A New Princess Read online

  Another spark jumped between them as she laid her hand in his.

  Chapter 6

  How could an innocent dance seem at once so right and so wrong?

  Then again, innocent was probably the wrong description. Stevan’s tunic swirled around him as gusts of night air failed to cool his heated skin. Although vigorous, the pace of dancing eased. Instead of twisting back and forth across the green, he promenaded alongside his partner as they wove through and around other couples. The movements required little exertion, so his body should be easy and fluid. Instead, he remained tense and alert.

  Blood pounded in his veins. His breath came heavy and deep, thanks to his exertions.

  He wiped sweaty palms on his mantle and hoped they left no marks on the soft linen. Though if it stained, better the cloth than risk his hand slip when taking a turn with one woman or another.

  Particularly with one. Even when she wasn’t close, he knew where she moved in relation to him. Was she the one they sought?

  The Terparchon hadn’t described the new princess. Nor had Amara offered any details about whom she suspected. He’d formed no mental image in specific. Impossible to imagine who they’d find, given how little the princesses had in common. Short and tall. Slender and full-figured. Of all complexions and demeanors, ages and genders.

  All he could assume was that they sought a woman given that the Terparchon had referred to the unknown as “her.” Although even that was relatively little help. The Terparchon might have mistaken an eleee for a woman. Eleees comprised a vast variety including male, female, both, and neither. Some were reputedly able to change their bodies: height, breadth, frame, and sex organs. Nevertheless, it was all he had to work with as of yet. On that basis alone, he joined the line of those dancing as men, or sires in the local parlance, in hopes the Terparchon had the “her” right.

  Then he’d seen her. The princess? Whether or not this woman was the one they sought, everything faded, dwindled, lessened—except for a wary woman carrying an edge of sorrow. Dark of hair save for the bright purple streak running through it from one temple. Shadowed of eye. Light brown of skin. Made of curves that the delicate material of her tunic alternately concealed and revealed.

  The touch of her skin against him, when he slid his arm forward to take hers, had set every hair on his body on end.

  Gisela. A lovely name, with a hint of mournfulness which suited her, though he hadn’t learned her name until after the first dances.

  Ripples of pleasure shot through him every time they touched, even so little as a brush of fingers.

  The fiddle and flutes overrode the drums now, melding into a light melody and counterpoint—albeit one with a sensuous edge. Or perhaps that came only because the tune paired with dance steps that teased, taunted, and tempted.

  Forward and back; now a brush of hands, then apart.

  Right and left; gaze deep into eyes then turn away.

  Tap toes against the ground, then swap places with the couple promenading the opposite way.

  At least for the grand promenade, couples marched together. He wrapped one hand around Gisela’s, high in the air, and laid the other at her waist. Her free hand rested over his. His fingers felt no chill, not under her touch and so close to her breast and hip. Only thin, gauzy layers of linen separated skin from skin.

  A sweet flowery perfume wafted from her hair, sending bubbles of delight through him as though he’d drunk too fast and too deep of the most effervescent wine ever fermented though all he’d imbibed earlier was watered wine.

  One of the elders at the table had muttered something about this being a night where inhibitions might be lowered, but villagers still needed to choose to do their duty. Only a few appeared close to getting drunk—and they weren’t among the dancers now.

  Dozens upon dozens of couples paired off and filled the green in a massive array of twisting lines and swapping places. Mostly men and women, though here and there women embraced women and men men.

  Some partners leaned into each other, bodies aligning along legs, torsos, and arms. Others maintained a slim distance, enough for wisps of air to pass between. Though he’d have readily acceded should Gisela lean into him, he made no protest when she kept a degree of distance—except where hands pressed close.

  Strange, that he was supposed to be the bait to call the potential princess. The lure she couldn’t resist only to become enraptured instead.

  Perhaps he’d failed in his mission. Turned it inside out.

  Then again, entirely too many women had seemed enthralled with him earlier. They’d oohed and ahhed over his shoulders and arms, torso and legs. Hands had hovered a little too close to certain parts for his comfort.

  The grope hadn’t been repeated, though it was a near thing on a few occasions.

  Yet so many of those women spent their gazes and attention on his body, without lifting their eyes to meet his.

  None had asked his name. The whole time he’d spent in the village thus far, only a few of the elders had bothered with that detail.

  Even Gisela hadn’t enquired.

  But she met his eyes. Watched him. Responded to him, seeming as bemused and light-of-head as he.

  And then, with a sorrowful cast to her face, tried to slip away.

  Leaving him to pursue, which he had.

  And she’d said yes.

  The question remained, was she the one for whom they searched?

  A faint aura of energy surrounded them as they danced. Barely there, manifesting as little more than a distant haze—and that only glimpsed out of the corner of the eye. Likewise, each time he touched her anew, a jolt of connection rattled him from teeth to toes. The very air took on a giddy zest.

  In all, an experience quite reminiscent of dancing with the Terparchon save for two major differences.

  He didn’t worry displeasing Gisela would result in threat of torture or dismissal.

