The Winter King

CHAPTER 5

A Draught of Wanton Appetence

Wynter stood at the chapel altar, his temper increasing by the moment. The wedding should have begun thirty minutes ago, but the bride had yet to make her appearance.

“Think she’s got cold feet?” Valik murmured under his breath.

“She’s about to get a lot more than that,” he muttered back. The temperature in the chapel had begun to drop, proof of his blossoming ire. The Winter King would not kindly suffer humiliation at Summerlea hands.

But just as Wynter prepared to summon his power and send this city plunging into ice, a commotion arose at the far end of the chapel.

Garbed in deep sapphire velvet, the same stunning shade of blue as the waters of Lake Ibree in the heart of the Craig, Wynter’s bride had arrived. Verdan stood before her, looking like he’d swallowed something vile, while she stood in the chapel doorway, Spring and Summer at each elbow. Autumn, then, was to be his queen.

If not for the simple process of elimination and his own memorable sense of smell, he would not have known it. She was so heavily veiled that even when she stepped up to take her place beside him, he couldn’t make out the shadow of her features behind the layers of concealing silk. But her scent was familiar . . . perhaps even a little overpowering. She’d not applied her perfume quite so liberally the day she and her sisters had joined him for a meal.

Suspicious, he frowned and drew her scent deeper into his lungs, examining. No, she smelled of Autumn, even beneath the perfume, but there was something else mixed in. He couldn’t make it out. It was masked by the strong smell of herbs: wintergreen, poppy, a few others he didn’t recognize. Was she so unwilling that she’d had to drink a cup of strong courage before entering the chapel?

He reached for her outer veil, and Verdan all but leapt between them.

“Remember your promise, sir!” he hissed. “Do not shame her before the court!”

Ten minutes before the wedding had been scheduled to start, Verdan had come to the groom’s dressing room to speak with Wynter. The princess had been weeping over the prospect of leaving her home and family, he said, and she didn’t want to shame herself by letting the court see her blotchy and red-eyed from tears. Wynter had agreed to leave her veil intact.

Now, he shriveled his bride’s father with an icy glance. When Verdan stepped back, Wynter bent close to her ear, and whispered, “Willingly or not, Autumn, you have consented to be my wife. I will have what I want from you, but this marriage doesn’t have to be a battle, unless you make it so. Remember that.” He ran a finger down the side of the silken veils, finding her jaw and caressing it gently.

She trembled. The little puffs of her breath made the silken veils flutter, and the tiny beads on her gown winked and shimmered as her body shook with fine tremors. “I understand,” she answered in a voice so low it was practically inaudible.

“Good.” He turned to face the priest and nodded.

The wedding ceremony began.

Khamsin stood trembling as the seconds crawled by with excruciating slowness.

For a moment there, at the beginning of the ceremony, she’d thought the Winter King would unmask her, but he had not. Thanks, she supposed, to Tildy.

“Wear Autumn’s dress and perfume,” she had advised. She’d tapped the edge of her nose. “The Snow Wolf clan sees with more than just their eyes.”

Khamsin had passed the two first hurdles of the night: fooling the Winter King and keeping her veils intact. Now she turned all her focused energies on making it through the ceremony without collapsing.

Her lower back burned like fire, each bruised and torn muscle protesting even so simple an activity as standing. Perspiration gathered at her neck and along her spine, trickling down her back beneath the hot velvets, stinging the salved and bandaged wounds. Despite doubling the strength of her salve, Tildavera had not been able to block the pain entirely, and in a fit of spite intended to wound Tildy as she was wounded, Khamsin had declared her refusal to drink any draught mixed by a traitor’s hand.

She was regretting that prideful urge now. The throbbing ache from her wounds brought tears swimming to her eyes. She dare not lock her knees for fear of losing consciousness, but finally, in desperation, she reached out to grasp the altar railing and leaned heavily against it.

Beside her the White King—only minutes away from being her husband—took a step closer. “You are ill?”

She shook her head and pushed herself back to her feet before he could take hold of her arm. “Dizzy,” she muttered. “I haven’t eaten.”

