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"You an expert on fine human ladies?" I ask.
He smirks. "Some. My father used to steal 'em on the regular. Ransoms, you know. Easiest bit of coin you'll ever make. Sure did cry a lot, though." Tindal gives me a not-so-gentle push toward the center of the room. "Lord sits in his chair, remember?"
I grimace at the reminder. I don't feel like a lord. I know I'm in charge here, but even as I approach the lord's seat at the front of the room, near the fireplace, I'm reminded of all the sneers I received as a child, of the people that spat on me for being half-orc. The villagers that thought my mother was a whore and me less than dirt. I think of all those voices as I slowly approach the chair.
I've come a very long way from that scared, green-skinned lad. My skin might be a deeper gray-green now, and I might be muscled and tall enough that no one will think about spitting on me, but I don't feel like a noble either. But…that's why I'm marrying one, isn't it? I sit in my chair and try not to tug at the collar of my tunic. My neck is far too thick for the embroidery around the throat, and it pulls when I move. Looks nice, though.
I rub my mouth, suddenly nervous. There's no sign of my bride, and I'm starting to worry that she's run away in the night. But why clean the hall? Why—
Someone claps their hands together, starting a rhythmic beat. Others pick up the beat, adding in until the entire room is thundering with sound. My heart races and I cannot stop the grin that spreads across my face.
My bride is arriving for the first part of our marriage ceremony. The doors to my study open, and I jump to my feet, ready to get a look at my wife-to-be…only to catch sight of Turnip instead. She scowls at me and shoos the others away, and then a beautiful, tall creature steps out of the shadows and into the candlelight.
Breath escapes me.
Lady Iolanthe is stunning. Maybe not in the traditional ways humans value, but her skin is flawless, her freckles dancing by the candlelight as she steps forward. Her long, dark hair has been pulled into two thick braids that are knotted and encased in pretty chains. They dangle down her shoulders, brushing against her bosom and trailing over the front of her dress. It's a fine, beautiful dress, perfectly fitted to Iolanthe's form, and dips deep to show off her cleavage at the embroidered bosom, then cinches in to emphasize her waist before flaring out again. A thickly embroidered train sweeps across the floors as she moves forward, and my mouth goes dry. Her eyes are dark and shy, but she is smiling so brightly that it makes my chest ache.
"You look thunderstruck," Tindal murmurs. "Close your mouth."
I snap it shut. I just…cannot stop staring at the gorgeous creature before me. She has worn finery to her Cyclopae wedding ceremony, and while it makes her look incredible, it will just be ruined. Part of me wants to warn her, to tell her to go back and change. But her gaze flicks to mine, shyly, and I take in a deep, shuddering breath and know I will say no such thing.
Adjusting my tunic to hide the aching tent in my pants, I get to my feet once more and begin the formal words. "Have all seen my bride and judged her to be fair?" I call out.
"Aye," they call out, cheering and clapping.
Iolanthe just smiles and blushes, her fingers twisting in her skirts at the center of the room.
Now comes the hard part. "Display her before her groom and the gods," I cry, raising a goblet of wine into the air. "Let the Revealing of the Bride begin!"
I am watching Iolanthe with an intense gaze, and perhaps I'm the only one that sees the tiny shiver that she gives. Her face is flushed, the look on her face a mix of terror and excitement. Her eyes are glazed as the old washerwoman, Turnip, moves to her side and tears at one artfully sewn sleeve.
My soldiers go wild. They've heard of this tradition and have even seen it a few times before, but never a lady, and never their leader's mate.
Iolanthe flinches, and I force myself not to shove my way to the center of the room and rescue her. They will think there's something wrong with her, something I am hiding, and the last thing I need are more rumors in regard to my marriage. It takes everything I have (and Tindal's hand on my shoulder) to remain in place as Turnip ineffectively tears at Iolanthe's other sleeve. Normally a maiden would have two or three women stripping her bare, but my keep is full of soldiers and mercenaries. She only has Turnip, the most fragile, most cranky washerwoman I've ever met.
