Iloria (5 page)

The villagers treated him as they always did, with polite deference and a hint of wary affection. Farran had taken a casual approach to managing the people who owed his family their allegiance, walking among them more than his father had. In return, they’d given him loyalty.

Now they gave him curiosity as well, though most averted their gazes quickly enough when caught staring. Not at him, of course, but at Iloria, who was beautiful and graceful and more refined than any woman these people had seen since the High Lord’s parents had visited thirty years before.

She held her head high, a small smile curving her lips. “Am I such an oddity?” she whispered to him, a hint of laughter in her voice.

“A bit.” An oddity the village folk would most likely come to love as quickly as his own people had. Charm and compassion were not virtues often found in his family, nor in the women who’d been forced to marry into it. She had no idea how rare she was.

Or how beloved she might become. Farran drew her to a stop as the innkeeper appeared, bowing low. His young daughter trailed behind him, her big blue eyes fixed on Iloria’s gown.

An adorable moment—until the girl spoke. “Are you the High Lady?”

Farran barely choked back a growl as Iloria withdrew her hand from the crook of his arm and regarded the girl thoughtfully for a moment. “No, I’m not.” She bent down to meet the child’s gaze. “I am a lady, though. Lord Farran’s wife. What’s your name?”

“Vina.” She smiled, showing two missing teeth. “I like your dress.”

Iloria looked down at the lush, dark velvet and laughed. “Thank you very much, Vina.”

Behind the girl, the innkeeper twisted his hands together, torn between pleasure at Iloria’s attention and worry that Farran would be offended.

Reining in his temper, Farran managed a civil nod. “Rhion.”

“My lord?”

“Has your wife prepared her beer bread today?”

“She has.” He glanced between Farran and Iloria. “Shall I have her set a private table?”

A quiet, unspoken plea for Farran to give the man enough time to prepare a spread suitable for serving a lady. Rhion never went to such effort for his lord, but Farran supposed his muddy boots and rugged leathers made a different sort of impression than his wife’s finery.

Taking pity on Rhion, he nodded again. “Please. We’ll be back after I’ve shown Iloria the rest of the village.”

Iloria rose as the girl scampered away, her father at her heels. “She’s beautiful.”

“There aren’t many children her age here. We’ve been at war for so long.” Though Farran imagined that, a year from now, the streets of his village would be filled with the screams of newborn infants.

“I should have realized.” She lowered her gaze. “It must have been difficult for them, as well, to have you away for so long.”

“I’m sure Talen kept things well in hand.” But the thought that he might have been missed pleased him, and he didn’t bother to hide it.

Her eyes sparkled as she slipped her hand once more into the crook of his arm. “What will you show me next?”

What a pity there was so little of interest. The smithy turned out reliable farm implements and horse shoes. The tailor’s wife was a seamstress, and together they produced sturdy, practical clothing. The only exception...

Clearing his throat, he turned her toward the opposite side of the village. “The weaver will be making new tapestries for your rooms. Perhaps you’d like to meet her and discuss what colors or patterns would please you.”

“My room is fine,” she protested. “I have no need for new hangings.”

“I want you to have them. If you must live with my curse...” The very least he could do was give her some measure of comfort and luxury in return.

The words seemed to trouble her. “Possessions mean little to me. All my life, I have had
things
. If you must give me something, I prefer this—a walk to the village on a pretty day.”

His mother had counted her worth in the pretty baubles she coaxed from her husband with stony silence and icy rage. Clearly, Farran would have to work much harder to please Iloria. “Still to the weaver, then, if only so you can meet her. If you wish to take charge of the castle’s needs, it will be important for you to know our crafters.”

“Mmm.” She let him lead her on, a thoughtful look on her face. “I admit, I wasn’t sure you would want me to stay, after all.”

Farran nearly stumbled over his own feet. “Whyever not?”

One slender shoulder rose in a shrug. “Your situation isn’t one that lends itself to intimacy. You might be better off with a wife who could content herself with your gifts and silence.”

How foolish of him to assume her offer to leave was about his happiness. What woman wouldn’t be desperate to escape the life in which he’d trapped her? “And you might be happier with a husband who is better at dealing with women.”
Outside of a bed,
the thought came, though at least he knew well enough to not give it voice.

But Iloria only laughed softly. “You are not without your charms, Farran, no matter what you seem to think.” She stroked his arm through his sleeve, slow and soothing, and it was then he realized his free hand had clenched so tightly his knuckles ached.

Slowly, he relaxed his fingers. “I’m not a quick learner, not when the lessons aren’t about war and violence. But a patient woman might be able to make a husband out of me. If she’s willing to try.”

For too long, she only looked up at him. Then she murmured, “You’re very honest, and if I seem taken aback, it’s because I’m not accustomed to people telling me the truth. You deserve the same, so I’ll say that I
will
make demands of you. I like you too much to be happy avoiding you for the rest of my days.”

He’d never smiled so easily, or so often. “Well, then. I imagine we’ll scandalize the castle-folk with all of our happiness. It’s not tradition, you know.”

Iloria’s gaze softened and fixed on his mouth, and her lips parted. “Some traditions need to be broken, do they not?”

“Not just broken,” he replied softly. “Shattered.”