To her surprise, the Winter King gave the priest an unmistakable gesture to hurry up. She regarded him in confusion, grateful for the protection of her veils that kept him from seeing her expression. Wasn’t he the cold, harsh enemy of her family? Wasn’t he the anathema of all she loved? And yet, he’d offered her peace between them—even if that offer had carried the distinct feel of a warning—and now he showed this . . . courtesy.

“Who gives this woman and by what grant?” the priest finally asked, bringing the nuptial ceremony towards its close.

Behind her, King Verdan—she would never call him Father again, not even in her own thoughts—rose to his feet. In a clear voice, he said, “I, Verdan Coruscate, King of Summerlea, give this woman, Her Royal Highness Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate, a royal princess of Summerlea and an heir to the Summer Throne, by grant of patrimony.”

Despite the jab of pain that shot down her hips and the backs of her legs, Khamsin’s spine straightened. Her chin lifted. She’d been recognized, at last, before the court and her family as both princess and a rightful heir to the Summer Throne.

Well, that was a miracle worth a caning or two all on its own.

“And does the princess,” the priest intoned, drawing her back round to face the altar, “vow to accept this man, Wynter Crystalin Boreal Atrialan, King of Wintercraig, as her husband and liege, binding herself to him, keeping only unto him, accepting his counsel and his care, and offering him all the fruits of her life until the gods call him home?”

“The princess,” she said, “does so vow.”

“And does the King of Wintercraig vow to accept this woman, Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate, a princess of Summerlea, as his wife and queen, binding himself to her, keeping only unto her, accepting her counsel and her care, and offering her all the fruits of his life until the gods call her home?”

“The king does so vow.”

“Your Highness, please extend your right hand and bare the Rose.”

She held out her right arm and turned back the full cuff, baring her wrist with its unmistakable Summerlea Rose birthmark.

“Your Grace, your left hand, sir.”

Beside her, Wynter held out his left arm and, with a strange half smile, flipped back his own silk cuff and turned up his inner wrist to reveal a pale white wolf’s head shining against the golden hue of his skin.

She had heard the Wintercraig royal family bore a similar mark to the heirs of the Summer Throne, but she’d never seen one before. It was beautiful, in a cold, fierce, wild way. As she looked at it, she had the strangest vision of that wolf’s head coming to life, turning its head to look straight at her, and snarling both challenge and warning. A chill swept through her, brisk and cool, followed almost immediately by a flush of heat as the Summerlea Rose on her own wrist began to burn.

“Your Grace, Your Highness, please join hands.” The priest held a short length of tasseled silken cord—the symbol of the union about to be forged—beneath Khamsin’s wrist.

Holding her gaze as if he could see straight through her veils, Wynter turned his forearm wolf-down and curled his fingers around hers.

“Before these witnesses, and with the blessings of the gods, let these two people be joined, and may the bond never be sundered.” Kham stood stiffly by the Winter King’s side as the priest wrapped the tasseled ends of the cords around their wrists and pulled gently. Wynter’s cool, icy Snow Wolf slid over dark Summerlander skin to cover Khamsin’s Rose.

A jolt of energy shot through her body as the two marks met. She cried out and grabbed hold of the altar rail. Beside her, Wynter’s spine went stiff, his muscles rigid.

Lightning flashed in the sky, close enough to illuminate the chapel with a blast of blinding whiteness. Thunder cracked with deafening fury. Women screamed. Several of the tall, stained-glass windows flanking the church nave shattered, and a harsh, icy wind howled in, swirling sheets of snow into the room, blowing out every flame in the room and plunging the wedding party into darkness.

No longer able to force compliance from her legs, Khamsin collapsed against the altar rail and sank to the carpeted steps in a billow of velvet skirts. The loosely tied cords tying her wrist to the Winter King’s tugged apart, and her hand fell free.

“Valik,” the Winter King snapped.

A match flared. A tiny flame flickered to life. Its pale glow illuminated Valik’s cupped hand. As he began to moved towards one of the lamps to relight it, Khamsin glanced up at Wynter. His pupils had gone wide, and his reflected an eerie, shiny red glow.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His concern seemed genuine. For all that his eyes were fierce and his face a frozen mask, a thread of sincerity softened his voice.

