Page 60 of Stars May Burn

I stood quickly and mixed a drop into a glass of water before handing it to him. “Would you like me to add anything extra to help you sleep? This should help, but if you wanted something stronger…”

He shook his head. “No. Thank you.” He drank it in one go. “It even tastes better than what the healer gives me.”

I smiled. “I added peppermint and honey to the water. If I can grow honey orchids, I’ll be able to make the medicines taste even better.”

My happiness at seeing him doing so well, coupled with his belief that I had saved him and his encouragement with my plants, brought out the hidden, reckless part of me. “Kasten, there is one thing I would really like in return.”

There was no reprimand in his gaze. “Of course. What is it?”

“When you’re better, I would like us to have dinner. Together.”

His face fell, and I turned away, the happiness collapsing inside of me. I took a deep breath, about to apologize for overstepping when he clearly had never expressed any sort of interest…

“I guess I walked straight into that one. I’ll have dinner with you as soon as I am well enough to sit at the table.”

I turned back to him, my happiness returning so fast, I felt like a child again. “Thank you.”

Kasten’s expression was becoming unreadable again, and there was a cold edge to it. Had I offended him? I had probably been too bold, but how else could I get to know my husband? I still had a lot of work to do to become his wife in truth. Besides, it was only dinner.

And despite everything, I wanted to spend time with him.

KASTEN

Out of the two thousand soldiers who had fought at Whitehill, only eight hundred survived. It was a catastrophic loss. Lord Hans’s regiment had been the worst hit, with seven hundred and thirty-two casualties, along with Lord Hans himself.

A third of my personal battalion was dead. I knew their names, their dreams, and their families. We had fought together time and time again.

Four hundred and seventy-five soldiers from Kasomere were dead, including Sir Cley. They had put their faith in me, and they had died.

While I had been unconscious, Sir Jordan had ordered a week of mourning for the city, followed by a day of celebration for the victory.

Whitehill was now guarded by a skeleton force sent by the king to relieve my troops that had initially remained. At least it was back in Fenland hands. But if the king had sent more regiments, so many more soldiers would be alive today. The more I thought about it, the hollower I felt. Had their deaths really been worth it?

Four hundred and seventy-five. Almost half of our soldiers. If we were sent on a campaign again soon, we’d have to combine with another regiment, which would cause a whole new set of problems.

Under ordinary circumstances, I personally wrote a letter to the family of each fallen soldier, but Callum had already finished the task over the last seven days, leaving them for me to merely sign the huge stack. So I scribbled on each one, my hand still regaining strength, and ignored the pain in my shoulder from the repetitive task, thinking of the pain the families were going through because of me.

Once I’d finished, I sat in my chair by the window and wished my bedroom faced the bit of the garden where Sophie might be instead of the rose garden. It had been so good to see her again, but now I missed her sharply.

Having her so close, her gentle hands applying the poultices she’d put so much effort into, had been a strange kind of pleasurable torture I still hadn’t quite recovered from. I’d never intended for her to nurse me back to health, and though I should have probably sent her away in favor of a servant from the start, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to dismiss her. It was too good to have her close, and her presence chased away the darkness of recent terrors. So I’d let her remain close for two days.

Yesterday, I had finally persuaded my wife to leave me to rest, and I regretted it while simultaneously knowing it was for the best. I was feeling much better after eight days of her close attention, but now I missed being able to glance up at her sitting in the chair reading reports of the estate or writing letters or grinding herbs, even if we had barely spoken. Her forehead would wrinkle in concentration as she worked, and her round blue eyes would flick up at me periodically. Every single time she looked at me, my heart would stutter in a fashion that was both ridiculous and addictive. But now there was little left for her to do; I only needed a bandage change every third day, and the tonics were easily self-administered. I’d asked her not to come unless the wound reopened. She had better things to do with her time than sit there while I selfishly looked at her.

The next time I would see her would be our dinner.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. How had I agreed to dinner? No wife should have to beg her husband just to have a meal with her, and I winced as I remembered the request. But I knew Sophie was only doing it because she was so eager to be the dutiful wife she had been trained to be; to please her husband and get pregnant, suppressing her own feelings in the process. I remembered how she’d forced herself to smile at me in the carriage and tried so hard to please me. She wasn’t coming into marriage expecting to work as a team. The more I got to know Sophie, the more her previous treatment disgusted me. She was incredible, full of so much potential, yet she’d been constrained in a tiny cage. I wanted to hear more of how her mind worked.

And now we would have an awkward dinner while she tried her hardest to please me just because she had to. Because she’d been taught it was the most important—no, the only important thing in her life. I didn’t want her to feel obliged to do anything with me or for me. Especially after enduring an unhappy marriage to Frederick.

I thought about the way she sometimes startled, how she became nervous when people expressed strong emotions, how she had once flinched at my touch. Had she been scared of me, or did her reaction have something to do with her previous husband? My hands tightened on the armrest as I closed my eyes and waited for the hot rage to cool. Frederick was dead, but I suspected her father was equally to blame from the way he married her off to the highest bidder and taught her to hide her true feelings. I could only imagine what else had occurred. But I suspected Sophie would be as loyal to her father as she was to me, simply because it’s what she was supposed to do.

I tipped my head back and stared at the pale plaster ceiling. I felt so useless. I wanted Sophie to be my wife in truth, but it was dangerous to even let such a thought cross my mind. I wanted it too badly, and I knew it was impossible. A few dresses and flowers weren’t going to fix what had happened to her. The scars ran too deep. And my own scars? Well, no amount of surgery would ever repair me enough to be the decent husband she deserved.

The door opened, and Callum walked in. His arm was free of his sling for the first time since he’d sprained it. “Good morning, Kasten. I see you’ve finished the letters. I’ll give them to Finley to deliver.” He nodded at the neat stacks on my desk. “Do you want to have lunch here, or do you want a change of scenery?”

I rose using the armrests for support, careful not to strain my side. “A change of scenery. Maybe that room with brown wallpaper on the second floor, south wing.”

Callum crossed his arms. “The room that you stalk Sophie from that used to be the servant’s recreation room? The one that is massively out your way, two stories down?”

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