“You’re a rare man,” she said, eyeing him over her shoulder. “Unfortunately, Husband, we can only remake the world when we own it. But for now there are rules.”
The pearls unfastened, slipping through their loops, until the gown hung off her frame. Erida stepped out from it as nonchalantly as she could, clad only in her underclothes. A fine silk shift, light as a dove’s wing, left little to the imagination. Still, Taristan did not move, even when the Queen perched on the edge of the great bed.
“Make no mistake, my cousin Konegin would seize any opportunity to cast you down and annul any marriage of mine he opposes.”
“Then kill him,” he said dryly, dripping with disinterest.
Erida would be lying if she said she had not considered such a thing, especially in recent days. Konegin had his uses, but they were steadily becoming outweighed by his dangers.
“If only life were that simple,” she said, picking at her sheer skirt. Perhaps if I do away with clothing all together, I might stir him to action and get this over with. Then another thought seized her, and she snapped up her head, eyes wide as she looked over her consort. “By the gods, are you chaste, Taristan?”
His responding smile was crooked, drawn up to show a single, deep dimple in his cheek. Somehow, the scratches down his face complemented the grin. Those flat black eyes sparked, and Erida fought the urge to break his stare.
“Hardly,” he said, a hand straying to the gold clasps of his doublet. “But aren’t you? Isn’t that one of your rules?” He cast a hand around the room, using the other to unfasten the fabric at his throat. Pale skin showed beneath.
Finally, Erida thought, gritting her teeth. She wasn’t sure which was more frustrating—her obtuse husband or the rising thud of her own heartbeat.
“Some rules are less important than others, and easier to break, if you know how,” she said dismissively. The Queen of Galland was only bound by what the court saw, and it was easier to hide dalliances than a fever or cold, with both men and women. “So get on with it, then.”
His doublet hung open, revealing his own underclothes. The neck of his shirt was unlaced, strings hanging. The planes of his bare chest stood out, sculpted like a maiden’s dream, well formed by the years. But the smooth skin was scarred in a way Erida had never seen, white lines tracing over his collarbone. As her eyes followed their paths, she realized they were his veins, standing out like roots or branching lightning. He closed the distance between them as she looked, her blue eyes wide and consuming. Is his whole body like this? She wondered. Is this the price the Spindles demand?
“Is this what you want, Erida of Galland?”
Suddenly he stood over her, glaring down, a lock of dark red hair falling over his forehead. She reached up to remove his doublet, fingers grasping at his collar, but he seized her by both wrists. His skin seared against her own, though his grip was gentle as he pulled her hands away.
“Get on with it,” she said again, a whisper this time. A plea as much as a command.
He leaned forward, coming closer. Erida could smell the tang of smoke on his skin, the new embers of flame.
Then he dropped her wrists. “Not like this.”
She didn’t move when he reached behind her, swiping pillows and blankets to the floor. Silk and fine linens peeled away, spilling off the bed at haphazard angles. He even shifted the mattress for good measure, forcing her to jump to her feet.
“What are you doing?” Erida demanded, looking between him and the ruined bed.
He didn’t answer and assessed the blankets. After a long moment, he nodded, satisfied. Then he rounded on the Queen, his focus unbroken, his eyes combing over her hair. His fingers soon followed, loosing her braids, mussing the ash-brown curls until they fell in errant waves, unkempt and out of place. Erida stared at him through it all, speechless, furious. She wanted to slap him away. She wanted to pull him closer, the heat of his fingers a threat and a promise. Taristan kept his lips pursed, his breathing even, his eyes far from her own as he worked. And, finally, he tugged at the shift, lowering one side of the collar, until a white shoulder peeked through, spotted with three small freckles few men had ever seen.
Before she could even flinch, he drew a dagger and cut at his own palm, using the hand to smear a line of blood across the white sheets.
Only when he stepped back, putting a full six feet between them, did he raise his eyes. His palm healed before her eyes, the flesh knitting back together as he wiped the blood away. He scrubbed his other hand through his hair, setting it at ends like her own. Erida glared at him with all the rage and indignation she could muster, her anger volcanic. A tinge of pink spotted high on his cheeks, the only change in his stoic face.