“I’m fine,” she lied. Her back was on fire. Her vision was blurry. She wasn’t sure she could stand again even if she had to—which she did, of course. Somehow, she was going to have to get up and walk out of this chapel under her own strength. She still had to make it through the wedding feast . . . and the bedding.

“That was . . . interesting.”

Despite the pain flaring up and down her spine, she gave a quick, wry laugh. “Yes, it was,” she agreed.

She knew that when the forces of Winter and Summer clashed—either in nature or on the battlefield—sparks had a tendency to fly. But this was a first. She wasn’t sure whether the explosive response was a one-time shock caused by the joining of two powerful forces or the ominous portent of a stormy relationship to come.

Already, the wind had died down, and around the chapel, more lights flickered as the servants hurried to relight the candelabras. Khamsin curled her fingers around the railing and tried to pull herself up. A strong hand cupped her elbow and lifted her easily to her feet. She glanced up in surprise at the Winter King. Was he a kind man after all? “Thank you.”

He inclined his head fractionally. “It would not do to have the new Queen of Wintercraig collapse at her own wedding.”

The little flicker of warmth she’d been feeling snuffed out. Immediately, she castigated herself for her brief moment of moonstruck fancy. What ridiculous foolish sentimental tripe had she been thinking? Marriages between great houses were about wealth and power, not people. He was concerned about appearances, not her.

“I’m fine. I can walk on my own.” She tried to tug her arm free, but his fingers remained clamped around her elbow.

“Allow me to escort my bride to our wedding feast.” It was not a request.

Did he think she would bolt? Where would she go?

Even so, her first instinct was to resist his effort to impose his will on her. She hated restrictions of any kind, and she always struggled against even the slightest effort to cage her. She tugged her arm harder. His fingers went cold. Goose bumps pebbled her arm beneath the warmth of her velvet sleeves.

“Do not be foolish, Autumn,” he whispered. His voice was soft but utterly without warmth. “I will not tolerate open defiance. Especially not here, in public, before your father’s court.”

Already her brief spurt of resistance was fading. She didn’t have the energy to sustain it. Not now, at least.

Surrendering, she let him lead her down the chapel aisle and outside to the open courtyard that had once been a lush, manicured garden filled with carefully carved and tended hedges and flowering trees surrounding a sparkling fountain. The fountain was silent now, the water drained to prevent it from freezing. The flowering trees were skeletal ghosts standing guard at the four corners, and a light blanket of snow covered the fancifully carved hedges, flower beds, and lawn.

Khamsin drew a deep breath as they headed back to the main palace. The air was brisk and chill, a welcome relief to the stifling warmth of her veils and velvets. It cleared her head, and helped her to remember that the man walking beside her was no gentle lord but a conquering warrior, the enemy to whom she had just been sold as the price of her life and the survival of her family and war-torn homeland.

The wedding feast was a long, dull affair for which Wynter had little patience and even less interest. He suffered it only because he knew his bride—the still-veiled princess beside him—was weak from lack of sustenance. She’d practically collapsed twice on the way to the banquet hall—would have fallen except for his hand at her elbow. He’d suggested she retire to her rooms to rest, but she’d refused, saying she simply needed something to eat and drink. She appeared to have been right. The slender hands carrying the wine cup to her lips weren’t trembling half so badly now as they had been an hour ago.

“Eat,” he’d commanded when they’d first sat down, and the servants had placed plates of steaming meats and vegetables before them. After her first few laborious efforts to eat with the veils still shrouding her face, he’d ordered her to remove them.

She hadn’t. Showing a spine he was beginning to realize was much stronger than he’d originally thought, she’d folded back only enough of the layered silks to bare her chin and lower lip. The rest of her face remained hidden from view.

He’d allowed her the small rebellion. She would learn soon enough that no one flouted his will without consequence. At the moment, he had the victory he’d earned, the princess he’d demanded, and a wedding night yet awaiting him. He could afford to be magnanimous.