  And, more pleasantly, his body responded to her closeness with eagerness. A development as welcome with her as it would have been unwelcome with his ruler. Though he wished his flesh less active on the dance floor. The appearance didn’t matter; he was hardly the only man in this position. All the same, certain types of movement made the loincloth under his tunic chafe in unpleasant ways.

  Unfortunately, his very response to Gisela raised concern he was allowing himself to be led by his lesser head rather than his greater.

  Such a torment, sliding this way. Deciding he had guessed the princess right, then doubting himself, and back and forth.

  Until the moment he turned in the dance and spotted Amara, seated on a bench, with her back resting against the edge of a table. Hands tucked in her lap as her plain gray robe spilled around her. Her shoulders slumped and head tilted down and to the side. Nevertheless, she watched the dancing with heavy-lidded eyes.

  Catching his gaze, she smiled. Lifted her hands, palm to palm, and kissed the tips of her fingers. A simple thing, soft and radiant as a beam of moonlight.

  Amara approved, had identified the same woman. His judgment he might doubt, this being his first time on such an errand, but not hers.

  Freedom from worry allowed him to luxuriate in the remaining dances. Each brought couples closer, and involved less contact with others. From winding up and down long aisles of other couples, they dwindled to a group of eight dancers forming a square.

  Then two couples opposite each other. Making slow exchanges of partners, with ample opportunities to glance over one’s shoulder and stare into one’s original partner’s deep brown eyes.

  The music slowed, all but one of the drummers dropping out. The remaining beat became less audible and more felt in the pulsing of blood in veins.

  At the last, only the two of them existed. Dancing alone, even as every other couple moved apart. Arms entwined. Bodies aligned so that they constantly brushed each other without lingering anywhere long. Yet they barely moved, their dancing restricted to a small oval.

  She turned her head, hair
flipping and spilling over his hand where it grasped her shoulder. A few steps later, her hand slipped behind his back and brushed his braid. Her shiver made him do the same.

  Hands brushed.

  Her breasts swayed against his chest.

  A brief, promising sweep of her hips pressed against his, only to immediately withdraw.

  The next he knew, the music ended.

  A luminous, moon-touched fog rolled out of nowhere to cover the green. It parted just enough to curve around them—and left the air open above them for the moonlight to pour down.

  A moment out of time, for the two of them.

  Under such a light, not even the shadows in her eyes might hide her desire from him. Nor, likely, his from her. Though it was not desire alone rising in him, but something else entwined with it. A connection. A surety that where she went, he would always wish to follow. Or lead, only if he might find her ever by his side.

  Surely she felt it, too. She licked her lips, leaving a glossy wetness behind.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  He fought to keep his hands steady as he held hers, braced her. “Where is there to go?”

  “Down by the brook, or over near the bath house. Or my chamber, though it is a very small afterthought. Little more than a cranny tucked into the edge of one of the elders' homes.” She laughed and gave a deprecating shrug. “Filled with the bed and all the scrolls that do not remain in the council chamber.”

  Joy flushed through him, following the beat of his heart along every part of his body. The air between them heated, giving off a sultry scent that seeped into the fog until he inhaled it and found that, too, sent thrills through him.

  Pleasure doubled by her quiet interest. The ease with which she pressed herself against him.

  This he desired with all his heart, soul, and most especially body.

  But his mind declined to let go and become so entranced.

  Were he merely a passing stranger, he might have stayed and found some way to woo her.

  He wasn't.

  All the worry he’d let slip before, about whether or not she was the princess, now raced back. She was or would be a princess.

  Any offer she made to him now was on the understanding that he didn’t belong here and would leave soon.

  Only he and Amara knew that tomorrow, or the first opportunity afterward, they’d bargain with the council and Gisela for the right to take her away from everything she’d ever known, her home, her family, her place.

  Drop her in the court as fresh blood.

  She’d be alone, except perhaps for Amara and for him who had little influence even though he’d made an unexpected leap to a degree of prominence. Moreover, she’d also endure the cynosure of most eyes as she catapulted into one of the most powerful positions in the country.

  A position that the previous occupant left unwillingly, possibly due to malfeasance on someone’s part.

  Mind over body cooled his lust enough, alas, to continue along that train of thought. Something of his concern must have passed to her, for she took a step back. The movement allowed air between their bodies—chill in comparison to flesh on flesh.

  “Do you want to go apart and lie with me?” She asked, head canting downward. A sheaf of hair fell to conceal half of her face.

  “More than I can say.” He brushed the soft strands back, tucking them behind an ear. “But I fear you may regret it, if not tomorrow then soon after.”

  “It is more likely you’ll regret.” She took another step, her shoulders hunching inward and fingers twining with her skirts rather than his hands.

  The haze in to the air began to sour, wine turning to vinegar.

  “No, I want this.” He grabbed one of her hands and laid it against his chest. “But this is not the time or place. I . . . we do not know each other well enough yet.” He brushed a finger along her face. It came away wet. “I did not come here by chance, as you will learn soon enough.”

  “If you regret your choice, that is your right. You are free to make another.” She waved at the fog surrounding them. “Leave me to seek and you will find.”

