“And if I had been a loud mouthed harridan with a taste for garlic and a fear of bathing?”
“I would have been the Warlord everyone thinks I am, tossed her aside like a sack of potatoes in a white wedding dress, and asked for the hand of a peculiar redheaded woman I met on the road.”
Sally smiled. “And if she said no?”
“Well,” Mickel said, kissing her hand. “I may not be the Warlord of the Savage Belly Ache, but I am exceptionally brave. I would fight for her. I would battle magic forests and sleeping queens for her. I would plunge into icy waters—”
“—and be rescued by her?”
“Oh, yes,” he whispered, no longer smiling. “I would love to be rescued by such a fair and lovely lady. Every day, every morning, every moment of my life.”
Sally’s breath caught, and Mickel touched the back of her neck and pulled her close. “You, Princess, are far more dangerous than any Warlord of Raven’s Teeth, or Ravisher of Dandelions.” Again, uncertainty filled his eyes. “But do you still want me, knowing all this?”
“I never wanted a warlord,” Sally said. “But you… I think you’ll do just fine. If you don’t mind having a witch as your bride.”
“Queen Magic and Warlord Illusion,” he whispered, and leaned in to kiss her.
Sally placed her hand over his mouth. “But I want another name.”
Mickel blinked. “Another?”
She removed her hand and grinned against his mouth. “Well, the Warlord must have a wife who is equal to his charms, yes?”
Mickel laughed quietly. “And what will I call you? War Lady? My Princess of Pain?”
“Just call me yours,” she whispered. “The rest will take care of itself.”
And it did.
The Wrong Bridegroom
SHARON SHINN
1
The Beautiful Princess
This was the proclamation sent out to all corners of the land: I, King Reginald, have decreed that I will wed my daughter, Olivia, to the man who passes three tests that prove he is brave, strong, and clever. All men are invited to Kallenore Castle to compete for the very fairest prize.
Sounds romantic, doesn’t it? I thought so at first, until I started appraising some of my suitors. They didn’t arrive armed only with weapons, courage, and intelligence. A good number of them also brought lust, greed, ambition, and a few other unsavory traits. For Kallenore was a lush and prosperous land, and I was my father’s only child—and people have been telling me since the day I was born that I’m beautiful. I have to admit I secretly believe it’s true. My hair is black, my eyes are blue, and my skin has been free of those appalling blemishes for four years.
After the first round of competition—a standard if very energetic joust—eliminated more than half of the contestants, I began to think seriously about what it would mean to be married off to someone I didn’t know and might not like. I was particularly worried about two of the combatants who had survived the rounds of fighting. One was a large, brutish man who looked like he could tear apart the palace’s foundation stones with his thumb and forefinger. He had bulging eyes, greasy hair, and a beard that might not have been trimmed since the day it first started to show. I comforted myself with the thought that he didn’t look bright enough to pass the test that relied on brains.
But the second contestant who caught my eye most assuredly was that intelligent, and I didn’t want to marry him, either. In fact, my refusal to be betrothed to Sir Harwin Brenley of Brenley Estates was what had precipitated this whole not so-romantic-after-all competition in the first place.
I had known Harwin my whole life. His father, Sir Milton, was the most significant property owner in the kingdom, a lord who by turns was my father’s greatest ally and chief adversary. The day I was born, our parents decided that Harwin and I should marry. Harwin had never seemed as horrified at the idea as I had.
Well, he wouldn’t. He was too dull to whip up an emotion like horror. He was placid and stolid and measured and practically bovine in his level of insensate calm. He could be quite stubborn in failing to yield a point or change his mind, but he never argued; he never shouted or threw things or stalked from the room spitting curses. He wasn’t, I suppose, hideously unattractive, for he was tall, and athletic enough to acquit himself on a jousting field, and his face didn’t have any scars or squints or disproportionate features. He just was—this big, solid, boring clump of a human being.
I mean, I couldn’t possibly marry him.
What if he passed all three of my father’s tests?>
I would run away. I would. My father couldn’t make me marry someone against my will.
My father had never been able to make me do anything I didn’t want to do. Which was probably the reason he detested me as much as I detested him.
There was a knock on the door, which I ignored, but the person in the hallway came inside anyway. I glared at her. I usually went to some trouble to avoid spending any time with my stepmother, Gisele, more out of principle than because of any active dislike. Well, she was only five years older than I was, small and dainty and well behaved. Her dark brown hair always lay sleek against her cheeks; her black eyes were always watchful. She made me look like a big galumphy girl when I stood beside her, and even when she wasn’t criticizing me out loud, her expression was generally reproving. And she had married my father, which I couldn’t imagine any woman of sense wanting to do. Ever since she had moved into the palace three years ago, I had refused to respond to any of her attempts to win me over. She had mostly given up trying.
Today it seemed like she might be trying one more time. Her face wore a more urgent expression than usual. “Olivia,” she said. “It’s not too late.”
I had been standing at the window, watching the bustle in the palace courtyard, where most of the contestants had set up tents and pavilions. There were still probably two dozen remaining, and at least half of them were milling around in the warm golden light of an autumn afternoon. The whole scene of color and endless motion was amazingly inviting, and I longed to be down there with my suitors instead of up here with my stepmother.
I turned my back to the pageantry outside and said in the surly voice I usually employed while speaking to Gisele, “It’s not too late for what?”
“To accept Harwin,” she said.
I let out a gusty breath of surprise. “I am not going to marry Harwin!”
She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Have you taken a good look at some of the individuals who have come to the palace with the intention of winning your hand? Even if you ignore the obvious fact that they would be unqualified to rule at your side once you inherit your father’s throne, they would be nightmares to share your bed with for the next fifty years. I know you think Harwin is a charmless bore, but he is not cruel, he is not stupid, and he is nowhere near as oafish as you believe. Whereas some of these men—”
I stiffened my back. I would not let her see that her alarm was echoing my own uneasiness. “The competition has already started,” I said. “It would not be hon orable to cancel it now.”
“You’ll be thinking a lot less about honor once you find yourself married to a man you cannot tolerate,” Gisele said grimly. “You’ll be wishing yourself safely wed to Harwin Brenley, for all his bland conversation.”
I actually stamped my foot. “I do not choose to marry Harwin,” I said. “A woman should have some choice in the matter of her marriage!”