Page 2 of The Cordial Bride

Calan raced home, letting the wind dry his hair as his horse galloped across the fields. It had been naughty of him to indulge in his whim for a ride and a swim in the lake. His aunt had stressed repeatedly that he had to be ready to greet the strangers who were expected any time now. As a member of the ruling council, she had to be part of the welcoming party, and as her only relative, he was required to hover in the background in support of her. All the rules of etiquette bored him silly. He much preferred being out and about, exploring their land and working in the garden. That was where his true talent lay. Stuffing him into his best clothes and forcing him to socialize was torturous for him and of no value to his people. A possible treaty with the mighty Moorcondia was important to Shadow Valley, to be sure, but no one should be counting on him to help with that endeavor. He had no diplomatic skills and was terrible at making small talk.

As he arrived at the stables, however, his mind wandered back to what had happened by the lake. He had very likely been the first of his people to make an impression on one of their guests. And although he was inexperienced in the ways of sex, he knew enough to understand he’d made a very good impression on the man, at least. Just the thought of the large, hard cock waving at him sent his own dick and balls tingling. He forced a stop to his burgeoning arousal. There was no time for that nonsense. He contented himself with the knowledge that he would soon see the man again up close. There was no way he was merely a soldier, not given his mode of dress. Because Calan knew the Moorcondian envoy was a woman, he wondered who the man was. Her husband, no doubt. A pity. It would have been nice to at least flirt with such a handsome and powerful-looking man. It would have been nicer still if Calan had finally found a man who could deflower him without the sticky complications of seeing each other every day under his aunt’s watchful eye.

There was no more time to dwell on it. His aunt called out his name in the tone of voice that warned him he was on the wrong side of her temper already. Calan handed his horse off to a stable boy, who gave him a sympathetic look before heading for the barn. Knowing that any further delay would be to his detriment, Calan ran to the back door of the cottage he shared with his only living relative. Aunt Celia had raised him since his parents’ death, and he really owed her respect and gratitude. He just wished she’d loosen up a little. Sometimes he worried that she’d crumble to tiny bits if her hard façade was cracked even a small amount. She was implacable on everything and was not happy at the prospect of forming a treaty with any country. Everyone knew that she’d opposed the vote to accept Moorcondia’s overture, vociferously so. But she also did her duty, no matter her personal feelings. His tardiness couldn’t be helping what had to be already-fraught nerves.

He raced to where she stood, tapping her toes. “Sorry, Aunt. I lost track of time. I won’t be more than another moment.” He slipped past her to enter the cottage, feeling the lash of her tongue, despite her silence.

It didn’t take long for him to make himself presentable. His swim in the lake had left him clean and refreshed, and he didn’t have many clothes. He donned his good tunic and trousers in light blue that he was vain enough to think set off the color of his eyes to good effect and belted it with the leather braid he’d made himself. His formal brown boots were already polished to as glossy a shine as he could manage, so all that was left to do was fix his hair. He braided it into a tail that hung over his shoulder as he hurried back down to his waiting aunt. With a quick grin, he stood for inspection.

Aunt Celia gave a curt nod. “You’ll do.” Her own attire was its usual simple black gown with only a green beaded belt to give it any color. She wore her hair in such a severe bun that her face always looked as if it might split in two if she twitched a smile—which she rarely did and never for long. “Come along. The sentries have already sounded the alarm. Our guests are about to arrive.”

Calan followed a half-step behind her, always the dutiful nephew in public. It didn’t take long to arrive at the longhouse. Celia’s high station meant she had a house near to the square that served as the hub of their people. A large crowd had already gathered, not surprising given the historic nature of the envoy’s arrival. Shadow Valley wasn’t exactly cut off from the rest of the world, but other than traders, they rarely saw people from neighboring lands. The prospect of doing a formal treaty with a country as powerful as Moorcondia was exciting—and frightening. His aunt and others who thought like she did warned that they would be overtaken if they didn’t watch their step. Moorcondia might say they were looking for a treaty, but they could be scouting out a possible means of attack. Calan couldn’t see the logic in that thinking. If the man he’d seen was any indication, the Moorcondians looked to be powerful enough to conquer them without subterfuge.

They joined the rest of the council and their families by the entrance to the longhouse. Everyone was dressed in their finest clothes and every pair of eyes was trained on the direction their guests were arriving from. The sound of horse hooves heralded the Moorcondians’ approach. Then a line of large soldiers came into view. There was a collective gasp and some murmurs at the sight. It was impressive and scary. Although none of the men had weapons drawn or were doing anything menacing, it was obvious how that could change in a moment. But then a beautiful carriage followed, and now the reaction of his people was more like awe. That conveyance was large and covered in colorful heraldic signs and gilded edges. If nothing else, these strangers were displaying their wealth. More men and another, less-elaborate carriage followed. At least a dozen additional soldiers brought up the rear. The entire procession pulled up in front of the longhouse. Now the crowd had gone silent as everyone watched and waited for what was to come next.

A soldier dismounted and opened the door of the first carriage. Calan was probably the only one who wasn’t surprised to see a large man emerge from the conveyance. Up close, he was even more impressive than he’d been by the lake. He was easily a head taller than the average Shadow Valley man, which Calan couldn’t count himself among. He would barely reach the top of this man’s chest, not that such a measurement would ever be made, he quickly reminded himself. The Moorcondian was the epitome of masculine beauty, with a square jaw, long, straight nose and high cheek bones. His light-brown hair was styled in a casual mess of waves that skimmed his shoulders. Like Aunt Celia, he was dressed entirely in black, but these clothes had style, with golden embroidery along the collar, cuffs and hem, and his knee-high black boots shined more brightly than Calan could ever achieve with his own. And there was a sword belted at his waist—something Calan had barely noticed by the lake, distracted as he’d been by the man’s cock—but the weapon was also obviously not merely for decoration. This was a soldier as well as an aristocrat. That much was obvious.

