My Lady Jane(57)

G snuffed (the horse’s equivalent of a sigh). He’d never wanted to be king. And his lady presented some logical reasons for her decision, although at the time, he would’ve appreciated the logical reasons being delivered in a less hostile way. Preferably with fewer pillows whooshing past his head.

Still, the rejection burned.

G slowed from a canter and leisurely trotted over toward a brook winding its way through the valley. He lowered his head and slurped water. It tasted cool on his tongue, and helped calm his burning ego.

What did a life as prince consort look like? He couldn’t help picturing it as some sort of personal valet, who attended the left side of the queen with astute devotion and when the queen said, “I’m thirsty,” he would reply by jumping to his feet and saying, “Your Majesty, if I have to search out the magical Carpesian Waters of Romania myself, killing loads of bandits along the way, you. Shall. Have. Your. Water.”

G shook his mane and whinnied, the sound definitely coming across as a whine, even to his own ears. He realized that in reality, he would not be a personal valet, and even if he were, there would most likely be a pitcher of water nearby.

The sun shot across the sky much faster than he liked. He could almost see the streak marks.

Sometimes he dreaded turning into a horse and leaving his humanity behind, but today, he dreaded the setting sun and the fact that he would soon have to face his wife. He wanted to be supportive and caring, and he wanted to talk about how they were going to change the kingdom, and he didn’t want to feel inferior and powerless, because he knew Jane—at least he thought he knew her—and he knew she would not make him feel inferior and powerless.

G had always thought of himself as a rather enlightened sort of fellow, especially compared to the other men of the day. When his brother Stan’s wife had questioned Stan during a family dinner, she’d been locked in her room for three days. G would never react so harshly. Jane loved books, and that had never scared him like it did other men. Yes, it had irritated him in the beginning—a perfectly reasonable reaction—but that was because her books were bulky and space-consuming and seemed to be more important to her than he was. Or people in general. Then Jane had read to him underneath the tree, in that soft lilting voice of hers, so sure in the pronunciations of all the big words. Like sesquipedalian. Which Jane said meant “big word.”

He had never blamed her for reading. Or for thinking. Or for stating her opinion so often. And God’s teeth, she stated her opinion often.

He would never have lorded his “lord and master” title over her.

But now, she was his queen. His sovereign. His ruler. The night of the coronation, he had pledged his allegiance to her, and her alone.

How was he supposed to be a husband after that? Was he to be lord and master of his household, as long as his household, the queen, agreed?

The sun continued its speedy trajectory toward the horizon, and G turned back toward London and hastened his trot.

His thoughts didn’t sound like his own. They sounded more like his father’s or his brother’s. G had never fully formed his own opinions regarding the roles of men and women in the world. His partnership with Jane had always naturally felt like that: a partnership. Not a dominion. Not a master/servant situation. Even when they didn’t particularly like each other, they treated each other with disdain equally.

She tried to throw herself into a Pack attack, and he prevented it.

He tried to drink himself into an ale-induced stupor, and she hid the stuff.

She educated him about herbs and . . . that other plants that grew in . . . that one place she was reading about. He educated her to accept that not all E?ians were good.

She knew about tinctures. He knew about alfalfa.

She had the soft skin and the delicate cheekbones and that strange way her lips moved along with the words when she read a particularly intriguing passage. . . .

G closed his eyes. Her soft skin. Her lips.

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make, he composed wistfully.

As he approached the Tower stables, he wondered who would be there to greet him tonight. Her Majesty the Queen of England . . . or his lady?

He walked into the dining room, prepared to find a lavish supper full of servants and silverware and food befitting a queen, but what he saw utterly surprised him.

Two place settings, two candles, and a platter holding a small roasted duck, surrounded by root vegetables and garnishes, as well as a small bowl of fruit. And the Queen of England sitting at the end of the table.

He looked wary. “Your Majesty,” G said.

“My lord,” she said, nodding her head.

“Where is everybody?”

“Who?”

“Your . . . court? Your ladies? Your servants?”

She shrugged. “Being queen comes with several advantages, one of which is that if I order everyone out of the dining room, they obey.”

“Even my father?” G said.

Jane winced at the mention of his father, but she recovered quickly and replaced the wince with a blank expression. “Even him. You should’ve seen the look on his face, but yes, even him.”

G’s father was obviously a tense subject between them, but right now, everything seemed to be a tense subject between them. G grabbed a flask of wine from the end of the room and two goblets, even though he was pretty sure only one would be used. He sat himself down at his place on her right-hand side. He filled his goblet, raised the flask toward her in a questioning gesture (she declined of course), and then he set the flask on his right, out of reach of the queen. She did not object.