A spate of boisterous, drunken laughter made him glance towards the far end of the hall. Verdan, face flushed with drink and probably one or more of the intoxicating herbs offered at all the tables, stood beside a table of Summerlea lords, laughing and lifting his cup in a toast. On the dance floor nearby, a dozen or more brightly clad courtiers twirled and pranced as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

Wynter’s lip curled. Summerlanders. Self-indulgent, hedonistic fools. Look at them—Verdan chief among them—celebrating their own defeat as if it were somehow their victory. And here he’d thought they would all be crying in their wine, not drowning in it.

Beside him, Autumn set her cup down and pushed back the plate of fruit and cheeses he’d insisted she sample after the main meal. Her father and friends might drink and dance, but she, who was paying the price for their lives, had no appetite for blind frolic.

Nor did he.

Wynter pushed back his chair and stood. He held out a hand to his bride. “Come, my queen. Let us retire.”

“What? Surely you aren’t leaving so soon?” Verdan, loud and laughing, stumbled forward. The wine in his cup sloshed over the rim.

“It is late, and your daughter is tired.”

“But you can’t leave without the final toast. It’s tradition. Spring! Summer!” Verdan wheeled around and called to his other daughters. “Bring the wedding cup!”

The two princesses came forward, one carrying a large, jeweled goblet, the other a golden pitcher set with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. Summer poured a stream of dark red wine into the cup in Spring’s hands, and Spring offered it to her father. He set aside his own wine cup to take the wedding goblet and raise it up so all in the hall could see.

“A wedding toast,” he cried, “to a successful and prosperous union between the Houses of Wintercraig and Summerlea. May my daughter and the Winter King find the happiness they deserve, and may we all find victory in peace.”

Echoing cries of “happiness!” and “peace and prosperity!” rang out across the banquet hall as the wedding guests raised their own cups in response.

Verdan handed the wedding goblet to his daughter. “Drink, daughter. The wine is the blessing, and it must be consumed between the two of you. Half to you, and half to your groom.”

Autumn hesitated, then reached for the cup and took it from her father’s hands. Slowly, she raised the cup to her lips.

Wynter put a hand over hers, halting her. He didn’t think Verdan would harm his own beloved daughter, but the strange, smug, expectant air about him raised Wynter’s suspicions. Something was amiss. “A blessing for peace and prosperity should be shared, don’t you think?” He held the Summer King’s too-bright gaze. “Join us, Verdan.” Without taking his eyes from his enemy, Wynter called, “Bring a fresh cup.”

After a brief commotion, a servant appeared, clean goblet in hand. He bowed quickly and offered the cup to Verdan.

Wynter took the jeweled goblet from his bride’s hands and sniffed it. The overpowering aroma of the heated wine coupled with an overpowering mélange of spices and herbs. The scents were too varied, many of them strong enough to mask the delicate scents of certain poisons. There was only one way to test the safety of the cup’s contents.

He poured a portion of the marriage brew into the Summer King’s cup. “You first, Verdan.”

The Summer King arched a haughty brow. “So suspicious,” he sneered. “Do you think I would poison my own child?” He gave a snort, threw back the wine in one gulp, and tossed the empty cup on the table. The remnant liquid spilled out, staining the white tablecloth between the two kings with drops of ruby red, like blood spilled on snow.

Wynter didn’t take his eyes from the other man’s face. If there was anything in the wine, it certainly wasn’t poison. Even if he might let his beloved daughter Autumn drink a cup of death, Verdan would never sacrifice himself that way. He didn’t have the spine for it. And other than a faint increase of heat in the man’s already-alcohol-soaked veins, Wynter could detect no effects of any possible additives in the wine.

“Satisfied?” The Summer King sneered. Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention to Autumn, and said, “Drink, daughter, to your future and the future of Summerlea.”

This time, when Wynter’s bride lifted the cup to her lips, he didn’t stop her. She took an experimental sip, paused, then drained half the wine in three continuous gulps before handing the rest to him.

“To the Heir of Wintercraig,” Wynter said. He downed the second half of the wine and thumped the goblet down on the table beside Verdan’s abandoned cup.

“Spring, Summer, see to your sister,” Verdan commanded. His chin lifted, and his dark eyes snapped with haughtiness. “It is tradition for a bride’s female family members to ready her for the wedding night. They will escort her to the rooms we have prepared.”

