2. Thawing the Ice

Chapter 2

Thawing the Ice

E rran watched Mariel pace the darkly lit bedchamber like a restless fox. She was fully dressed, still wearing her weapons. She always wore them, even to breakfast, like she was expecting a violent melee to descend at any moment.

The woman was a complete enigma to him.

But he didn’t have to solve her. He just had to tolerate her. “What did my mother say to you?”

“I ken you could guess,” she replied without losing momentum.

“And your response?”

“Told her what she needed to hear.”

“So... a lie?”

“Aye, I suppose.”

“What’s going on here?”

“What?”

He waved a hand at her and made a walking motion with his fingers.

“We don’t know each other, Errandil. Don’t fuss yourself trying to make conversation. We can do our duty without... that.”

Was she actually suggesting she was fine with intercourse but talking to each other was a step too far? “Maybe I just don’t see the merit in being miserable all the time, Mariel.”

She shook her head with a bracing look at the ceiling. “You’d never know if I was miserable. First you’d have to know what my joy looks like.”

“Miserable with each other ,” he said, his belly tight in readiness for whatever her next retort would be.

“Aye, well, you seem miserable enough on your own without my help.”

Erran didn’t expect anyone to understand his predicament. Love, particularly the romantic kind, was a happy accident for a noble, not an expectation. As his mother had so poignantly said just that morning, only after duty came personal fulfillment.

He’d always assumed that when the time was right, he and Yesenia would tell their families how they’d felt and a marriage contract would follow—not even because they were in love but because the Rutlands were one of the few houses in the Southerlands with the pedigree to wed a lord’s daughter.

But then the king had sold Yesenia off in a political marriage to their enemy in the north. That much they might have overcome, as Erran had been more than ready to fight to bring her home. Except, she had come home, and she’d been in love with the tree-dweller.

Erran had pulled Khallum aside later to find out what hypnosis the Quinlandens had used on her to change her into an entirely different person, but his best mate had cut the matter off with a harsh, almost pitying confounds the feck outta me too, mate, but my little sister loves the bootlicker. Loves him, loves him, ye ken? Let it go.

Loves him, loves him. Never had a phrase left him so defenseless.

Still, he’d thrown himself at Yesenia’s feet, practically begged her to remember what they’d shared. He’d promised to fight for her, to do anything necessary to free her, and she’d looked him dead in the eyes and told him she’d chosen the Easterlander.

Word got back to his father of how he’d behaved, and Rylahn had already been cross with Erran after having to arrange a last-minute union to keep him from running off to the Easterlands like a lovesick fool. But for Erran to debase himself further, when both Yesenia and he had spouses of their own? It was simply not how Rutland men behaved.

But that was how Erran had ended up on an involuntary idyllmoon at Loch Ethereal with one of the most unsettling women he’d ever been around. “If that’s how you wish for this to go.”

Mariel turned, looking at him for the first time since they’d been banished to the bedchamber by his mother, right before she’d swept off into the afternoon like a gentle storm. Her sigh was expectedly contemptuous but just barely, like she’d lost the heart for full-blown animosity. “You have your life. I have mine. So in here? Let’s give each other peace.”

“I just don’t understand how you expect this to go. What happens in six months, a year, when there’s no sign of a bairn coming?”

“Who said there won’t be one? I know what’s expected of me.” Mariel shrugged. “But then, what if I’m barren? Seems the annulment that would follow such failure would make you happy.”

“Guardians, what a blessing that would be,” he whispered under his breath. His brows furrowed in a thought he didn’t share. He’d heard of women who secretly sabotaged their fertility behind their husbands’ backs, but suggesting such a thing would be like throwing oil on a fire. “Mother knows what is—isn’t happening in our bedchamber... on our wedding night or since I’ve come home. The only way to fix that is to fix the problem.”

“Would you like me to make some unsavory noises for the guards in the hall?” Her eyes fluttered in petulance. “Like a barn animal?”

Erran’s brows creased further. “Is that what you sound like when you...” He left the rest unsaid. He didn’t actually know what a woman sounded like when she came undone. Yesenia had always pushed him away when he tried to pleasure her.

Ever briefly, she looked affronted. “Aye, well you’ll never know, will you?” Her eyes softened, like she regretted the words but didn’t know how to say so.

