Boi Bride Page 2

  And this was just the beginning of the rest of a life filled with snide comments and derisive looks. It wasn’t only going to be his people who would view him as something unnatural and worthy of scorn. In the whole history of the Moorcondian people, surely there had never been another male duchess. He would be an oddity—a boy dressed as a girl, with everyone pretending that he really was, for the sake of a treaty. No one would direct their contempt toward the prince, either. He was a powerful man and, therefore a dangerous person to mock or disapprove of—and impervious to the perceptions of others, regardless. No, it would be Taryn who would bear the brunt of this contrived marriage. He was going to go from the frying pan into the fire and would never have imagined his life could get worse. The situation was so ludicrous that he kept having to stifle a nervous giggle that threatened to burst past his lips.

  He drained his cup of the appalling wine that his father’s vintners had produced to choke back making any sound and to hide his feelings. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, but not as bitter as the knowledge that he would soon be expected to lie beneath the larger, foreign man sitting beside him. He stole another look, as he’d done since being escorted to his seat on the dais. Prince Soren, Duke of Vostguard, was an imposing man, the very sort that he had always pictured Moorcondians to be. It was easy to grow tall and strong when you were born and raised on grassy hills that seemed to soar up to kiss the sky. They didn’t have to scramble for everything in the dark muck like the Marshers. He felt small and puny in comparison, because he was. Among his own people, he’d always been unimpressive in size and strength. How much worse would it be to live among the beautiful Moorcondians?

  Taryn shifted his gaze to his plate and broke off a piece of bread to eat in an effort to appease his queasy stomach. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t stop his focus from wandering to his right again. His husband’s appearance was fascinating, if nothing else, so different from his own and that of the Marshers around them. In contrast to the paleness of Taryn’s people, Prince Soren’s skin had the healthy burnished glow of one who spent many days under the sun. His face was angular, with hairless cheeks that were sharp and prominent. Green irises—a shade reminding Taryn of his own—were set into oval eyes. It was an unusual color for his people, but perhaps common among the Moorcondians. The prince’s hair was of a lighter shade of brown than Taryn’s and held back in a simple queue. In short, the man was magnificent, a feast to look upon. In this one way perhaps Taryn’s new life would be tolerable.

  He was also conflicted in his reaction to his husband. He shouldn’t find the prince attractive. It wasn’t natural for a man to view another in such a way. And it wasn’t just about liking what he saw. The moment he’d put his hand within Soren’s for the ceremony, dueling sparks of fear and comfort had overcome him. Here was someone who could inflict real pain if he had a mind to. Compared to Soren, Taryn’s father and brother looked like mud toads, and yet they had made his life a misery with their meaty fists. Still, there had been something reassuring in the way the prince had clasped his hand—firm without being controlling—that had implied he would protect Taryn from anyone at that moment. Taryn wasn’t sure which of his reactions to trust. It didn’t seem possible that both could be right. In his experience, strength and power were weapons and nothing more.

  Taryn’s thoughts made his stomach more jittery so that eating became impossible. All he’d managed was a few pieces of bread, and the prospect of consuming more of it made him sick. Wine was the only thing that had any appeal. Although he rarely drank, this night was as good a time as any to begin. It would numb the pain of what was to come. But when he gestured to the serving girl to refill his cup, the Moorcondian turned from his conversation with Taryn’s father to place his hand over it.

  “The duchess will have water.” The command was spoken in an even voice, yet brooking no dispute. The serving girl hurried to comply.

  Taryn couldn’t help glaring at the prince. “Do I not have a say in what I drink now?” He hated the petulant tone but had no more emotional reserves to guard his tongue. He braced himself for a blow.

  Soren looked at him with equanimity. There was no venom in his eyes. “Drinking more than is wise will not make this night any better. I speak with a great deal of experience in this matter.” He frowned. “You are also not eating much.”

  Taryn couldn’t help raising his chin in defiance. “I’m not hungry.”

  A quizzical look came of Soren’s face. “You don’t seem comfortable here, either.”

  That was certainly true. Taryn took as many of his meals as possible in the remoteness of his own small room. He preferred the quiet, and it allowed him to read while he ate. Not that he was willing to admit anything to this man. “I’m tired, that’s all.” The moment the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake.

  Soren craned his neck to look at the soldier who hovered behind his chair like a bird of prey. “Rolf, please escort the duchess to my tent.” Returning his gaze to Taryn, he added, “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t keep you waiting for long. We leave at first light and have a few days’ journey home.”

  Tears pricked at Taryn’s eyes. He batted his lashes quickly to hold them at bay, then stopped for fear his groom would think he was flirting. It was hard not to cry at the idea of leaving everything he’d known, however bleak it had been, for some foreign place. He wanted to shout at the prince that Moorcondia would never be his home. Pride and hard-learned lessons about the cost of disobedience had him instead pushing away from the table and standing. He jolted when the soldier pulled the chair back to give him room to leave the table.

