The King's Spinster Bride, (Royal Wedding #1)(30)

Those will be promptly stored away somewhere safe, I decide. I also tell myself I can’t be jealous since it was my idea.

There is a royal feast, full of pastries and cooked dishes from Yshrem and Cyclopae alike. I eat a bite of everything as is polite, but I taste nothing. I’m unable to concentrate because Mathior sits at my side and reaches for my hand from time to time. Are all brides like this on their wedding day, I wonder? Because I cannot think of anything except what is to come…and how eager I am for it. I think about the book with the pictures far more than is seemly, and I think about Mathior and his mouth, and last night.

“Come,” a delicious voice says in my ear and I shiver. For a moment, I think it’s a command, but when I look up, Mathior is extending his hand to me. “It’s time.”

Dazed, I rise to my feet, and as I do, the room erupts into cheers. I look at the sea of faces—Yshremi and Cyclopae alike—and see nothing but gladness. If there are rebellious dissenters who think I am betraying my country, they are not here. Perhaps they are very few, and in time, there will not be many at all.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve chosen my path and I am happy with it. No, more than happy—I am giddy with delight. I squeeze Mathior’s hand as I move to his side, and we exit from the great hall with as much dignity as possible.

Yshrem’s halls seem endless as we walk toward our private chambers. My heart trips in my breast as I realize we’re not going to my rooms, but to his. Of course we are. My bed is lovely, but it is only built for one. Now I am Mathior’s bride and I will never sleep alone again.

We sweep down the longest hallway that leads to a familiar wing of the castle, and I feel a little uneasy. This is the wing that housed my father’s chambers. I clutch at Mathior’s arm a little tighter, because I don’t know if I can go into Father’s rooms with my Cyclopae husband. Somehow that seems wrong. But we turn down a separate corridor and head toward a different room instead. I let out a sigh of relief when I see that Mathior has claimed the ambassador’s quarters as his own.

He glances down at me and his expression is full of understanding. “No matter how I felt about your father, it didn’t seem right to take his rooms. I figure when the baby arrives, we can establish them as a nursery.”

“Baby?” I echo.

“Not yet, but hopefully soon.” Mathior gives me a confident look.

Unease shivers through me. “I might be too old—”

“Nonsense. You are thirty-three, not eighty-three.” He notices people watching us and leans closer so our words can be private. “I am told my mother was one year older than you when my father met and married her.”

Oh.

He squeezes my hand. “And if there is no baby, well…it will be a good chamber for my horse.”

I stare up at him, aghast, and then realize he’s joking. A horrified laugh erupts from me, and then I’m snort-giggling as we enter our rooms. There are servants waiting here, and they bow and make their way out as we enter. Mathior is silent, but a smile curves his mouth. The servants grin as they hurry away, and I just feel…happy. Weirdly happy and content.

Mathior turns and watches as the last of the servants trail out of the room. He shuts the door behind them and then slides the bar across to ensure we will be alone. Once that is done, he turns to look at me. “My queen.”

He makes it sound like a secret whispered between lovers, and I tremble. “My king.”

“Yours alone.” He unclasps his fur cloak and tosses it aside, revealing a chest covered with bright red symbols. This time, the paint is dry and the markings unmarred. I can’t help but stare, because the painted lines and curves emphasize the warm color of his skin and the hard bulge of his muscles. I’m getting flustered and aroused just looking at him.

And I can’t stop staring.

My new husband stalks to my side, searching my face. He cups my chin. “Still all right, or do you need to rest?”

“I’m fine.” I truly am. Overwhelmed, yes, but ready for this. In a way, the last two shocking ceremonies have prepared me for this night. Instead of being nervous and afraid of what it will bring, I’m full of anticipation for my husband’s touch. I lean in against him and press my hand over the symbol of the axe across his broad chest. “This is for Aron of the Cleaver?” I guess, because we were married in the Hour of Storms, the time that is sacred to the god of battle.

“Aye. We cyclops pray to him more than any other.”

I gaze up at him and at the scar over his eye. “I see that.”

“Do you regret that you have married a man with only one eye?” He traces his finger down the scarred line on his face. “I know you remember me with two.”

“It was…startling to see, but I don’t regret it, no.” I follow the path his finger took and trace the scar myself. “You are proud of your people. I understand this. I wouldn’t ask you to change.”

“That is a good thing, as I can’t put my eye back,” he teases.

“You know what I mean,” I tell him, pinching his chin between my fingers and giving his head a little shake. “If you are proud of it, I am too. You look different, but everything about you is different now. It doesn’t make it unpleasant.”

“Shall I wear my eyepatch for you?”