The two princesses hurried around the table and took Autumn’s arms. “Come with us, sister,” they said, casting nervous glances up at Wynter.

“Valik.” Wynter jerked his head towards the women. His steward snapped his fingers and gestured. Four armed Wintercraig guards surrounded them. “Make sure these royal ladies arrive at their destination without incident.” Before the women could turn away, he reached out to grasp his bride’s bare chin in his hands. A tiny jolt of electricity zinged between them, shooting a thread of heat through his veins that sizzled straight to his groin. His eyelids lowered half-mast over his eyes. “Thirty minutes, wife. And then I join you.” He ran a thumb over her full lower lip and caught her faint gasp on his fingertips.

Her sisters tugged her away, and she went with them. His hand fell back to his side, still tingling with warmth as if her touch alone could banish the chill of the Ice Heart.

Something other than wine had been in the wedding cup, Kham knew. She felt energized. Her senses were tingling, her muscles replete with new strength. The pain from her wounds and bruises had all but disappeared. Everything seemed bright and crisp, every sense heightened, magnified almost.

Blood rushed through her veins, and her steps quickened. If someone were to challenge her to a footrace, the way she felt right now she’d not only accept the challenge, she’d likely win.

What had they put in that wine?

She didn’t dare ask. Not with Wynter’s guardsmen surrounding them.

To her surprise, her sisters didn’t lead her to one of the guest wings of the palace but rather directly into the heart of the family wing. Curious. They were heading towards the family’s bedrooms. Autumn’s bedroom to be exact.

Only, when the doors opened, they revealed a bedchamber very different than the one Khamsin had secretly visited numerous times before.

The elegant but functional bedroom of Her Royal Highness, Princess Autumn, had been converted into a sensual, shadowy garden filled with hothouse blooms and lush greenery. Candles flickered around the perimeter of the room, casting a pale golden glow around the edges of the room and leaving the silk-draped bed a dark, mysterious cavern. Incense filled the room with rich, decadent scents. It was a bedroom designed to seduce the senses.

As soon as the doors of the “bridal bower” closed behind them, Khamsin threw back her veils and turned to her sisters in astonishment. “What’s going on here?”

“Tildy warned us the Winter King could identify a person by scent,” Summer said. “Since he thinks you’re Autumn, Tildy said the wedding night should take place here, in Autumn’s bedroom, where her scent is already absorbed into everything.”

“She added the flowers and incense to help mask your own scent,” Spring added, “and deliberately arranged the candles so he won’t be able to get a good look at your face so long as you keep to the bed.”

“Where’s Autumn?” she asked.

“Here.”

Khamsin turned. Her sister emerged from the connecting wardrobe room wrapped in a forest green satin robe. Her long auburn hair spilled around her shoulders in ringlets.

“Scenting up your nightclothes.” Autumn grimaced. “I know I’m clean. I bathed this morning, but there’s still something wrong about rolling on sheets and rubbing myself on clothes all day. It just seems so . . . so . . . dirty.”

Despite everything, Khamsin laughed. For some reason, Autumn’s complaint struck her as funny. “You rolled on the sheets?”

“Tildavera suggested it. She told me to make sure I put my scent on anything you were likely to wear or touch.”

Tildy again. Friend, mother, traitor. Kham’s humor evaporated. Her hand clenched tight.

“Quickly,” Spring whispered. “We don’t have much time. Autumn, you and Storm need to change clothes before he gets here. He said we only had thirty minutes, and something tells me he’s not a man to run late.”

A low heat had begun simmering in Kham’s veins. She tossed off the silk veils and tugged at her bodice. “It’s hot in here.” She ran a hand across her brow, not surprised to find beads of perspiration blooming on her skin.

“We’ll open a window before we leave, but first let’s get you out of those clothes.” Summer’s fingers went to work untying the laces at the back of Kham’s gown. “Autumn, take off that robe and gown.”

Autumn shrugged out of the satin robe, and Khamsin’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “I’m supposed to wear that?”

