Chapter 11: Hot and Cold (Part 1 of 2)

Despite her offer to help him back to the bed, she ran, again.

And he laughed, hard. All he did was extend his hand out to her! Well, he'll admit, he did sweep his eyes over her figure and smile appreciatively in the process. But was that not what a man was supposed to do when his own wife comes to him in the most... alluring form he'd ever seen her in?

Thinking back to how she blushed all shades of red at the closeness between them, he chuckled again, not minding even one little bit that he was now left on his own on a stool in his bath chamber.

So the woman was un-tameable by his kindness, un-appeasable by his politeness, un-intimidate-able even by his anger, but absolutely un-immune to the mildest flirtatious teasing. Well, he could work with that. Whilst he'd never judge a woman by her bosom, he shamelessly enjoyed the view she repeatedly shoved into his face as she bandaged him, and above that, the way her eyes flared... Oh, he could hardly wait for their next meeting.

Amelia was an enigma. Though he was curious, there was no use contemplating why the girl who used to dress as a clown came to him today a seductress. He'd had enough encounters with women to know there was little point trying to decipher one. That, and all he could think about in her presence was how much he wanted to taste those lips again—and more. So much that he was beginning to think another slap to the face could be worth it... maybe.

At some point, she had morphed herself from a responsibility to a challenge; a sweet sort of challenge he was all too glad to accept.

For the first time since he'd learnt of their betrothal, he humbly conceded—Mother knows best.

"You did what?" Marge screeched.

Amelia winced. Marge rarely screeched. She looked down at her own twiddling fingers with an abashed pout. "It wasn't my fault! He—"

Marge burst into laughter—a surprisingly girlish giggle that bubbled from her throat and came with fighting tears. 'Twas an even rarer sight than the screech and Amelia could only gape.

"And how... h-how... did my lord... he respond?" Marge managed to ask at last, her words weaving between remnant giggles.

"Um," Amelia started hesitantly, still stunned by her maid's reaction. "He... he looked at me like he was... like he was..." She flushed warmly as she recalled his heated gaze and the best description she could think of was... "Hungry."

Marge's eyes widened, then she grinned in a way that said she knew things Amelia did not. Nevertheless she asked, "Hungry for...?"

"Well, m-mayhap because I, uh, dropped the food?" That was the only logical explanation, right?

"Oh I'm sure it was because you dropped the food." Marge chuckled again despite Amelia's irritated glare.

Amelia flung her arms in the air in exasperation. "I can't do this... this buttery thing, Marge!"

"Remember, if you want to leave, you must please him."

"Pray tell," Amelia demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why must I please him by wearing these ridiculous dresses?"

"Really? If you call that ridiculous, what is it that you have been wearing all summer?" Well, at least the young lady had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed at that. Marge continued, "It's because they make you look... nice. It's much easier to please a man if you please his eyes first."

"You said the way to a man's heart was through his stomach!"

"Pleasing looks and a satiated belly are not mutually exclusive, my dear."

Amelia had no retort for that logic. After all, she'd never educated herself in the art of pleasing men. But even with all her inexperience, she could smell a little something... fishy.

"What if he... uh," she stammered and twirled a loose ringlet of hair about her finger. "Would he, you think, uh... fall for me?" The last three words tumbled from her lips in a tiny squeak, a rosiness staining her cheeks as she pondered the remote possibility that perhaps, just perhaps, the intensity in his gaze spoke of some interest... Not that it mattered, of course.

Marge looked at her like she had grown horns on her head. "He may come to care for you, enough that he would not want to see you harmed. But what man in his right mind would fall for a woman who has done little but wreak havoc in his household everyday since her arrival?"

Amelia's fists clenched involuntarily, fingernails digging into her palms. Why the sharp truth of Marge's words sent a sudden pang to her chest she did not know. And did not want to know.

* * *

Lounging back in a chair by his bedroom window, Drake stared pensively into the clouded peaks afar.

Gery. Rewis. Fulke. Jurqay. His soldiers. Friends. Brothers.

In the time he was crossing between the realms of life and death, their funeral had been held. Romund, too, had lost his weapon arm and a bucket of blood.