  “Thank you,” Taryn managed to say before heading down the length of the great hall to leave. Everyone’s eyes were upon him, even as they continued to talk among themselves. There were a few open titters at his expense. He ignored them as he’d always done, sailing from the great hall with as much dignity as he could manage. Oddly, the swishing of his unfamiliar skirts helped him feel as if he were armored against the others’ contempt. The fresh night air was a balm to his nerves, and the relative quiet of the outside was also a welcome relief.

  The soldier overtook him. “With your permission, your grace, I will lead you to the prince’s tent.”

  Taryn nodded, even as he took his place behind the man. “You don’t have to keep up the pretense with no one about to hear. I’m only a Marsher.”

  The soldier stopped abruptly, forcing Taryn to do the same, and turned to face him. “Your pardon, but there is no pretense. I am Rolf of the Outer Vale, liege man to Prince Soren, Duke of Vostguard. You are his duchess. I will always treat you with the respect of your position, even if I’m struggling to sort out the pronouns,” he added with a wry grin that disarmed Taryn, despite his trepidation.

  “You are not alone in that,” Taryn allowed, his own lips twitching. Was he going to have to get used to everyone referring to him as ‘she’ and ‘her’? Had he lost his identity as a male for the rest of his life? He was sure no one had the answer to that question, because substituting him as the Moorcondian prince’s bride had been a last-ditch effort to save the treaty. There was no precedent for how exactly this ridiculous situation was supposed to work. If there had been, the Moorcondian wouldn’t have questioned the legality of it. Taryn’s life had become a social experiment, the gods help him.

  The liege man continued to stare at him. “Forgive my forwardness, your grace, but the prince is a good man. All who serve him would tell you so. There is not a Moorcondian man here who would not lay down his life for him.”

  While somewhat comforted by these unsolicited words, Taryn also knew that men valued traits in other men that he did not. “I accept your sincerity, Rolf of the Outer Vale, but I am not one of his soldiers.” With that said, he started walking again, sure that Rolf would take him to the right place, whether Taryn liked it or not.

  As it turned out, he could have found the tent on its own. It was larger than the others and had a picture
of a rampant horse on the side. He knew from the prince’s standard that it was Soren’s coat of arms. Rolf lifted the large flap to allow him to enter easily. The inside was just as impressive, although not overly ostentatious. A teenage boy about his own age popped up from where he’d been sitting, mending a garment. He bowed low at the sight of Taryn.

  “Good evening, your grace.” Word had traveled apparently as the boy didn’t show any signs of surprise at what his new duchess looked like.

  Rolf stepped past Taryn. “This is Sam, your grace, one of the prince’s squires.” He cleared his throat briefly. “If you are amenable, he will help you prepare for the night…or I can fetch someone else?”

  Taryn clenched the sides of his skirts. He wanted to tell everyone to get out, but the laces to his dress were in the back, so he did need help. And another boy would be preferable to revisiting the awkwardness of relying on his sister’s former maid.

  He nodded briefly. “Sam will do nicely, thank you.”

  The squire smiled broadly. “It will be my privilege, your grace. Please let me know of whatever you need.”

  Rolf also smiled as well, clearly happy for the issue to be resolved so easily, and he bowed to Taryn as the squire had. Apparently the Moorcondians were fond of the gesture. “Then I bid you good night, your grace. I’m sure the prince will join you soon.” The man hurried out.

  That was just as well, because it was on the tip of Taryn’s tongue to ask him if that was supposed to be reassuring or a warning. Either way, there was nothing more to do than prepare for his wedding night. A shiver ran through him at the thought, although whether it was fear or something else, he couldn’t say. Because it made his heart pound to even think about his reaction, he concentrated on the mundane.

  Turning around, he said, “Would you please unlace the back? And I would appreciate a bowl of warm water and a cloth to cleanse my skin.” The great hall had been hot with all those bodies packed in, and he felt sweaty. If nothing else, pride dictated that he not go to his marriage bed dirty.

  * * * *

  It turned out that his marriage bed was actually a thick and soft pallet that put his moss-filled mattress to shame. There was nothing for him to complain about regarding either his treatment or his surroundings. Sam had been quietly efficient, catering to Taryn’s needs with little fuss, no talk and not even a hint of derision at helping another boy prepare to be deflowered by his husband. Perhaps this really was nothing to the Moorcondians. He couldn’t be so sanguine as he lay under a cotton sheet, wearing only a short, white shift that Sam had plucked seemingly from out of thin air. He stared up at the top of the tent with a pounding heart and a queasy stomach. The sound of Soren entering made him gasp.

  “It is only I.”

  Taryn nearly giggled at the idea that the prince thought those words were comforting. He glanced in the man’s direction without comment before returning to his survey of what stood above him. Too late, he realized he should have feigned sleep. Perhaps that would have encouraged the prince to leave him be for the night. But no, that was wishful thinking. Powerful men took what they wanted with little consideration for others. On the other hand, maybe Soren didn’t intend to do more than say the vows that bound them for the sake of the treaty. He might ignore Taryn entirely.

  “Sam has been very thorough, I see. Good lad.” Soren sounded almost amused. Taryn dared to look in his direction and saw him holding up a small vial. Soren approached the corner where the pallet and Taryn lay and placed the bottle on the large rug spread across the ground under the tent. “Oil. It will make matters easier.” The man smiled as if he expected Taryn to be pleased before beginning to strip himself of his own clothing.