Autumn blushed dark red. “Indecent, isn’t it?” The sleeveless, formfitting gown covered her from neck to ankle, but the center panels covering her breasts and belly were virtually transparent—and held together only by three simple ribbon ties that would be all too easy to release. Like the rest of the room, the gown was meant to inflame and dizzy the senses.

“Was that Tildy’s idea, too?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t Father’s.” She hurried into the wardrobe and came back wearing a different robe and carrying the scandalous nightgown.

“Autumn, grab that pot of ointment.” Spring pointed to small ceramic pot on a table near the wardrobe door. “Tildy said we had to rub it on Storm’s skin. She didn’t say, but I guess she meant all over.”

“No,” Kham said. “Just on my back.”

Behind her, Summer let out a gasp as she freed the last of the laces and pushed the velvet gown off Khamsin’s back. “Storm . . . what happened to you? You’re covered in bandages.”

“I know.” Khamsin wriggled free of the velvet gown, shoved it down around her ankles, and stepped free of the heap of fabric. She was naked except for a pair of loose-fitting silk drawers and the bandages wrapped around her torso. “Do you have scissors to cut them off? They’ll show through that gown, which means I can’t keep them on.”

“Of course.” Autumn ran to a dresser and returned with a pair of scissors. “Here.” She handed the scissors to Summer, who immediately began slicing through the strips of linen.

Spring and Autumn let out shocked exclamations as their sister gently tugged the cloth free to reveal the ugly results of Verdan’s fury.

“Who did this?” Spring hissed. “Who would dare?”

“Who do you think?” Khamsin muttered.

“But why?” Summer’s hands trembled on the skin of Khamsin’s back. She was the gentlest of the sisters.

“The Winter King demanded a princess for a bride, and the Summer King wanted me gone.”

“He wouldn’t do this,” Autumn protested. “He couldn’t. Father wouldn’t risk cursing his own House this way.”

“You underestimate how much he despises me. I made him angry, then I defied him. He wasn’t thinking about the family. He was only thinking of breaking me.” She tossed her head. “Hurry. Put the ointment on. We’re running out of time.”

“You can’t possibly mean to go through with this,” Spring exclaimed. “Not in your condition.”

Now Khamsin did turn around. “I’ve been in a worse condition for three days now, and I will go through with this. It’s my choice. This isn’t the Summer King’s will: It’s mine. Now, put the ointment on my back so I can finish getting ready. My husband will be here soon, and if the marriage isn’t consummated before he discovers I’m not Autumn, everything I’ve done will have been for naught.”

Weeping, Summer dipped her fingers in the pot of salve and smoothed the fragrant gel over Khamsin’s battered skin. “I’m sorry, Storm. If we’d known, we would have stopped him.”

Khamsin frowned and lifted her hair off the back of her neck. The room was stifling. “It’s not your fault. I don’t blame any of you. This is between the Summer King and me, no one else. Are you done? Good.” She took the nightgown from Autumn and pulled it on. The silk settled against her back, sticking to the still-damp residue from the salve. Even without the heavy velvet gown, she was so hot. “Spring, open the window, would you? I’m burning up.”

Her sister hurried to unlatch the window and throw it wide.

“Don’t worry sisters,” Khamsin added as she climbed into the middle of the dark, shrouded bed. “I’ll be fine. I’m actually feeling better than I have all day. Whatever you put in the wedding cup seems to have done the trick.”

A cool breeze blew through the window, wafting across the thin fabric of her gown. A frisson of heat shot through her veins. She couldn’t stifle a groan as her breasts and belly tightened with sudden, shocking need, almost painful in its intensity.

Her sisters exchanged long, worried glances. Guilty glances.

And then Khamsin knew why she was so warm. She knew why the pain in her back was gone, and where the seemingly boundless supply of simmering sensual energy had come from.

The wedding cup. Tildy.

“Arras leaf,” Wynter spat. “The bastard dosed us with arras leaf!”

Winter’s Frost! His sex was hard as ice and all but burning through his trousers. Each step was an agony, the material of his pants rubbing against tight, ultrasensitive skin, setting nerves on fire.