Though he has recovered the ability to walk some steps, he was still confined to his bedchamber, weak and useless, unable to visit the men he lost and express his apologies and condolences to them and their families. Looking into the direction of the cemetery and with a heavy heart, he vowed to exact revenge and to ensure their families would be well cared for. It was the least he could do.

He glanced over to the pile of letters and missives on the small table beside him. Mostly about his business and a few updates from Westdawn, neither of which he was inclined to deal with at this moment. He reached over for the single note atop the pile, from Marge.

As he pondered over the contents of the note, old memories came to him. He remembered the days when he trained with his father in the gardens and the woods—riding, archery, fighting each other with all sorts of weapons and their bare fists. Hours later, his father and mother would stroll through the gardens, hand in hand. There were times he trailed a small distance behind them, wondering how they never got sick of being so sweet and intimate and, hell, just looking at each other in that way.

From time to time, their intimacy made him question whether he, too, would one day enjoy that sort of happiness with another. As he grew from youth to adult, those thoughts faded with each woman that passed through his life, and he began to forget that there could ever be more to a relationship with a woman beyond lust.

But now...

He wanted more.

A cheery laughter rose from the gardens below. He was unaware of how the corners of his lips lifted on their own accord, for the first time today, upon recognition of her voice.

With marginally greater effort than one would usually require, he leant towards the window for a better view, and almost immediately regretted doing so.

'Twas a familiar sight of Amelia and Sven, chasing each other through the plum fields, her figure clear and bright in a red dress amongst the plum trees, now near-bare in the cold season.

She has never giggled or laughed like so with him...

Again, he was unaware of the deep scowl that had crept itself unto his brows.

True to her word, for days she'd come to him, helped him bathe and spoon-fed him. Yet even with all his joking, teasing and attempted banter, she responded calmly and nicely, doing what she had to do with an unwavering smile that never reached her eyes. There were times when he thought he'd glimpsed a shadow of petulance in her eyes, only for it to be hidden away in the next instant.

It was becoming impossible not to admit that he missed her. Missed the Amelia who could be irate and flustered, unbelievably gentle and a pain in his backside all in the shortest passage of time. The real Amelia behind yet another mask she has donned since the last time she ran away from him.

And there she was, baring herself to another.

A chill wind blew through the morning air then, rattling the window panes and bringing with it the first flakes of snow that marked the onset of winter. The soft white specks swirled and danced their way down, dotting Amelia's hair and red dress in bright little spots.

She didn't seem to notice anything at first, then she stopped in her tracks. Lifting her hands, palms turned up, she caught some flakes of snow in her palms...

Crash.

Sven ran right into Amelia, and they both tumbled into the grass.

Drake was pulling himself closer to the window at once, squinting his eyes hard for a clearer vision. What was the dim witted boy doing still lying atop of her? His wife!

His entire body was taut as a drawn bow, his fists clenched and scrunching up the note in his hand.

After what felt like the longest time, the two tangled figures below finally pulled apart, each one bending forwards and holding their stomachs like they were struggling to breathe through the greatest laughter of a lifetime.

The snow fell more heavily, on them, around them, but they didn't seem to care.

Drake slumped back into the chair. He had left the shutters open, and the echoes of their laughter tormented him. But he was too tired to lift himself up again to close them. The chill of the air slowly filled the room, but it was nothing in comparison to the cold he felt inside.

What was he doing wrong?

Now he thought about it, he'd never had to, and perhaps never really knew how, to pursue a woman. By virtue of his wealth and status, he's had no shortage of rendezvous and dalliances with women, all of whom came to him. From all his experiences with them, it seemed as though he could do no wrong.

Now that he was faced with one who didn't swoon at his feet, one he has deemed a challenge, what was he to do?

At last, it came to him. He'd failed to heed her desires, from the very beginning. And it was time to right that wrong.

* * *

Amelia returned to her room in a joyous mood, her steps light with a bounce. How exciting it was to see snow so early in the wintry season, already dotting the wide expanse of greenness in the manor gardens.

By Gods, she needed the release of tension. So much tension, built up over days and days of holding herself together in front of Drake, maintaining that golden balance of nice, sweet and polite, the one face worn by all the perfect pretty ladies at court. It took constant resistance of the urge to snap back at him, or hide, or run. No, she will not run again.

