things you do not know about my upbringing. Once I’ve explained, you will understand why I am against marriage.”

I’m already shaking my head. “I cannot talk now. I’ll miss the event.”

“I’ve told you. It’s not happening!”

“I’ll only allow this discussion if you let me leave presently for the event—” I hold up a finger when he starts to interject. “And if you don’t interfere.”

“Gwen,” he growls, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “These men ogling you is driving me mad. I want my claim on you. Now.”

There’s a good chance he might already be mad if he thinks a conversation about his past is going to miraculously make me want to be his mistress, but I keep that pretty little fact to myself. “There’s a chance we won’t have a harmonious outcome to our discussion. As such, I have need to keep my options open,” I say, reasonably.

His upper lip curls. “How about I cancel the whole thing?”

“Then the only way you’ll get me to sit down and talk is bound and gagged.”

“That’s beginning to sound like a good plan.” He lets go of my chin in favor of dragging a hand down his face. “Christ. I thought being a king was going to be easy in comparison to battle.”

“You hadn’t met me yet.” I pull out of his hold. “Good day, Your Majesty.”

I make it two steps before he snags my wrist and spins me back around to face him. My lips open to give him hell and he presses that advantage, stamping his hot mouth down over mine. Yanking me up onto my toes like a child’s doll and pillaging my mouth with savage sweeps of his tongue. And heavens, I’ve never been more aware of the flesh between my thighs, but it’s impossible to ignore the desperate clench of my inner walls. How my folds moisten with an immediacy that makes me gasp into the next joining of our lips. Because yes, yes, I’m participating now—greedily—I can’t help it. Can’t help arching my body against the wall of muscle that is his chest. Offering my tongue with halting whimpers. And when he draws up the front of my skirt in his hand and takes rough hold of my sex, I should slap him across the face, but instead I bite his jawline and whine my approval.

“You listen to me now, Gwen. I’ve tried to be patient, because there is something important at stake here.” He squeezes me tighter until I’m gasping in need, outrage, excitement. “But this sugary little cunt belongs to the fucking king and the king means to have it. If you want to prance off and pretend I’d let another man take what’s mine, then so be it. Just remember I don’t have the reputation for being ruthless for nothing.”

“L-let go of me,” I whisper into his neck, contradicting my command by closing my thighs around his hand and rocking into his huge palm.

“Forget this nonsense about carrying buckets and come to my tent, woman.” He tugs down my underthings and strokes my damp, naked flesh with his middle finger, running the pad in circles around my clit and making me moan. “If you thought my tongue got a rise out of you, just wait for this warrior’s cock between my legs. I’ll go at you raw and hungry and by the end of it, you’ll be begging to warm my bed.” He presses his finger inside me, pumping it once, twice, and I can’t manage to draw oxygen, the pressure is so perfect and right. “You’ll be begging to wait for me in my chamber, thighs soft and open, at the end of every day.”

His words riddle me with lust, even while giving me immense pause.

Think, Gwen.

He wants me to warm his bed.

But not his heart.

Nothing else.

Despite the connection I feel growing between us, I have to remember he isn’t offering me anything but his body. Not his love or even the respect of his name.

I have to resist, incredibly hard though it may be.

As much as it hurts to walk away.

“I’ll speak with you later, Corbet,” I say in a rush, pushing his hand from between my legs and stepping back, my legs unsteady. “But know this. I will not lay with you.”

His features harden. “Make no mistake, Gwen. Your virtue is mine.”

“No. It belongs to me, first. And then my husband.” I turn on a heel and stride away before he can reach out for me again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a water carrying competition to win.”