Astore expected to be her husband. They’d not explicitly agreed upon it when she came to his lands, but there had been an understanding that in return for allowing her full access to his warrior retainers, to live with them and learn what they had to teach her of battle and weaponry, Gaela would one day owe him in kind.
As he was the duke of the largest, strongest domain in all of Innis Lear, the only way to pay him back would be to make Col king alongside her—as befitted her stars, which destined her to be reliant on another’s strength.
So he met her as a king would, in his private dining room. Ready for her to submit to him, to repay his magnanimous patronage with a display of gratitude. Bold stone walls, decorated only with stately salmon banners; a warm, roaring fire in a hearth wide enough to roast a pig; long wooden table smoothly gleaming; two high-backed benches to either side of the single, narrow arched window that looked out over the lower yard and into the city of Astora beyond. This place was marked by symbols of his power, but not overwhelmingly so, not as the great hall would have been. Gaela was appreciated here, with room to weave in her own power and details. Col was vain enough to bathe carefully and dress even more so, despite usually bearing the trappings of fashion no mind at all. His best dark pink tunic that showed off the broadness of his chest and the strength in his arms, over black trousers that hugged his powerful thighs. He had his footman braid his hair in three furrows and trim his beard. Though he was not quite old enough to have fathered Gaela, it was a near thing, and he’d remind her of his might and virility wherever he could.
For several long minutes he debated bringing with him the duchess ring. In the end Col put it on his smallest finger; let her notice and be aware that he was just as ambitious as she. Then they could solidify any arrangements tonight: bargain and share drink, and she would take his ring, and he would take her to bed. Stars, but that would be glorious. Finally.
And in the small hours of the night, when he’d satisfied her and made her beg to have him, they would discuss the crown itself.
He allowed himself only a single short cup of his favorite Aremore wine while he waited.
Gaela arrived exactly as the sun set, entering on the tail of her name, as called through the door by the retainer on guard. Col did not usually keep one, being confident enough in his own ability to defend himself, but for this occasion, he’d thought it best to act as a king might.
She swept in wearing a bold, dark blue gown split at the sides so it appeared like a military tabard, and the arms quilted just as a gambeson would be. A belt of silver plates pulled all together at Gaela’s waist, and cuffs of beaten silver clutched her forearms, more like gauntlets than bracelets. Streaks of white clay hardened swirls of her short black curls into a crown.
Col did his best to moderate the lust and admiration in his face, though he did not want to hide it: let her see she impressed him, and that he desired her in her martial beauty.
“Gaela,” he said, standing and offering his hand. She gave hers, too, and he bowed over it, drawing her firmly toward him.
“Astore,” she replied, and allowed him to seat her on one of the hard benches beside the window. Before he could do aught else, she continued, “I assume you intend to be my husband.”
Taken aback, Col laughed. He did not let go of her hand. “I do, Gaela Lear. I assume you intend to allow it.”
“It would be in both our best interests. I will be queen after my father, and you are his closest ally. He does not question your strength, your loyalty, nor your faith in his stars.”
“All our stars,” Col said. “I have seen yours, Gaela, and heard the entire life chart read at your naming. It fits well with mine. I commissioned a joined chart two years ago: we will have a unique partnership, and successfully achieve our destinies.”
Gaela twisted her mouth and stood. It put her close to him, enough that he could smell the cool, earthy clay and a sharp soap lingering on her skin. He did not step back to make room between them. Her eyes were just beneath his. “One requirement for our partnership, Col: do not speak to me again of the stars.”
He frowned. “Stars speak themselves and so should not be ignored.”
“For men of Lear, those who would follow my father, perhaps, but I have never been served by stars, and neither was my mother.”
“Ah,” Col said, understanding. She was the daughter born to mark her mother’s death, by those same celestial bodies. An aversion to such things was inevitable; he minded not at all, so long as she did not swing so far as to worship the mud. “You can make your own destiny,” he said, to soothe her, and to prop her up.
A smile spread across her delicious, plump mouth. “I do, Col Astore, and I will make yours, too, if you join with me.”
“Yes,” he said, undeniably aflame at being told, instead of doing the telling. Discomfort rose in him, made rather delicious by the perversion. He put a hand on her waist, and she did not shy away, or even move. Instead, Gaela reached for his hand and lifted it so she could access the ring on his small finger. Still smiling, she tugged at it, and Col let her do the work, take this ring from him, and then slide it onto her own hand.
He ached for her, hot and ready, and he pulled her hips against his, pressing himself against her.
Gaela gasped softly, and Col nearly broke. He’d held himself in check so long, forced away these urges during the four years she’d been under his protection, while she trained with his men. Despite Gaela’s flaunting of her strength, her intensity and the way she walked, spoke, and carried herself, as if already she owned him and all his retainers. As if she tempted him on purpose, was made to be his challenge. Col expected her to be ferocious, expected her to resist giving herself to him, and this tiny breath of submission was almost too much.
He dug his fingers into her hips, holding her belly against him. Even that gentle pressure burned up into his face. His cheeks would be red, he knew, his eyes hot. But he did not care if she saw, if she realized how badly he wanted her. Would she taste all of Innis Lear, or some foreign flavors, too? Her mouth would be hot as his, and her depths like a well of the island—his island, his well.
Col kissed her, and Gaela let him, still and only moving to put her hands on his shoulders for balance. She gave little, but Col pushed her mouth open; he kissed her with all his potency, reaching in with his tongue, dragging his lips against hers, wanting it all. Taking what he could.
In a moment, Gaela pushed back. She leaned her torso away, which pushed her hips more firmly against him. “Stop, Col Astore, and wait to touch me like this until we are united under the laws of Innis Lear and your stars. That is my second condition. That you stop yourself now, and we do not join in body until we are joined by ritual.”
With ridiculous effort, he listened. “Gaela,” he said, low in his throat, chiding and longing. But he smiled, because he liked her games and confidence.
“Col,” she said, holding herself against him, as if she could read in his face just how much he liked it.
“Do you have a third condition?” He strove to sound conversational, not as if he was near to bursting.
“I do.” Her hands climbed up his neck and she grasped his jaw, fingers in his beard. “Never rest until I am crowned. Destroy everyone in our path. Use all your power to put the crown in my hands.”
“Our hands,” he corrected.
“Yes.”
“I will never rest until you are crowned, Gaela of Lear. You will be the most glorious queen in an age.” Col meant every word, with every piece of his spirit and heart and body.
Gaela gifted him her wide, plump smile again.
He said, “I will set a date for our marriage.”
“Do so. I will go to my sister, now, and return for it.” A smile teased at her unteasing mouth. “That should make the wait easier for you, husband.”