Page 41 of Anice’s Bargain

“Which books?” Apparently, there was a stash of decadence Anice had missed.

“Medical texts.”

Ah, that would explain why Anice had not read them. Medical texts were torturously uninteresting. All humors and balancing and bile and blood. She must have made a face because Marin gave a gentle laugh.

“Well, if you had, you would know this already, what goes on between a man and a woman. In bed. After, well, after marriage.” Marin pressed her lips together, undoubtedly waiting for Anice to stop her.

She did not. This would be far too good to miss.

“Men have a sword, you see.” Marin held up a forefinger.

“What if he has a battle axe?” Anice countered.

“He doesn’t,” Marin gasped in horror. “’Tis only a sword.” She made a loose fist with her other hand and her cheeks warmed to a shade of pink. “And there’s a sheath.” She grimaced uncomfortably. “In women.”

“There’s a sheath in me?” Anice kept her tone bland.

Marin cleared her throat. “Aye. Betwixt your legs. And the man’s, well, his sword—”

“Not a war hammer?”

“Nay! His sword.” Marin strained her forefinger in the air. “Slides into your sheath.” She took her forefinger and pushed it into the palm of her loose fist.

“Are they all so small?” Anice asked, unable to stop the smile pulling at her lips.

Marin’s mating hands dropped from the air and she regarded her sister with incredulity. “You knew already, didn’t you?”

A giggle burst from Anice. “Aye, but you did a fine job of explaining.”

“You are so terribly wicked.” Marin grabbed a pillow and swung it at Anice, who grabbed another to counter the blow. Piquette leapt from the bed for the safety of the hearth, while the air filled with laughter and a fine cloud of feathers. Anice and Marin collapsed on the bed, breathless and smiling, neither one the victor, given the number of feathers loosely clinging in their golden hair.

Anice had forgotten Marin’s playfulness. It had disappeared after their mother died, buried under the burden of all the eldest sister’s newfound responsibilities.

“I like seeing this side of you again,” Anice said aloud.

“I’m glad to have it back.” Marin’s expression turned tender. She sat up and helped Anice to do likewise. “You will be an excellent wife. I only hope he will be good to you.”

Anice warmed under Marin’s praise, basking in it the way one does the heat of the sun’s brilliance.

“If he is not good to you, you will tell me?” A stark seriousness entered Marin’s tone. “Aye?”

“If he is not good to me, I’ll disarm his sword.” Anice grinned.

“You mean his battle axe?” Marin asked.

And at that, they broke into giggles once more. On and on they talked, through three years’ worth of lost time, until the candle sputtered out and then even longer still. Eventually Marin declared herself far too tired to stay awake another moment. She tucked Anice into bed and quietly slipped out without Piquette so much as lifting his head.

Though exhaustion pulled at Anice, she could not sleep. Not when the next day would bring her marriage to James.

And whatever failures that entailed.

* * *

James tookextra care on his appearance on the morning of his wedding. Not that it mattered much. A brushing of his beard and the smoothing of his hair only went so far. He would never be the kind of handsome man Anice’s beauty warranted.

Not like Drake. Or the Master of the Horse.

He turned from the looking glass. The luxury was wasted on him. He had no desire to see himself. Lady Leila was correct in her assessment of the upcoming nuptials. They would be a failure. Her words hadn’t surprised him. They’d merely echoed the expectation souring in the pit of his stomach.