Page 45 of Traitor Son

“I know. And you need to know that I will not strike you. Ever.”

She flushed. Lady Hurrell had said he could do whatever he liked as her husband, and it was Ophele’s part to bear it. But she had gotten scared, again. Lady Hurrell used to scold her for cowering, like a little brown mouse.

“It’s all right,” she said, subdued.

“No, it isn’t. Look at me, wife.” He turned her around to face him and took both her hands in his big ones, looking at her seriously. Even kneeling, his head was almost level with hers. “If I ever lay my hands on you with violence, then may the stars in heaven strike me dead. I will speak that oath before every man in Tresingale, if you like.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, alarmed at the prospect. What would his men think, if he did such a thing?

“I mean it, nonetheless.” His mouth pressed into a flat line, and he turned her back around, returning to the lacing in a businesslike way. “We can at least be civil to each other, and I don’t want you to be afraid of me. If you have questions, ask.”

She had many questions. But she didn’t know how he would react, and she wavered for a minute before she finally ventured, “…what did you mean, about things in the mountains?”

“Devils,” he said seriously. “They didn’t used to be there, when Argence held the valley. Maybe Vallethi magicians conjured them somehow, in the last days of the war. They were pretty desperate. But a few years ago they started showing up on battlefields, ghouls coming out to eat…to eat,” he said evasively, as if Ophele wouldn’t guess what. “There’s something else that comes after nightfall that we call stranglers, and there’s a thing that looks like a wolf and isn’t. The men call them wolf demons, though I don’t know if they’re actually demons. I’m not sure I believe in demons.”

“They say they are real in Bhumi,” she said, trying to find some ground on which to meet him. Devils. Magic. She looked again at the shutters on the windows, the wattle and daub walls, which basically meant sticks and mud. That didn’t sound like it could stand up to wolf demons.

“Bhumi think there are ten thousand different kinds of spirits. This ribbon is fraying at the end.” His deep voice rumbled the complaint.

“If you singe the end, it will curl up.”

“So long as I don’t singe you.” He stood and went to light a bit of kindling, searing the end of the ribbon and blowing it out before it caught fire. “I didn’t tell you that to scare you, though,” he said, returning to the previous subject. “They’ve been quiet all winter, and we’re pretty sure they go up in the mountains to hibernate, then come back down in the valley once it warms up. You’ll be safe. I’ll be with you at night and you’re not to go wandering by yourself otherwise. None of the nonsense you did at Aldeburke.”

Ophele was glad her back was to him. Of course, he would be here at night. This was his house. Their house. His bed. And now that there was a bed again, did that mean he would want to…?

“Promise,” the duke said sternly. “No wandering off.”

“I won’t, I promise,” she said, trying not to look at the bed. The bodice of her gown drew tight and she carefully tugged at her kirtle, lining up the jeweled neckline to neatly follow the edge of the overdress. Behind her, the duke stood, and she tilted her head back. “Does my hair look all right? There was no mirror and it’s still a little wet…”

“It looks fine. I don’t think we’ll do this every night,” he said, looking down at her thoughtfully. “Much as my men would like to see a real lady at table. Up you get.”

And he swept her off her feet, never minding any crumples in her dress. Ophele squawked.

“You don’t have to, I’m wearing my slippers, see?”

“So you can lose them in the mud?” he replied, looking at the dainty blue slippers. The cottage door banged shut behind them and he stepped out into a cool violet dusk, with torches lining the lane from the cottages to the cookhouse. A few men were hurrying in that direction and paused to bow, eyes popping. Ophele nodded, feeling dreadfully conspicuous.

“When will there be roads?” she asked, remembering the firelight conversations she had overheard on the journey. She felt him stiffen and hastened to add, “I don’t mean it like that. I mean—sometimes I heard you talking about it with Sir Edemir and Sir Tounot and everyone, and I was interested, so I wondered—”

“They’ll start laying real road in a few months,” he replied. “It’s trickier than you think, you can’t just throw stones in the mud.” It washard to tell whether he was offended or not; pressed against his chest, she could only see the square line of his jaw and the fringe of surprisingly long black eyelashes. “But we’ll begin as we mean to go on. We don’t want the roads flooding, so we’ll plan for runoff and put in drains, grade it properly, and so on.”

She would have liked to know whatand so onentailed, but the duke was already striding up the graveled path to the cookhouse doors, and when they stepped inside it was like walking onto a stage, a place filled with staring eyes and a sudden and profound silence. The cookhouse was large and echoing, with rows of long tables extending far into torchlit gloom, and every table was filled with rough-looking men staring at her. The pungent miasma of unwashed male struck her even from the doorway, but she would never let such a thing show in her face.

The duke’s hand pressed behind her, as if he sensed she wanted to retreat right back out the door.

“I’m glad to see all of you,” he said, projecting his voice all the way to the back of the hall. “I’ve already spoken with Genon, and he told me not one of you buggers managed to get yourself killed while I was gone.”

There was a low ripple of laughter.

“I won’t keep you from your meat, but I will remind you to mind your manners before your new lady. Ophele, Daughter of the House of Agnephus, Princess of Argence, as was. Now my wife, the Duchess of Andelin. You’ll give her your oaths tomorrow.”

This was where she should speak. Ophele swallowed, but all those eyes were looking at her and suddenly her mind was blank as sticky heat blazed along her hairline. A lady’s first care was the comfort of others. A lady should be gracious. A lady offered honors to those who deserved it, and these men surely did. But it felt as if her breath was stopped in her throat and her tongue was rooted to the roof of her mouth in abject terror.

“Eat,” said the duke, as if nothing had happened, and Ophele’s ears burned as he led her through the rows of tables. There was no high table, like there had been at the wedding feast, but toward the middle of the room, some men were budging over to make a space. It was hard to climb over a bench in long skirts.

“Welcome, my lady,” said one of them, and she nodded, trying to smile. They all must be soldiers; most of them bore visible scars, and therewas a much higher than average number of missing appendages, from ears to hands to whole arms.

“Thank you,” she said, as one handed her a bowl of bread rolls. It was a little easier to speak in a small group, but heads were still turning up and down the rows on either side of her. The duke had not been exaggerating, there wasn’t a single other woman in sight.

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