“Son of a whoring bitch. I’ll freeze his cock so cold it shatters.” He glared at Valik, who was striding quickly beside him. “Better yet, you find the bastard and lock him up. He drank from the same bottle. Tie him up so he can’t give himself any relief, and leave him that way ’til his balls turn blue.”

“Done. Do you want me to find an herbalist? See if there’s an antidote?”

“No. If he was this determined I should plow his daughter tonight, I’ll see it done. More’s the pity for her. I’d hoped to be gentle.” The chandelier above their heads froze, and as they passed beneath it, it gave a loud popping sound and shattered in a cloud of crystal flakes. The Summerlea guard leading the way into the private wing of the palace flinched.

They turned a corner, and Wynter saw the double doors flanked by two Wintercraig guards.

“Your queen’s bedchamber, Sire,” the guide stammered. He stepped aside to let Wynter pass, then turned and ran in the opposite direction.

The guards flanking the doors opened them as he drew near. Hot, heavy air swirled out, heady with the dizzying scents of incense and woman.

Wynter strode into the room and stopped in surprise. What surrounded him was no bedroom but rather a lush, sensuous garden, dense with foliage. Lights flickered along the edges of the room, and a carpeted pathway led through a virtual forest of plants and flowering trees and shrubs towards the dark, shadow- and silk-draped bed in the center of the room.

The hiss of Valik’s sword leaving the scabbard sounded at his back. “Don’t like this, Wyn,” Valik muttered, his voice clipped as it always was in enemy situations. “Don’t trust it.”

A flash of bare skin shone dimly in the great bed, a leg, slender and shapely. Moving restlessly, rubbing against the silken coverlet with the same desperate hunger that filled Wynter’s own body. This was no ambush. It was just that fool Verdan’s determination to see the Winter King fulfill his part of the marriage bargain.

“Get out,” Wynter barked at the men behind him. “Now. You, too, Valik.”

He waited for the click of the latch, then drew a deep breath of the heady, perfumed air and plunged towards the shadowed heart of the garden. The incense was so thick it left him dizzy. The arras leaf made his flesh burn from the inside out. The heat and the assault on his senses jumbled his thoughts. Logic would soon be gone, leaving only rapacious hunger and need.

“Your father is a fool, princess.”

He stumbled towards the bed, crawled into its plush softness. A groan broke past his lips and silks and velvets rubbed against his hands. Hot. He was so hot. Every sensation was a torment. His fingers tore at the silk of his shirt and the too-tight bond of his breeches. Fabric ripped, freeing steaming golden skin. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

He reached for her. His hands closed around a slender ankle, ran up towards the softer skin of her thighs. The gown parted without resistance, fabric falling away to bare soft, sweet-smelling skin. Hot, burning skin.

He heard her breath catch, felt her body shift on a convulsive shudder.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I didn’t know . . . I should have suspected.”

His hands tore at the fragile fabric covering her breasts, yanking satin ribbons free. The soft, round weight of feminine flesh filled his palms.

In a groaning voice that seemed torn from her, she cried, “Please.”

He bent his head, drawing the tightly pebbled tip of one breast into the scorching heat of his mouth. His tongue swirled around the beaded flesh. His right hand slipped down between their bodies to the soft curls and even softer flesh between her legs. A strangled cry ripped from her throat and her back arched up against him. Hot cream bathed his fingers. Her body shook in a hard, helpless paroxysm of tremors. The heady, earthy scent of female pleasure filled his nostrils. His balls drew tight in an almost painful clench, and his cock pulsed with sudden, straining urgency.

There was no waiting, no long, drawn-out pleasure. Only driving need and hunger. He lifted his head, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

His mouth closed over her, claiming her lips with the same rapacious hunger as he’d just claimed her breast. His hips surged forward with blind, mindless force. Virgin flesh resisted for a brief instant, then sundered. Tight muscle yielded.

His hands clutched hers, fingers twining tight. Icy Snow Wolf covered burning Summerlea Rose as her body sheathed his in blazing heat.

Lightning seared the sky. Thunder shook the earth with a tremendous, booming crash. Just as it had at the wedding, a wild, storming rush of air swept through the open windows, snuffing every candle and plunging the room into darkness.