Chapter 2: Blood and Whisky on the Bedchamber Wall
The oak door slammed against the stone wall with a crack that echoed like a breaking bone.
Kate jumped, her hand flying to her throat. She’d been standing by the hearth, staring into the dying embers, trying to slow the frantic beat of her heart. The chill of the castle had seeped into her bones, but her skin still burned with the memory of his expression—that flash of something beyond anger in his eyes.
Now he filled the doorway, backlit by the torches in the corridor. He had changed his doublet, but a faint, purplish shadow of the wine stain was still visible on the fresh white linen beneath his open jerkin. His copper hair was disheveled, as if he’d been dragging his hands through it. He held a half-empty silver flask in one hand.
He didn’t speak. He just looked at her, his brown eyes black in the low light. Then he kicked the door shut behind him. The thud was final.
“You think that was clever?” His voice was low, rough. He took a step forward, the scent of whisky and leather cutting through the room. “A public spectacle? Humiliating me in front of my entire court?”
Kate lifted her chin, though every instinct told her to step back. The wall was cold against her shoulders. “I think you got exactly what you deserved.”
He was in front of her in three strides. He didn’t touch her, but he leaned in, planting a hand on the stone wall by her head, caging her. His breath was warm and sharp with drink. “And what did I deserve, Princess? For speaking the truth? You are here to be my wife. To secure an alliance. To bear heirs. That is the job. That is the duty you signed up for when you got on that bloody ship.”
The word ‘broodmare’ hung unspoken between them, more potent for its absence.
“My duty is to my country,” she spat, her fear melting under a fresh wave of fury. “Not to be insulted by a man who thinks a crown makes him a god. I am not a piece of livestock you bought at market.”
“No,” he said, his face inches from hers. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. A new, more dangerous intensity had replaced the anger. “Livestock doesn’t fight back. Livestock doesn’t look at you with eyes that could start a war or end one. You’re something else entirely, aren’t you?”
He was too close. The heat of him, the raw, masculine force of his presence, was overwhelming. It wasn’t a courtier’s polished charm. It was something primal, something that spoke to a matching wildness she kept chained deep inside herself. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a trapped bird.
“Get away from me.”
“Or what?” he whispered. “You’ll spill more wine? I’m all out of clean doublets.”
Her control snapped.
She moved without thinking, surging forward, not away. Her hands fisted in the front of his linen shirt. And she kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. A punishment. An assertion.
For a second, he was stone beneath her. Then, with a guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into hers, he responded. His arms wrapped around her, one hand tangling in the dark silk of her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the kiss. It was all heat and desperation and fury, a battle for dominance fought with lips and teeth and tongue.
She bit his lower lip, hard enough to taste the coppery tang of blood.
He jerked back, breathing raggedly. A droplet of blood welled on the full curve of his lip. He stared at her, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a kind of furious wonder.
The sound started slow.
A single, soft clap. Then another.
Then mocking, steady applause.
They broke apart, turning as one toward the door.
Lord Thomas Howard leaned against the doorframe, one eyebrow elegantly arched. A thin, cold smile played on his lips. In his other hand, he held a thin stiletto dagger, tapping the blade idly against his palm.
“Bravo,” he drawled, his English accent crisp and out of place in the rough Scottish air. “Truly, a performance for the ages. The passionate reconciliation. How very… theatrical.”
James shifted immediately, placing his body slightly between Kate and the doorway. His posture changed from passionate to predatory in a heartbeat. “Howard,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “You have a talent for poor timing.”
“Do I?” Thomas pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the room. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over Kate’s flushed face, her kiss-swollen lips, James’s bleeding mouth. “Or is my timing impeccable? I came to check on our dear princess after her… stumble at the feast. To ensure her well-being in this nest of… high spirits.”
He let the implication hang. The dagger caught the firelight.
Kate felt a chill that had nothing to do with the stone walls. Thomas’s presence was a bucket of icy water. This was the reality. This sneaking, scheming world of blades and whispers. Her moment of reckless passion was now a weapon in the hands of a man who saw her only as a pawn.
“My well-being is fine,” Kate said, her voice steadier than she felt. She smoothed her gown, a pointless, reflexive gesture of composure.
“Oh, I can see that,” Thomas smirked. “Positively glowing. And you, Your Highness?” He nodded at James’s lip. “You seem to have cut yourself. You should be more careful. The Scots air can be… sharp.”
James didn’t touch his lip. He took a step toward Thomas, his movement fluid and deliberate. “The only sharp thing in this room is your tongue, Howard. And your blade. Sheath one of them before I lose my patience.”
The two men locked eyes. The silence was taut, a wire about to snap.
Thomas was the first to look away, but his smile never wavered. He gave a shallow, insolent bow. “Of course. Forgive the intrusion. I merely wished to remind the princess that her family is ever… attentive. We look forward to witnessing the official union tomorrow. A proper ceremony. Far more dignified than tonight’s… festivities.”
He turned, his cloak swirling, and was gone, the door clicking shut with a soft, final sound.
The room felt suddenly, unbearably empty and yet too full of what had just happened. Kate could still feel the press of James’s body, the taste of his blood. She could still hear Thomas’s slow, sarcastic applause.
James turned back to her. The bleeding had stopped, leaving a dark smudge on his lip. The fury was gone from his eyes, replaced by a weary, hardened resolve. He looked at her not as a woman he’d just kissed, but as a problem that had just escalated.
“Your keeper,” he said flatly.
“He is not my—”
“He is,” James interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “He’s here to make sure you do your duty, and to report every whisper back to your father. And now he has quite a story to tell.”
He walked to the hearth, picked up the silver flask he’d dropped, and took a long swallow. He did not offer it to her.
“You wanted to show me you weren’t afraid,” he said, staring into the fire. “Congratulations. You succeeded. You also handed a knife to a man who would love nothing more than to see this alliance fail. He will use this. He will use us.”
The weight of it crashed down on her. The childish triumph of the spilled wine, the wild impulse of the kiss—it all crumbled into ash. She had been playing at rebellion, and she had just stepped onto a real battlefield without armor.
“What do we do?” The question was out before she could stop it, small and lost in the vast room.
James finally looked at her. The firelight carved planes of shadow and gold on his face. “We get married tomorrow. We stand side by side. We present a united front. And you,” he said, walking toward the door, “will learn to fight your battles with more than wine and… theatrics.”
He paused at the door, his hand on the latch. He didn’t look back.
“And for God’s sake, lock your door.”
He left, closing it softly behind him.
Kate stood alone in the gilded cage, the ghost of his touch on her lips, the specter of Thomas Howard’s smirk in the air, and the cold, certain knowledge that the game had just become deadly. Outside, the wind moaned against the castle walls, a lonely sound that echoed perfectly the sudden, hollow silence within her.