  Taryn whipped his face away so as not to stare at the male body being unveiled. He felt as if his heart were climbing up his throat. “You don’t have to do that. We’ve done what was needed. There is no point in continuing with this sham of a marriage.”

  There was a sigh, then Soren said, “Taryn, look at me. Look. At. Me,” he repeated when Taryn didn’t immediately comply.

  Taryn forced his head to turn and was surprised to find the prince already nude, crouched beside the pallet and with his large cock sticking straight up between his legs. “Thank you. I prefer that when you speak to me, you look me in the eye and don’t ignore my commands. I am a soldier first and foremost and don’t like having to repeat myself. And I really don’t like the idea of having a disagreement on our wedding night.”

  Desperation gave Taryn the courage to push the issue. “This isn’t really a marriage. It’s a contrivance to seal the treaty.”

  Soren appeared taken aback by that statement. “It most certainly is a real marriage. The officiant is recognized in both our countries, and I, for one, meant my vows.”

  “To provide for, protect and cherish with all that I have.” They were just words, spoken all the time. Had the prince really meant them? And even if he had, it was duty, and that was all.

  “To love, honor and give fealty to for all my days.” Taryn had said those words because everyone had expected him to. Whether he meant them or not wasn’t something he had considered, and no one cared, regardless. Whether he loved his husband or not was irrelevant. He was expected to pretend to. Such was the price of appeasing male pride.

  “But I’m a boy!”

  Soren smiled. “Indeed, yet wiser heads than ours have decreed that fact irrelevant.”

  “It must matter to you.” Having made no plan while waiting, Taryn thought surely he could reason his way out of this predicament. Soren could find some willing woman to stick that massive thing between his legs into—someone who actually wanted it.

  Liar! As if you don’t.

  “Not really. Your father was right when he pointed out that we Moorcondians are flexible when it comes to our bed partners. I’ve lain with many men, especially when out campaigning. There aren’t a lot of women soldiers, and those who exist don’t necessarily want to bed men. It makes for a narrow pool of prospects.”

  “Surely you want a woman to give you children. I can’t, and your duty as a prince and a duke is to procreate as much as you can.” Taryn thought his logic was unassailable, although whether they could put their marriage aside after some period of time was something he would have to research.

  Soren wasn’t impressed with the point. “I already have children, an heir plus more. You will meet them in a few days’ time because I have them living in the palace with me instead of at the seat of my duchy.” The man’s expression turned sad for a moment. “Since their mother died, I have wanted to keep them close.”

  Taryn felt an instinctive desire to reach out a comforting hand, then stayed the impulse and gripped the sheet instead. He couldn’t allow himself to let down his guard. He had no idea what kind of viper’s nest he was moving into.

  Soren took hold of a corner of the sheet to raise it. “It is late, and while you can sleep the journey away in the carriage I brought for your comfort, I would prefer not falling out of my saddle due to tiredness.”

  Taryn’s grip on the cover tightened to keep Soren from exposing him. “Why not just go to sleep then? No one has to know what we did or did not do in here.”

  Soren furrowed his brow. “My squires will know. They clean my linens, don’t you know? They are good lads, loyal to a fault, but everyone is prone to gossip, and I will not have it said that we didn’t consummate our marriage properly or put them in a position of lying to protect me if they are ever questioned on the matter. The joining of our bodies is essential to make the treaty binding. Do you not know that?”

  When Taryn shook his head because he hadn’t understood the laws governing such matters, the man whipped the sheet off and tossed it aside. Taryn was no match for his strength. Exposed now, he tugged at the hem of his shift, aware of how much of his legs was showing. “I don’t want to do this.” He hated how pathetic he sounded. Worse, he worried that his words lacked conviction because of the conflict swirling inside him.


  Soren settled beside him on the pallet and put his hand on Taryn’s knee. The touch was jolting in more ways than one. His dick stirred, and he ruthlessly suppressed it as he’d learned to do years ago.

  “I understand you’re nervous, as all virgins are. I promise I can make this pleasurable for you if you will let me try.”

  Taryn shook his head, determined not to be seduced by those words and the coaxing way they’d been uttered. “No! I won’t like it. You’re going to stick that thing of yours where it doesn’t belong. It’s not natural,” he added because he’d heard that said over and over again, usually during a beating when he’d dropped his guard and let his eyes wander where they shouldn’t.

  Soren sighed again and slid his hand up under the hem of the shift, pushing aside Taryn’s fingers with ease. “What adults consent to do with each other is always natural. That is how we Moorcondians view it.”

  “I am not consenting,” Taryn retorted through clenched teeth. But do I really mean it?

  Soren closed his eyes for a moment, a pained look on his face. Then he stared at Taryn. “I know. This has not been your choice, nor mine. But the time for refusing has passed. We are married now, and like it or not, certain behavior is expected of us. If rumors start flying that the marriage is a sham, it could put the treaty at risk. I will not do that to my people, nor allow you to. I can make it good for you,” he repeated, “if you let me.”