  “No need to send me elsewhere.” He blew out his cheeks and sucked in sour vinegar-flavored air. “You know who I am, surely, or at least from where I came?”

  “From the summer palace.” Her fingers stroked the fabric of his tunic. “No one from here would have cloth so fine.”

  “And that is why I must wait, until my business is done. Ask me again when the moon next is full and I’ll give a different answer.” He pressed her hand between his, willing her to understand. “Say yes so fast your head spins.”

  “If you’re here.” A bitter laugh escaped as she turned her head away.

  “Wherever you are, there I will be.”

  She nodded, but, as she slipped away from him, he knew she didn’t believe.

  Chapter 7

  Gisela woke cold and alone. Beneath her, layers of grasses stuffed into a woolen mattress cover kept the chill of the earth away. The aroma of sweet herbs still wafted up from the grass, gathered from the first spring harvest. She’d pulled her winter cloak over to keep her warm, and wore her oldest tunic—no longer fit for public—to protect her skin from the coarse wool cloth.

  Which somehow had ridden up in the night and left her toes exposed. Cold toes meant cold from toes to nose. Or so one of the nursery guardians used to sing when she was small and still tucked into bed at night. The old dam would bop Gisela on the nose, then run her hands down to Gisela’s toes and ensure the cover was securely tucked beneath them. A complicated matter, back then, for younglings in the nursery usually slept four or five to a bed. The guardian preferred to arrange them so the tallest lay at one end and the second tallest at the other. Tuck the covers under their toes, and odds were all the children would make it through the night warm enough. Unless someone tossed and turned too much.

  Gisela had tossed and turned last night before slipping into sleep. How right the old guardian was, for little bumps lined her arms and legs and a chill had settled into her bones. Had she a bedfellow this night and morning, particularly a nice warm sire as tall or taller than she, he would have weighted the cloak so it couldn’t slip from over her toes. Or, if it had, she could’ve warmed her feet against him.

  If he woke from the chill, well there were things they could do together to ensure both ended warm.

  Except, she’d slept alone.

  Again.

  She hadn’t had a bedfellow since dying the streak in her hair purple.

  Pride, Ilburna had called it and wagged a finger at Gisela shortly after the change of color. “There’s no shame in being unable to bear unless you make it so. All dams reach the point sooner or later if they’re lucky enough to live that long. Sires fail in siring too, though they last longer for it takes less out of them. Go find what makes you happy, and tumble any you fancy along the way. Just let them into others’ beds if they’re fertile and haven’t yet done their duty by the village.”

  Wise words, of course. Ilburna made a point of never being other than wise—albeit heavy handed in sharing her wisdom.

  But she’d had time to grow into her fate. It had fallen on Gisela far too early.

  Gisela had smiled that day and every other time she received unwanted advice, or at least pulled back her lips and shown her teeth, and been polite to the elder’s face. Saved her grumbling about old noses stuck in where they weren’t wanted for when off on her own.

  When dancing in fallow fields.

  Or lying abed—alone.

  Except this time she had someone else to grumble over.

  Bad enough her choices in bedfellows narrowed down. Worse that she’d done the winnowing. She’d been busy avoiding sires. Preferred the safe route of finding pleasure with the one person who’d never disappointed her in that respect—herself—to the danger of testing the waters with another and then discovering her inability to bear did make a difference.

  Understandable enough in the
first flush and panic of response, but rejection had become a custom. A habit.

  So irritating to have been lured out of that habit.

  Tempted.

  Enticed.

  Only to be declined.

  Past experience had taught her how to handle meetings with former and current lovers in all manner of circumstances, from alone one-on-one to in company to encountering along with their other previous and current liaisons. Some might prefer to keep to one bedmate while others dallied as they would, but so long as they were honest about what they had done, were doing, and planned to do, all was well enough. Those who held grudges had less opportunity, and marked themselves as less preferable in the process.

  After all, she and her fellow villagers absorbed the same advice from the nursery guardians all through their growing years. Children chanted familiar phrases as they played hop, skip, and jump.

  Never promise what you cannot deliver.

  Tell the truth whatever it be.

  Be angry over a lie, but never over love.

  Stevan had promised her nothing with his lips, only with his body and the connection between them.

  And then declined to follow through.

  She’d actually offered and pursued and Stevan had said no.

  Oh, he’d made his refusal a matter of poetry. She needed only wait until the moon was full again and he would consent. What good did that do, when they would be far apart? Last night the whole moon had shone down upon them, their blood ran high, yet it all dissolved into nothingness.

  How did one greet a potential lover who had disdained one the morning after?

  Perhaps by appearing serene and content regardless of the state of her innards and nerves.

  As a first step, she rose. Stood in the small free space on the floor in the minuscule chamber to dig through the shelf holding her clothes for the cleanest of her tunics. Her fingers scratched against the smooth board attached to the walls as she extracted a thin, wispy rectangle of gauze. She’d embroidered the neckline during the spring festival with forest green vines, leaves, and deep purple flowers that stood out against the pale lilac cloth. The colors chosen not by chance, though she’d lacked the courage to wear it the previous night.