Page 71 of A War of Crowns

The song abruptly ended in that moment and with it, so should have their dance. But Edmund kept the queen locked in his embrace and dragged her along, happy to dance in silence as the musicians sorted out what song they should play next.

Before the music began again, the old man from the Elmorian entourage suddenly appeared at his shoulder, a cane tucked beneath his arm. “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” the elderly noblemantried to interject. “I had hoped I might beg a dance with the queen—”

Edmund cut him off at once with a terse, “You may not,” before sweeping her further out onto the dance floor and away from any more interference. She glowered up at him in silence as the music from the orchestra stuttered its way back into being.

But he still had words enough for the both of them.

“We could have united Drakmor and Elmoria at last,” he continued for her ears alone. “We could have built an empire to rival even that of Lothmeer. We could have ruled all of Avirel, Seraphina.”

“I fear,Edmund, that your ambitions far outweigh my own. My forefathers might have been conquerors, but that is not the life I crave.”

“Indeed not,” Edmund sweetly taunted. “I doubt you have the stomach for it.”

She lifted her chin, stubborn and defiant to the last. It was a beautiful thing to see. He couldn’t wait to shatter that pride of hers into a million pieces.

“The stomach for pointless bloodshed?” the queen posed, arching an eyebrow at him. “No, you’re quite right. Idon’thave the stomach for that.”

“Interesting words from a woman currently embroiled in a little war with Arath—”

“Against my will,” she volleyed back. “I would have never declared war on Arath had I had any choice in the matter at all.”

And there was his opportunity.

Dipping his head, Edmund let his lips brush against the edge of the queen’s ear when he murmured, “How lucky for you, then, that I’m about to give you the means to win your little war and stop the bloodshed at last.”

He wished he could have painted it—the look on her face when she jerked her head away from the threat of his mouth to gaze up at him instead. Her eyes wide.

So full of sweet, naïve hope.

“Truly?” she whispered. Beneath his fingers, her muscles relaxed. “Oh, Edmund…I’m so glad to hear—”

“Assuming you give me what I want first.”

He watched her hope twist itself into naked suspicion. Her eyes narrowed into calculating slits. The tightness returned to the muscles of her back. Her fingers still resting on his chest dug in their nails once more.

“Very well,” she breathed. “Name your terms.”

All around, applause rang out as the music careened into its final measures, stringed instruments wailing impassioned notes into the night. He gave the queen one last twirl and acquiesced to her demands.

He named his terms.

“A marriage alliance, of course.”

She flashed him a look over her shoulder, trying to keep her eyes on him even while he spun her about. As he watched, her suspicion died and a great resignation soon took its place.

Solemnly, she agreed, “Then we will have a marriage alliance between us.”

“Oh…” Finally.

Here it was.

Edmund suddenly snaked an arm around the queen’s middle and pulled her into him one final time—her back pressed to his chest. A scandalized gasp rang out from some of the nearby Elmorian courtiers at the sight of their monarch so wrapped up within his embrace.

He ignored them all.

“You’ve misunderstood me,” he whispered directly against her ear.

His brazenness earned a quiet protest of, “Edmund,” from the queen’s own lips.

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