It took him a few more moments to work up to what he wanted to say. “I have to say something, Mariel.” Erran pulled a chair from the writing desk and sat backward, eyeing her. His mother’s ominous words had played on perpetual repeat in his thoughts. Mariel might have been the last woman he’d ever choose, but if he couldn’t bring her around to his side, he’d lose everything that mattered. His birthright. His honor. For that he could close his eyes and his heart and do what was required. “You keep saying you were sold into this marriage, but there was no... no forcing you. Your brother signed the pre-contract. You signed the contract. So I don’t ken why you’re now acting like a prisoner of my family.”

She appeared taken aback by his question, her mouth opening in the start of an answer that never came.

“Am I wrong?”

Mariel shook her head. “Submission and permission have different definitions.”

“Submission?” He scoffed. “When have you ever known any Southerland woman to be submissive?”

“You ken what I mean.”

“Do I?”

She said nothing.

“So the man in the reeds this morning, is he the one you really wanted?”

Mariel gave up on her pacing and dropped onto the edge of the bed, her languid gaze pointed toward the row of windows overlooking the loch. “He’s not my lover.”

“Then what?” He leaned closer. “What is he to you that he would sneak onto our property to come visit you before dawn?”

She ruminated before answering. He couldn’t help wondering at all the responses she’d abandoned. “Khallum. Samuel. Hamish.”

“What about them?”

“Your mates, not quite kin but the closest to it.”

Erran nodded. “All right.”

“That’s what he is to me,” she said, looking just past him. “Like kin.”

“You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“You’ve never asked me about my life before I came to Goldsea Spires.”

“Haven’t I? Perhaps because we’ve had so little time together.” He knew he hadn’t. Even his mother knew how shameful little interest he’d taken in his wife’s past.

“Right.”

“Mariel, be fair. You’re not exactly a reasonable —” The cutting look she gave him made him reconsider finishing.

“Your mother knows we’re standing on stolen Ashdown land. She doesn’t hide it or smooth it over with pretty illusions. Why do you pretend?” She finally looked at him, her mossy eyes piercing his with cool indictment.

Erran sputtered. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

“You don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

Mariel shifted a weary, withering glance toward the ceiling. “You’re either a feloniously terrible liar or you really do know nothing, and I can’t decide which is worse. Truly I can’t.” Her hands lifted and then fell with her gaze. “I don’t ken why I’m even explaining this to you. You’re just a...” Her words collapsed with an open-mouthed sigh.

“I want to know.” Erran reached without thinking, his palm skating across the bony part of her knee. His own horror reflected back at him through her stunned glare as she shot to her feet in defiance. He tucked the offending hand under his leg. “Tell me. Please.”

Mariel looked down at herself like she’d gladly be rid of her own skin. “You want to know? Then ask your father, Errandil. I’m calling for a bath.”

Mariel didn’t have time or energy to waste in bickering with the princeling, but he wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t outright called her a hypocrite, but he would have been well within his right to.

She had signed the contract, and she did need this marriage, but it wasn’t so simple.

It had started with Destin... her beautiful, broken older brother. He had good days, and he had bad days, but the bad days were far more memorable, filled with drunken blunders and far too many messes for her and the other Obsidian Sky outlaws to tidy up. She couldn’t remember the full set of circumstances that had led to him accepting a significant coffer from the Rutlands and Warwicks in exchange for Mariel’s hand—because he couldn’t even recount it reliably—but she’d never forget the moment he’d told her.

I just need to know why, Desi. Why you would do such a thing? With them . To me .

It seemed... I don’t know, Mare. I thought if you could get close to them... It seemed like the right thing... Oh, Guardians... Guardians, I’m so sorry. I’m so cursed, feckin’ sorry...

All right, all right. It’s going to be all right. We’ll figure it out. Shh, get some rest now.

His tears were the most devastating thing, and she could never hold onto her anger for long when he cried. Every single time, it was like he was shedding the full weight of his lifelong grief, only for it to build itself back up again, readying for the next violent spill. And she, the younger of the two by five years, had assumed the imperfect role of protector of his light.