“Shattered,” she repeated, and her expression sharpened with resolve. “I want to stay, Farran, and be your wife.”

For the first time since he’d offered to marry her, he felt true hope in his heart. With Iloria’s grace and spirit, she might yet be the one to tame him.

Several days later, Iloria knelt in the garden with grimy hands and a light heart, entertaining a decidedly naughty fantasy fueled by the kiss Farran had given her the night before.

A good night kiss, he’d called it, though as far as she was concerned, he could call it whatever the hell he wanted as long as he kept doing it. His hands wandered during the nightly embraces, though he never slipped his fingers under her clothing, just stroked over fabric as he explored her mouth with endless patience. He bit her neck, nibbled at her ear lobes, and finally returned to her mouth for more deep, endless kisses that made her whimper.

Every kiss left her torn. The need clawing her up inside demanded that she coax him into her bed, but she found herself strangely reluctant to risk it. The last few days had been filled with peace, tentative though it was, a peace broken only by those kisses, and she was loath to disturb the comfortable pattern of companionable silence, careful conversation, and blistering kisses.

She was staring, caught up in her own reverie, when Magda rushed outside. “My lady.” The woman jerked to a halt and dragged in a breath. “The High Lord is here. Unannounced.”

Iloria rose, her panic echoing the sentiment clear in Magda’s words. They’d had no time to make preparations for such a visit. “Is my husband out riding?”

“He should be on his way back from the farmsteads to the west. Talen went to fetch him.” Magda hooked her hand through Iloria’s elbow and coaxed her toward the castle. “I can stall them if you wish to change.”

She gasped. “I’ve been on my knees in the dirt, and the High Lord is—” Suddenly, she realized what Magda had said. “Them? You can stall
them
?”

Sympathy filled the other woman’s eyes. “The High Lord and his mate.”

The High Lady, a lovely woman who would no doubt be immaculately groomed. “I don’t have time for a bath, but I would appreciate the time to wash up and change.”

Iloria didn’t wait, but she knew she didn’t have to. She hurried up the servants’ stairs near the kitchen and ran for her rooms.

Fortunately, Iloria still had plenty of gowns appropriate for receiving royalty. She managed to make herself passably presentable and hurried down to the parlor to greet their guests. “My lord. Lady. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“Nonsense.” Sabine stepped forward and took both of her hands. “We apologize for imposing with no warning. Thank you for having us.”

Ciar graced her with a sunny smile, the same one that had been fixed to his face since the moment he’d claimed Sabine as his own. “I apologize, Lady Iloria. I’m accustomed to visiting Farran when the mood strikes me, as he’s never felt obliged to make me welcome. I’m the one who forgot that times have changed.”

Aside from being the High Lord, Ciar was Farran’s oldest friend. “Nothing has changed. You’re both welcome anytime.” She waved them to the sofas as Magda sent in a tray of refreshments. “Though I fear Farran is afield at the moment. He may not return before dinner.”

“That’s convenient,” Ciar admitted as he led his lady to sit. “In all honesty, Iloria, we’re here to talk to you.”

“To me?”

Sabine gave her a far more serious smile. “There’s been a bit of a development at court.”

She glanced between them and finally opted for honesty. “You’re frightening me.”

Ciar didn’t waste words. “Several of the more eligible men in the kingdom have protested your abrupt removal from court.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that Farran committed a grievous offense by marrying you under false pretenses. Your family still knows nothing of Farran’s condition. The one of which, I presume, you have been made aware?”

“His curse,” she whispered. “Yes, he told me.”

“Unfortunately, he did not tell your parents.” Ciar’s lips pulled down into a frown. “You’re a beautiful, well-connected young woman. There is some jealousy at court, and a general sentiment that you and your fortune have gone to a man who neither needs nor appreciates either gift.”

The mere suggestion stiffened her spine. “Farran needs
someone
, my lord. If you’re as well-acquainted with him as I believe you to be, you must know that.”

“Of course I do.” The High Lord leaned forward. “I also know he’s not an easy man to handle. You should not consider it your duty to take sole responsibility for his happiness, not if his comfort comes at the expense of your own.”

Here it was, a way she could leave—if she so chose. If she’d had foreknowledge of the difficulties that awaited her upon her arrival at the estate, she might have jumped at this chance to flee. Even after she’d made the decision to try, she might have taken this opportunity to release Farran from his rash, impulsive decision to marry her.

Now, here was the High Lord, handing her a reason to pack her things and return to the palace, and all she felt was sick to her stomach.

Farran had known Sabine for years, from before the wars, when she’d been young and wild and Ciar had been as helpless before her as the beach beneath the tide. Pretty and blonde, there was nothing remarkable about her, he supposed, except that she had no fear in the face of powerful men. Not the High Lord, who’d mated her—

—and not his First Warlord.

That knowledge left him with little guilt at roaring at her. “He did
what
?”

“He came to tell your wife the truth,” she answered calmly. “And to ascertain whether you and Iloria were getting along. Be honest with yourself, Farran. Ciar had good reason, as did I, to wonder if you’d made yourself miserable for our sakes.”

He doubted Ciar would concern himself much over that, as Farran had never made himself miserable for anyone. “You mean he was worried that I would be tormenting Iloria, whether I meant to or not.”

“His concern is for
both
of you,” Sabine countered stubbornly.