Page 22 of Bride of the Fae Prince

Her head tilts up to mine.

Neither of us moves. Roland clears his throat. I swivel my attention to him and say dryly, “You still veil her? In but a few minutes, she will be my wife.”

Something shifts in the air around the young woman. It’s so subtle I almost miss it.

Fear.

“It is our custom,” says Roland. “You may remove it after the ceremony in your chambers.”

Right, because then it will be her, and not him, who bears the brunt of my reaction—mydisappointment,presumably—when I see her for the first time.He releases his grip on Isabelle Louise’s arm and steps aside, motioning for me to take his place. My face hardens, but I do as instructed and hold out my arm for the princess to take. When she loops her tiny fingers around my forearm, they twitch.

There’s little I can do to assuage her fears, especially in front of an audience. So I resort to laying my other hand atop hers. She jolts in response. I grit my teeth. Then I swipe my thumb over the back of her wrist in a soft caress. It doesn’t make her relax.

I will be good to you,I say in my head.Have no fear.

But sheshouldbe afraid of me. Sheshouldbe afraid of being my wife.

The clergyman begins a dreary lecture that makes me wonder if the true reason bridegrooms bring their swordsman was as a threat to the priest that he ought not to drone on too long.This ceremony strikes me as tradition piled atop tradition with little meaning. It is so pale compared to the true depths and beauty of a fae bonding.

The priest gives a cough, clearing his throat, and says, “Now, Prince Trenian of the Fae, you must plight your troth to Princess Isabelle Louise of Aursailles.”

“I must what my what?” I repeat, raising my eyebrows.

The priest peers over the rim of his spectacles at me. “Plight your troth.”

That is another language. Unless it has something to do with trouble with my trough, and if that’s the case, this might be oneof those human wedding traditions I choose not to ask questions about.

“Right,” I mutter. “My trough. Of course.”

The princess’s shoulders give a little shake. I glance down at her. Was that a quiet snicker? It’s so unexpected, it warms my ears and makes me want to squeeze her hand. I don’t, lest she misinterpret the gesture.

Plighting my trough, as it turns out, is the part of the ceremony where I make my vows to her. They involve a curious statement about pledging to love and hold her no matter if she be fair or ugly, whether she be sick or healthy, until death parts us.

She must be one ugly and sickly princess.

I suppose there is an additional possibility that the young woman might not be so young, but her smooth hands indicate the contrary.

To my surprise, the princess pledges no trough to me, but no one blinks. I suppose that is just how the humans do it. I confess I’m disappointed. I wanted to hear her speak.

Then, the priest announces, after another long segment of dreary nonsense that I tune out, “Prince Trenian, you may kiss your bride.”

Chapter 10

The Princess

Those words ring inmy ears. This moment has come—a herald of what will happen shortly now. My new husband will kiss me, and I do not know why the thought terrifies me so much. It’s only a kiss.

But I’ve never been kissed before. What if I don’t like it? What if Idolike it?

A hot blush sears my cheeks as Prince Trenian turns in surprise to look down at me.

“Kiss her?” he asks, and his thumb does another sweep across my wrist. My knees threaten to give out, while my lungs seem determined to reject any attempt at breathing. “I thought I was forbidden from removing her veil.” There’s a dry mockery in his voice.

No one answers him.

The prince side-eyes my father, then the tall, imposing warrior behind him. Then those piercing blue eyes meet mine through my veil. He cocks one eyebrow.

“Very well,” he mutters.

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