Once he’d passed out from exhaustion, Mariel had worked her mind around what he’d done and how to move forward. A pre-contract wasn’t a contract, and she did have rights as an independent adult, no longer under the care of parents. She could refuse to sign, and had fully intended to, until she considered the rare opportunity it provided. I thought if you could get close to them. To be in the nest of vipers itself. Obsidian Sky had Augustine on the inside, as one of the stewardess’s seamstresses, but it wasn’t enough. A seamstress could only get so close, hear so much. If Mariel agreed to marry the princeling, she would be seated at the same table as the man they needed to take down. If she worked the son just right, she could mold him into her perfect, unwitting informant.

She’d had three months to work herself up to the task. But as soon as Erran returned, she’d led with anger, not with the cunning that had kept her and her friends safe for so many years. It was baffling, inconvenient, and counterproductive, but she somehow couldn’t stop herself.

If Augustine were there, she’d tell Mariel yesterday didn’t decide tomorrow. It wasn’t too late to reset, begin anew.

Mariel had stolen more gold and jewels than she could ever account for. She’d bested men at swordcraft and was quicker with her bow than others were with words. She’d lied and schemed and evaded capture for over a decade and protected her brother and friends from the same. But somehow, sleeping with the enemy seemed a step too close to cliff’s edge?

There was another… slight complication, if she could even call it that. The rumors about Erran Rutland’s handsomeness had been understated, if anything. He was exasperatingly gorgeous, words he’d never hear her say aloud and she preferred not to think either, but fortunately, when she looked at him, she saw only the dust and ashes of the land the Rutlands had stolen and sold to their friends. His charming dimples became the disrupted earth of landmines used to drive people from their own homes, his curved smile reminiscent of a surreptitious path of an unexpected blade entering through the back.

She had never lain with any man, or woman. All those nights curled up in the arms of Augustine—the other woman’s hand draped over her waist, fingers spread across the cave of her belly—Mariel had certainly thought about it. Any desire she’d felt had come hand in hand with safety and respect. Both of the Perevil siblings, Remy and Augustine, had lighted something electrifying in her, but the unpredictable nature of their work kept her from ultimately surrendering to what felt right. Love was merely another weapon for the enemy to wield against her.

Mariel’s hand shifted to her abdomen as her thoughts returned to such nights. She traced it down her wet skin, half wondering if even momentary pleasure was too great a distraction. But she was drained, body and soul. She craved the safe return of her tranquil evenings in Augustine’s arms, when she could almost forget that her life wouldn’t allow for anything more.

She bit down on her lip when her hand breached the water and traveled between her legs. Her eyes closed as she slipped lower in the bath, getting comfortable.

Mariel shot up in the water when violent, booming thunder shook the keep. The brass mirror crashed to the stone floor, shattering.

Erran had the door open so fast, she was almost impressed. His wide eyes met hers, then slid downward, to where she still had one arm under the water. The hand on his sword hilt slowly fell away, while hers splashed to the side in the bath like a fish caught on a hook.

It seemed he was on the verge of speaking but backed out, closing the door gently without a word.

Breathless, she darted her eyes around the room, as if there were anything to ease her absolute mortification. But he couldn’t know what he’d seen. She hadn’t even had the chance to do anything interesting. Erran discovering she knew her way around her own body was inconsequential and not the worst thing that could happen. He could have overheard the conversation with Remy.

She pushed to her feet, sending water splashing onto the stones, and climbed out, stepping gingerly around the shattered glass. After wrapping herself in a robe, she stormed from the bathing room back into the bedchamber.

“You always walk in uninvited on a woman having a bath?” Her whole body was hot, head to toe, from the discomfiture, from the water, from...

Erran faced away, looking out one of the windows at the rain with both hands wrapped around the back of his neck. His shirt was rolled to the elbows, revealing his tense, muscled forearms. “I heard the crash after the thunder hit. I came to see if you were all right, and...” He turned his head over his shoulder, his stare on the wall. “You aren’t just any woman, you know. You’re my wife.”

Mariel tightened the belt on her robe and stepped closer. She could do this. She had to. Continuing to be contrary only further compromised her goals. “You’re right,” she said quietly.

He spun all the way around. “What’s that?”

“I said you’re right, but I’ll take it back if you don’t... wipe that...” She waved a hand. “That look off your face.”

“What look?”

