A Royal Marriage. Rachelle McCalla
at the coarse fabric of King John’s tunic. This wasn’t the same chain mail habergeon he’d worn over leather garments when she’d ridden with him earlier.
But he was still the same man, his woodsy scent already chasing away the boiled cabbage odor that had trailed through the open door after Hilda. His deep accent lilted pleasantly as he promised to stay by her side, to see her through her injuries until she’d recovered.
A sense of peace seeped past her fever as he held her securely, promising to do all he could to ease her pain. She’d have to be certain her father compensated King John for his selfless assistance.
As her chills subsided, she managed to find her voice. “I can’t see.”
“Your injury has swollen your eyes shut. When the infection subsides we’ll be able to assess the damage, but from what I’ve seen, the blade missed your eye. You should retain your vision.”
Relief eased the last of her shivers. She relaxed as her fear of living as a blind woman subsided with the king’s assurances. After all, Warrick, the Illyrian prince she’d been betrothed to marry, would likely frown on the idea of taking a blind woman for a wife—not when he could have his pick of unblemished women.
Again, she found herself wondering what King John looked like. Was he as handsome as Hilda’s inflection had led her to believe? He certainly had a beautiful spirit and a kind disposition. She could only imagine his physical features would match his generous soul.
But what did he think of her? Concern over the festering wound forced words to her trembling lips. “Will I be ugly?”
The question came out bluntly, but to her relief King John took no offense. “The natural fold of your eyelid should disguise the scar. I may be able to suture the gash as it heals to minimize its appearance.”
Gratitude welled inside her, but in her feverish state, she couldn’t find the words to express her thankfulness. Silence stretched between them. Warmed by his presence, her shivers abated and she felt a measure of her strength return.
The king continued in a musing voice, as though almost to himself, “Not that such a little thing could diminish your remarkable beauty.”
“You’re already in my good graces, King John. Don’t trouble yourself flattering me.”
He straightened at her suggestion. “I didn’t realize you were still awake. You had relaxed so.” He sighed. “That wasn’t empty flattery, Princess. You are as lovely a woman as I have ever seen. Your Illyrian prince is a fortunate man. And I will consider myself equally fortunate if your fever erases all memory of this conversation.”
“I think my fever is easing, Your Majesty.”
He touched her face. “Perhaps it is. And I hear Hilda approaching with your blankets, so I’ll give you my leave before I embarrass myself further.” Gently, as though he feared she might break, King John eased himself away from her, tucking blankets up as far as her chin and instructing her maid about soaking her feet.
Warmth spread up Gisela’s legs as Hilda dipped first her toes, then, by stages, her whole feet into the heated water.
And yet, as she heard John’s footsteps retreating down the hall, Gisela couldn’t suppress a cold shiver, missing him.
* * *
John rubbed his temples as he fled from Princess Gisela’s bedside. He was tired. He’d been through a great deal and still had a long night ahead of him.
Still, that was no excuse for the way he’d let down his guard, speaking aloud words better left only in his thoughts. The princess must think he was full of empty flattery!
He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. He might have been caught muttering far worse, especially with the threat of war foisted upon them. But he knew his lapse rankled him precisely because it was the worst possible thing the royal woman could have heard him utter. Ever since his wife’s death three years before, he had taken great pains to make it perfectly clear to everyone in his kingdom that he had no interest in taking another wife.
Even after so long, the eligible maidens and their eager parents were only now beginning to believe him. If it became known that he’d heaped flattering words upon the emperor’s daughter, people might think he’d changed his mind about not wanting a woman. And with the princess obviously unavailable, he’d be back to discouraging eager females again.
But Princess Gisela was the only one who’d heard him. Was there any way he could beg her not to repeat what he’d said?
Not without revisiting it. And if there was any hope that she might not remember his words, he wasn’t about to remind her of them.
Unless she gave him the impression that she remembered, after all.
John rubbed his temples again as he fled outdoors, grateful for the relative cool after the distressing warmth of the feverish princess.
He’d passed Renwick’s sleeping form in the main hall of the inn, and so sought out his men patrolling the perimeter. He could only pray the Illyrians would think better of launching an assault. At the very least, they might postpone their attack until the Frankish princess was safely ensconced in the queen’s tower, the most securely buttressed point of the fortress at Castlehead.
The thought of further harm coming to her filled him with cold dread. Obviously his reaction was due to their political entanglements. She was under his protection now and would remain so until he could hand her off to her betrothed or until her father sent a more substantial escort than the wounded ship with its inexperienced captain.
Assuming, of course, she survived long enough for that to happen.
* * *
As the warm blankets and heated water chased her chills away and the cool herbs above her eye purged the poison of infection, Gisela’s thoughts began to make more sense, except for one thing.
She missed the king’s presence.
It was odd. She’d never been one to rely on any specific person to make her feel better. Her mother had died when she was a toddler, her father was a busy man and she had enough siblings, half siblings and servants that for most of her life she hadn’t concerned herself much about who was around. It had been enough to know that there were plenty of people nearby and that they all cared for her with more or less equal devotion.
It was a strange sensation, wanting a particular person present, even though between Hilda and the innkeeper’s wife bustling about offering her blankets and hot tea, she might have preferred to be left alone.
She told herself she simply wanted King John near so he could monitor her injury. And of course, she felt she could trust him.
But it wasn’t as though she distrusted her middle-age maid or the innkeeper’s wife.
Still, the inexplicable longing wouldn’t go away.
“Is he coming back?”
“Is who coming back, Your Grace?” Hilda’s voice sounded haggard, and Gisela realized the woman would have normally been snoring for hours by this time of night.
“King John.”
“He just left not so long ago. I imagine he has matters to attend to.”
“I see. Of course.” Gisela resolved to rest and forget about the king. “Don’t bother about the heated water, Hilda. You need your sleep.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
As Hilda settled onto the other mattress, it occurred to Gisela that, really, someone ought to fetch the king to look at her injury again before her maid went to sleep. Otherwise, assuming the innkeeper’s wife didn’t return (and she’d been gone long enough, Gisela supposed she’d retired for the night), there wouldn’t be anyone to fetch the king, if she needed him.
“Hilda? Could you please ask the king to check my injury one last time?”
“Yes,