The Moorcondian man stood for a second, scanning the crowd, His gaze skimmed over Calan, then returned quickly to bore a hole into him. Calan’s cheeks heated under the scrutiny of dark eyes, and when the man smiled oh so briefly, a strange warmth settled in Calan’s groin. It was a relief when the man turned his attention back to the carriage. He offered his hand to someone inside, and a woman alighted a moment later. This was the envoy, and she was every bit as interesting, although Calan wasn’t attracted to women. Unlike everyone else so far, she was dressed in bright colors of yellow and gold. Her gown had a full skirt the likes of which Calan had never seen before. Obviously, she did no physical labor. She had the same look about her as the man, except her hair was mostly covered by an elaborate type of kerchief that had a bejeweled band above her brow.

The woman smiled brightly as she headed toward the leader of the council. There was nothing in particular that caused Fennic to stand out as such, yet this diplomat obviously had a trained eye. She curtsied in front of him. “My lord, Fennic, thank you for greeting me.”

Momentarily flustered, Fennic flicked his gaze around before giving a shallow bow. “Lady Isabeau, it is my great pleasure. And please, call me Councillor. We have no lords or ladies here, only elected members of our governing body. It is my humble duty to hold the headship for a few more years yet.”

Lady Isabeau’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course, Councillor. Your manner of government is one of the many intriguing aspects of your country that I hope to get to know better.”

Pretty words, but everyone knew that Moorcondia wasn’t there for lessons in politics. It was rumors of Shadow Valley’s most recent cordial that had precipitated this overture. The people of the Valley had the best medicines, given their lands’ diverse flora. Everyone knew that. But this latest concoction had the power to change people’s lives by avoiding terrible death. Calan was all for sharing in the marvel, but it wasn’t his decision to make, and the idea of the upcoming dance of negotiation he was sure would take place intimidated him. He had no skill at such things, nor was he interested in the ensuing introduction of the rest of the council, so he trained his focus on the man he assumed was the envoy’s husband.

Fortunately, the Moorcondian wasn’t looking at him. He’d turned his attention back to the carriage and lifted out of it a girl who was obviously the envoy’s daughter. She was the spitting image of the woman, except her violet-colored gown was simpler and her hair was uncovered. It was tamed in complex braids wound with silver ribbon. She was like a bright and beautiful creature among the more plainly dressed girls clinging to their mother’s skirts as they watched the proceedings. Taking her by the hand, her father led her over to her mother.

Lady Isabeau gestured toward them. “May I introduce my daughter, Mistress Amalie Charteris Truehart of Truehart Manor.” When the girl curtsied with the same grace as her mother had, the woman continued. “And this is my brother, Ian, Count of Charteris. He was keen to see your lovely country for himself, and our king kindly gave him permission to accompany me.”

A weird sort of relief rushed through Calan. Brother, not husband. Now when the man glanced in his direction, Calan permitted himself to smile back at him. He had little experience with flirting but hoped the man would understand that was what he was doing. The heated gaze he got in return told him he did.

The man sketched a bow to the council. “I hope my presence is acceptable to you. Since my sister is widowed, I thought it appropriate to escort her. Although as she implied,” he added with another flick of his eyes in Calan’s direction, “I am keen to explore the beauty of your land.”

Fennic waved with open arms. “Of course, Count. You are most welcome, and no man here can fault your admirable concern for your sister’s welfare. I assure you, however, that she and her lovely daughter are quite safe with us.”

“Of course,” the count agreed with an affable tone that nevertheless conveyed that his guard was not down.

Celia stepped forward. “If you care to enter our longhouse, Lady Isabeau, we have refreshments for you and your…entourage to partake in before we begin our discussions.”

“How very kind. Thank you. And I look forward to discussing the many ways a treaty with Moorcondia can benefit both your people and ours.”

Being a diplomat, she was careful not to mention the cordial, but everyone knew the rumors had spread about it and that was what had brought the woman here after many generations of their people knowing about each other.

Fennic nodded. “Indeed, we are also looking forward to it. This way, if you please.” He led them through the doors.

The family members of the twelve councilors filed in behind them, leaving the rest of their people to go about their business. Normally, Calan hated these command performances of social interaction. This time, he was eager to be a part of things. It gave him a chance to get a better look at the count, although he was seated at the far end of the long communal table, and it was hard to do any more than glance at the man across the expanse of food between their two sides. And it might have been his imagination, but he could swear that the man was perusing him, as well. Every time Calan dared to look at him, he was staring back. Toward the end of the meal, the count even winked at him. Calan was wide-eyed with shock at the brazen flirtation and must have turned beet red, given how hot he felt. He realized he was out of his depth with a man like the count, so he kept his head down until everyone rose from the table.

Lady Isabeau said, “A delicious meal, Councillor Fennic. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Shall we retire to the council room to begin our discussions?” Fennic gestured toward the door at the far end of the longhouse.

Only council members and those serving them refreshments ever entered it, but Calan knew, as everyone did, that it held a great round table to demonstrate that all the council members had equal power.

As curious as he was about the Moorcondian, Calan wanted the freedom that came from leaving. He needed time to get used to these new feelings of mutual attraction and was always happiest when wandering alone in nature. Before they were all dismissed, however, Lady Isabeau made a request.

“I wonder if it’s possible for someone to show my daughter and brother some of your charming town? The journey was long, and a good walk would be appreciated.”

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