“That self-satisfied smug—” She fisted her hands, then released them. “I cannot refute the points you made earlier. I did sign the contract, aye. It wasn’t... not because I wanted to, but because... It was the prudent choice.”

Erran crossed his arms and leaned against the frame, listening.

“But I signed it,” she said, moving close enough that she could safely reduce her voice to a whisper, mindful of how others were always listening. Her calm gradually returned, and she remembered she didn’t have to surrender her control to anything. To anyone. “I’m not ready for what your mother expects of me, but we’ve got to earn ourselves a reprieve from everyone’s meddling ears. We both need that reprieve. You ken?”

He offered a light frown. “Would help if you laid it out.”

“You’re still in love with Yesenia.” She posed it as a statement, but he nodded weakly in answer. “I was not in love before we married, never have been. Never wish to be. But my old life still matters to me. And I will not give it up. I couldn’t care less who you love. If she’d take you back, I’d turn the other cheek—mind my own business—as long as it doesn’t get back to your meddling parents.” Her breath was shaky and uneven, her hands traveling to the belt of her robe. She drew from every bit of resolve within her as she opened it and let the silk fabric slip to the stones in a soft whoosh.

Never had she so openly bared her physical self to anyone.

The light inward gasp from Erran had her toes curling to keep from reaching for the robe again. “Do you see these scars?” She pointed at two faint white gashes, one near her breastbone, the other, a longer one, across her torso. “Childhood injuries,” she lied—not fully a lie though. She’d still been a child when she’d earned them.

“Aye,” Erran croaked. His hand pulled at the stubble on his chin. His eyes danced between his cautious assessment and the nearest corner.

“I want you to brag to your mates about us, and when you do, mention the scars. Make sure everyone can hear when you do. There’s no way you could know about either of them unless you’d seen me in the flesh.”

Erran nodded slowly. “Seen and noted.” He coughed to clear his throat. “Should I do the same...”

Mariel brushed a hand across the air, indicating he should.

He removed his empty sword belt first, unclipping it and laying it across the arms of a nearby chair. His suspenders came next, then his shirt, revealing the other half of the view she’d gotten earlier. Hard lines cut across his tanned flesh, tightening with his movements as he unlatched his trousers and tugged them down. Her mouth watered in defiance of the power she still—barely—wielded over the moment.

It was the bewildering twinge of weakness that made her say, “That’s enough. I can... There are freckles on your chest. Have them elsewhere?”

Erran glanced down at himself. “Aye, my inner thighs. Knees. Back of the calves, at least in the warmer months. Feet. Toes, anyway.”

“Cock?”

He blurted an unflattering laugh. “Nay, not there.”

“You can get dressed.”

He seemed almost comically relieved as he yanked his trousers back into place.

Mariel snatched the robe from the floor and disappeared behind the armoire. She took a moment to gather herself. “Aye, so you understand then?”

He appeared just on the other side, close enough for her to hear his raspy breathing. “Thing is... I never bragged to my mates about Yesenia. I always felt what we did was just for us.”

“You’d be lying, not bragging.” She shrugged her nightgown on, tugging it over her still-damp skin. “Think of it as playacting, and you’ll find it comes easier.”

“You sound like you know a thing or two about it.”

“I might.”

“Do you lie often?”

“When I need to.”

“Have you lied to me?”

“Aye.”

Erran snorted. “At least you were honest about that.”

She nearly laughed, but shared jokes were for friends, and they were not friends, even if she didn’t find him near as galling as she’d expected to. He could be an ally, and she needed him to be, but for only as far as it served her. Forgetting who he was would undo everything she’d worked for. His kindness and beauty were curses, blights of ignorance. And ignorance, in her experience, could be as dangerous as malice, if not more.

Mariel emerged from behind the armoire. “Everyone lies, Errandil. Either from necessity or greed or just boredom.”

“Not me,” he said, defiantly shaking his head. “What else do I have, if not my honor?”

“Honesty and honor may start with the same letters, but they are not the same,” Mariel replied, looking up at him. “You said outside we share the same wants. Would I be right in saying you don’t want me any more than I want you?”

He hesitated before nodding. “Not because there’s anything wrong with you, Mariel. You’re...” A frown preceded his next word. “Interesting.”

