Early morning darkness still blanketed his bedroom when Doranis woke the first time from a deep sleep. He rolled onto his side, reaching for the sleek, warm body of his lover. His eyes snapped open when his hands found empty space, and he peered into the shadows of his room, trying to locate Castil. Shuffling noises from his bathing room reassured him that she had left his bed only to answer nature’s call. He dragged her pillow close and pressed his face into its softness, content simply to inhale her scent while he waited for her return.

Some might say he was obsessed, consumed by a craving for a plain, unremarkable woman who didn’t compare with the stunning beauties of the Helenese court, or even the foreign infantas who vied for the position of second wife and royal consort. Doranis paid no attention to their puzzled conjectures. Castil il Veras was the summer sun to him—warm, beautiful, sometimes painfully intense.

He jealously guarded the brief, private hours he reserved for her during the day in the library, and all soon learned that to disturb him during those moments incited an icy, formidable anger. She was good company, lighthearted and quick to laugh when he told her a humorous tale or offered some caustic, witty comment that sometimes made her gasp or choke on a giggle. She handled herself with confidence among the nobility of his own court, as much at home there as she had been among the Caskadanian boyars.

After their heated interlude by the spring, their relationship took a decided turn. There was no returning to the guarded, simmering longing that always lurked beneath the surface when they dealt with each other. Doranis knew of her continued visits to the burial vault, the shadow of guilt that sometimes lurked in her gray eyes, but it didn’t stop her from embracing him with the same insatiable hunger he felt for her.

In the weeks that followed their first coupling, he took her numerous times, introducing her to the many joys of lovemaking. Long days of craving her were punctuated by even longer nights of loving her. As the winter days lengthened with the approach of spring, his need for her remained sharp, lingering. It went beyond the realm of the physical, for he thrived in her presence, was cheered by the simple pleasure of her sitting next to him in the library, reading through a scroll. And there was no doubting that she loved Joris, as much for the fact that he was a sweet child as that he was Kareena’s son.

Doranis drifted off to sleep again, waiting for her to return, and it was much later that he awakened, the sun having risen at least two hours earlier. Castil was not beside him, but he shrugged off the uneasy feeling that began to blossom. It was likely that she’d returned to her rooms.

His disquiet only increased as the hours passed and he caught no glimpse of her in his daily routine. And when she didn’t appear for their usual meeting in the library, his disquiet became full-blown alarm. He strode out of the room and headed for the burial vaults, praying he’d find her there. It was silent as always, no living soul to keep the dead monarchs company on that day. The two nursemaids jumped in unison when he burst into Joris’s nursery, his eyes bright with rage.

“Have you seen Madam il Veras?” he snapped and they stared at him in confusion and no little fear.

One, a woman named Ursa, placed the baby gently in his bed and turned back to the angered king, her expression bewildered. “I thought you knew, Sire. She stopped here this morning to say goodbye to the babe before joining the caravan leaving for the docks.”

Doranis turned abruptly on his heel, closing the door quietly behind him so as not to frighten his son.

The servants weren’t spared. They flattened themselves against the walls as he passed them, frightened by the savage anger on the king’s pallid features.

The caravans! He wanted to bellow his rage, slam his fist into the nearest door, or blister the ears of the woman who suddenly decided this morning to rip his heart out of his chest and carry it off with her.

A servant, suffering from unfortunate timing, crossed his path as he strode to his chambers.

“You,” Doranis snarled, and the man blanched in terror. “Get to the stables and have them ready Peresil.” He didn’t bother to watch the man sprint down the corridor as if demons snapped at his heels.

Minutes later the king slammed into the stables, cloaked and hooded, his eyes outlined in the customary kohl to protect them from snow blindness. “Where is Peresil?” he roared, growing more furious and panicked as time slipped through his fingers, and the trade caravans rolled ever closer to the docks.

A groom rushed out from the safety of one of the stalls, the big bay stallion trotting behind him. He barely had time to leap out of the way before the king vaulted into the saddle and kicked the horse into a hard gallop through the open stable doors.