Pushing open the door into her bedroom, she lifted a hand to brush away a stray strand of her hair, still wet from the snow, and her hand froze.

Wrong room. Oops.

She turned and bounced her way down the corridor she'd come, humming a tune as she descended the stairs to the floor below... and slowed...

Huh?

She found herself on the floor below hers, meaning her chambers were indeed on the floor she'd just come down from. So up she trudged again. Shaking her head, she lightly chastised herself for being so exhilarated from her play outside that she lost herself in the house she has lived in, albeit against her will, for the past half year.

Making her way back up the flight of stairs, she thought she'd ask for directions, just to be sure. She was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable in her damp dress and was keen to enjoy a relaxing, warm bath before having to serve the next meal to her bedevilled husband.

"Is this the way to my room?" She asked of a guard posted at the hallway she was sure led to her chambers.

The guard looked somewhat surprised, but did not ask anything that might betray his thoughts. "Aye, m'lady," he confirmed.

Satisfied, she nodded her thanks and walked all the way down the hallway to the room—definitely her room—at the end.

Walking in, she froze again. No, definitely not her room.

Baffled as ever, she walked back to the guard who gave her entirely wrong directions. "Please escort me to my chambers," she demanded, a little irritated now. She needed a bath!

The guard blinked, looking as perplexed as she was. Silently he led her down the exact same corridor she was walking down for the fifth time, and came to a stop before the exact same room.

She glanced about the room she'd seen twice already. Pink furs, blue and purple drapery, matching the pink, blue and purple flowers sitting in vases all around the room. She scrunched her nose in distaste.

Nay. Definitely not her room.

"Ah, m'lady, there you are!" Elen's head popped out from the doorway of the adjoining bathing chamber. "Marge is busy organising some of your items, m'lady, let me show you around!"

Amelia's mouth dropped slightly. "What is the meaning of this?" she whispered, still keeping her feet just outside of the room.

Elen came over and tugged her inside. Amelia let herself be half-dragged, reluctantly, into the room-that-was-not-her-room. She looked around again and spotted a pink fur rug at the foot of the bed and frowned, her lips pulling into a flat line. She was so transfixed by the sickening combination of colours in this room that she didn't even register when the guard excused himself.

"Come, m'lady, come look at this," the young maid urged excitedly, pulling Amelia up to the dressing table and reached for a jewelled box on the stand—

Amelia stopped her by the wrist. Surely it was rude to be trespassing in another's chambers, let alone touching their belongings (unless, of course, you were deliberately putting fun things in your husband's room). "Whose room is this?" Amelia blinked, feeling almost blinded by the jewels on the box, glimmering ever so brightly up at her.

"Why, it's yours, m'lady," Elen answered, her eyes rounded innocently.

Wh-What? "This is not my room," Amelia insisted.

"Oh, m'lady, you're here!" another maid, Vera, entered the room and greeted with a small curtsey.

"Somebody tell me what is happening here..." Amelia murmured.

"Oh, m'lord had your room all refitted with bright colourful things! And look!" At some point, Elen had pulled her hand out of Amelia's light grasp and unclasped the jewelled box. Amelia looked down then at the contents of the box, and almost had to cover her eyes from the glaring sparkles of the assorted accessories of gold, silver, crystals, pearls, rubies, you name it.

"M'lord is so thoughtful, m'lady," Vera added, "he said you love colours and jewels. Look at these!" She pointed to the sky blue curtains, exquisitely embroidered with gold thread.

The two girls continued to exclaim excitedly, feeling the translucent silks of purple around the bed and pointing to every bedazzling object of red, yellow, green...

Amelia's head began to spin. This was all too much. What was going on? When ever did she say—

Oh. OH.

Her jaw fell agape. That thick-headed swine...

Disregarding her prior discomfort, she picked up the damp skirts of her dress and stormed out of the room, unnoticed by the young maids who were still infinitely enraptured by all the new and shiny baubles that adorned the room-that-was-no-longer-her-room.

Out in the hallway, Amelia cleared her throat once, twice. Then brought back the shrills that once defined her as the Emira of Steersberg.

"DRAKE ROHANNNNN!"