“Wasn’t fishing for compliments. Only way to get out of doing the thing is lying about doing the thing. We go on long enough like that, act convincingly enough when eyes and ears are turned our way, they’ll assume we gave it our best. Enough time passes, we either start actually sharing a bed or... or they’ll grant us an annulment, because you need an heir.” And by then, I’ll have what I need and can walk away. She tossed a glance at the door, beyond which the servants were undoubtedly scrambling to make sense of the whispers they couldn’t hear. “If we don’t do this, they’ll never give us peace.”

He followed her gaze, his expression thoughtful. “So this is to be our marriage then? Lies and evasion?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer an annulment to being stuck with me the rest of your life?”

Erran looked down at her. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

“How?” Her frown deepened. “It’s a simple question.”

“Aye, but I don’t know if the answer is. My responsibilities as heir are what they are, but I never considered I’d have a loveless, cold marriage such as this one.”

She nearly felt bad for him, how he’d lost Yesenia. There’d have been no better husband for the only Warwick daughter. But losing a childhood love held no mirror to all Mariel had lost. All that her people, and many other peoples, had lost, on account of his father.

“You can take as many lovers as you please. There’ll be no jealousy from me. In front of others, we play the happiest of families. We convince them we’re doing our duty whenever we step beyond these doors. When alone, we don’t have to pretend. We respect our separate lives.” She paused and then said, “That means turning the other way when I want to see my friends. Maybe even covering for me from time to time. In return, I’ll do the same.” The next part was a lie, but it needed to be said. He needed to believe she would one day be the dutiful wife he required. Only after she had what she’d come for and was gone like a wraith would he realize he’d been had. “And when I’m ready, we’ll do what we must.”

Erran seemed completely lost for words. He pursed his lips in a stilted breath, one hand knotted in his dark, wavy hair. “If that’s what you want.”

“And my brother.”

“What of him?”

“I want him at supper here once a week.”

“That’s not up to me, Mariel. He’d have to?—”

“I know,” she said softly, her eyes flashing wide at the door to remind him they had to keep their voices down. “I know he has troubles. No one knows it better than me. But he’s my family , and he’s all alone, and if I cannot bring him here, then I’ll have to spend more time away from the Spires, which means...”

“More interference from my mother and father,” he said, his eyes slowly shuttering in understanding. Not a complete idiot then.

“Aye. And more problems we don’t need. Either of us.”

“I’ll talk to Mother.” He didn’t explain why he’d chosen to start with her, but Mariel knew. Hestia Rutland was a smooth negotiator and would cede ground to get what she wanted. Rylahn expected fealty to fall into his lap without giving up anything.

Mariel glanced at the bed. “It’s big enough we never have to touch each other...”

“You want the left or the right?”

“Right.”

A flash of disappointment crossed his face as he nodded. The right had probably been his side.

“I can take left if you prefer,” she said, feeling unexpectedly generous. For the first time since they’d said those cursed vows, they were in something resembling accord. Their plan would offer her the freedom she needed, and she wouldn’t have to explain herself because Erran would do it for her. As long as she kept the peace—and her animosity at bay—he’d have no reason to betray her, even as she was betraying him.

“If it’s no trouble,” he said, looking back at her.

“None at all.” Mariel waited for him to climb in before slipping onto her side. She’d been sleeping in the guest quarters while he’d been gone, as Erran’s apartments were being renovated in his absence. The guest bed was nice, but nothing like what she’d just crawled into. His sheets were luxuriously soft, slightly thicker than silk, and made of a material her family would never have used even when they could have afforded it. She slid her legs along the smooth fabric, torn by how lovely it felt and how wonderful the sleep ahead would be, all the while reminding herself she could never ever allow herself to succumb to the lure of the comforts offered by the Rutlands and their world.

If she could commit to what she’d proposed, it would be over soon.

Destin’s tortured cries entered her thoughts. Remy’s resourcefulness born of horrors. Augustine’s warmth amid the cold. Alessia’s fierceness against the lions of the world. Magnur’s quiet strength that held them all aloft.

For them, she wouldn’t rest until she’d set the world to rights.

For herself, she wouldn’t forget who she was and how she’d been made.

And as for the Rutlands, by the time her work was done, they’d forget none of their names ever again.