Peresil flew across the snow-covered terrain, sure-footed and quick. Soon, the tail end of the caravan came into view, a straggling, haphazard line of wagons and shaggy mountain ponies dusted in a light snowfall.

Surprised exclamations and welcoming cries greeted Doranis when many of the Helenese recognized their monarch racing toward them. Wagons slowed to a creaking stop, ponies brought up short on their reins as the tradesmen halted to bow their respects. Doranis gave a quick nod, his kohl-darkened eyes sweeping the line of carts in search of a small, dark-haired woman.

“Castil il Veras!” he shouted. “Show yourself!”

A short, uneasy silence reigned before Castil, wrapped in her thin southern cloak and scarves, jumped down from the back of one of the enclosed wagons and walked slowly toward him. Her eyes were both sad and questioning. She bowed briefly.

“To what do I owe this honor, Your Majesty?”

He guided Peresil closer, leaned down and lifted her into the saddle to sit in front of him. The caravan leader gawked at them for a moment, then shrugged and set the wagons to moving once more. Whatever went on between the king and his foreign consort was no concern of his. He had goods to deliver.

Doranis rode a short distance away before stopping. He dismounted and reached up to help Castil off the stallion. She stood before him, clutching her shawl tightly around her, unwilling to meet his eyes. He huffed out an impatient exhalation and whipped his cloak off to shroud her in its warmth. “You have no business wearing that useless scrap of wool in weather like this. This isn’t Caskadan. You would have frozen before you reached the docks.”

She snuggled into the heavy garment. A tiny smiled touched her lips before fading. “So you’re rescuing me then.”

“From your own wrong assumptions? Yes.” His fury swelled once more. “How dare you,” he said, the words bitter and pained.

She paled, and tears made her gray eyes glossy. “I never wanted to hurt you, Doranis, but I don’t belong here. My home is to the south, my place at a scribe’s table.”

His frustrated growl made Peresil shy away from him. “Your home is here, your place with me.” He flung out a hand toward the distant fortress. “Why won’t you make your peace with Kareena? She is dead, Castil,” he snapped. “I meant nothing to her. Why do you persist in this unwarranted guilt? In thinking you’ve somehow betrayed her?”

“You’re her husband!”

“I’m her widower!”

They stared at each other, locked at an impasse until Castil blew out a resigned breath.

“This isn’t just about Kareena, Sire,” she said in much gentler tones. “This is about you.” His eyebrows shot up. “You are a king, widowed yet still bound. To your country and your station. As I am to mine. You must marry again, a woman of high status. I can’t bear to see that. I refuse to.”

Doranis gaped at her, the relief surging through him so euphoric, it almost made his knees buckle. So that was it. Foolish, foolish woman; one he loved more than life itself. He grasped her shoulders, torn between the need to embrace her and the desire to shake her. He cupped her face instead, her cheeks warm under his cold hands, her expression anguished.

“You’re partially right. I am bound to Helenrisia, but as king, I’ve fulfilled my duty to the line. I married for my country, gave it another heir. The woman I next take to wife will be of my choosing, and she’s an untrusting sort. Lovely but quick to judge and find me wanting.” He offered her a wry smile. “Still, I find myself loving her despite her doubts impugning my character.”

The tears welling on her lower lids spilled over to drip down her cheeks. Doranis gathered her into his arms, and she sobbed. He stroked her back, talking to her while she sniffled into his shirt. “We’re going to freeze out here in no time. You’ll return home with me to the Maiden,” he said in his most imperious tones.

That did exactly what he hoped. The crying stopped and the tears dried. She stepped back, sniffled some more and raised her chin in a defiant gesture.

“Are you asking or commanding?”

His lips twitched. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, the tip of her nose equally crimson. He had never known a more beautiful woman. “Which will most readily bring you home with me?”

This time it was she who drew him into a fierce embrace and pressed an equally fierce kiss to his mouth. “Either one,” she said when they came up for air. “Home is where you are.”