Of Marriage and Murder ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 1

eighteen : of love and lies

They had begun sleeping together.

Not in the carnal sense, mind you - in the sense of sharing a bed. For warmth, for pretence, for company - what did it matter to her as long as it was not for love?

Only, it mattered now, this morning, the last morning. Back in Arlea they had slept in the same bed, but she had always gotten up before him, or he before her. She had never before awoken to find his presence warming her as well as sunlight and his arms tight around her just as the sheets were, with her cheek against the hollow of his throat. Startled and embarrassed, Natasha had tried to shift from his grasp, but he had clung to her, had murmured something into her hair that sounded alarmingly like, "Stay."

So she did, nestling into his chest and breathing him in: he smelled like the ocean, like salt and sand. Like happier days, and laughter untrammelled by grief or sorrow. She pressed a kiss to his collarbone. He was warm, vibrant, and she was more content than she had been in ages. There was no work to throw herself into, no loneliness squeezing on her heart, no mask to wear; she was simply one half of a married couple, who happened to be in bed with each other.

He was solid, the strength of his body palpable even in sleep. Natasha ought to have been scared, perhaps on edge; here was a man who had every reason to dislike her, with whom she lay in bed. But instead she felt safe, protected, with his body wrapped around hers. As though she could finally stop running, stop chasing, stop longing for something that would never return.

Connor woke, his breath stirring her hair, his lips brushing her forehead before his eyes opened. And widened, staring at her with - with tenderness. And that hurt her more than if he had leapt from the bed in horror - because awe? Affection? Those things could be taken from you. Those were things you could lose.

And God knew, Natasha Blackmore hated to lose. So she tried to leave instead, wriggling free from his body. "Good morning."

"I hadn't realized that meant goodbye." His hands slid from her back to her sides, pulling her closer. "What's the harm in staying a while?"

Everything. I have everything to lose, everything at stake. As for you - your body may want me right now, in the moment, with the lust that strikes us like lightning and leaves just as quickly. But what will be left when it is over? I will be alone again, and a burnt-out shell of what I was. No. Better to never love at all, than to lose it.

Natasha spoke none of her thoughts aloud, but instead gave into him, let him embrace her. His mouth was hot on hers, his body above her, with its strong muscles and gentle touch. Then there was nothing but bare skin between them, and she could not tell where she ended and he began. When he kissed her, she forgot everything she was supposed to be, and remembered only what she was. She was not the queen of Arlea, not the last Blackmore, not even Natasha.

She was just a girl, and with Connor's body and heat and scent surrounding her, she could not think of a single reason not to be.

• • • 

When it was over, they were quiet, the only sound their mingled breaths filling the room. There was something secure in the way Connor held her, close to his body, her head over his heart. Steady, stable, constant.

But he was not. He was unpredictable, in love with a girl halfway across the world, and he most likely despised her despite their truce and their marriage. There was no peace here with him, and Natasha needed to remember that. Could do nothing but remember that.

She got out of bed, and he let her go. His expression was serene, at peace, like a sleeping child's, and she turned away from him. Staggering into the other room, she tied her dressing gown tightly around her waist, the cool silk a refreshing sensation against her heated skin. Her body felt warm, flushed, overwhelmed by the feel of him: every place his skin had made contact with hers, she burned.

Before, she had been icy cold, unyielding, a block of marble. Now, after, she felt changed by him, shaped and moulded and carved into a figure she did not recognize. One she did not want to know.

The thought struck her like a blow, a bolt of fear, and she straightened, drawing in breath, dragging it into her lungs to compose herself.

"Frances!" she called the maid. "Do prepare the luggage; we'll be leaving this afternoon. And tell Lord White to remove himself from my chambers. I should not like to see him until luncheon."

"Yes, your majesty," the maid responded, her fair head bowed in a curtsy before she set off to work packing the queen's bags, bundling gowns and hats and shoes into leather-bound cases.

Thankfully, the maid was true to her word. Natasha did not set eyes on her husband until noon, when they met for dim sum in the palace dining room. The space had been converted into a more intimate setting, with only a small table set with two places across from each other. Connor was already there, head in his hands. When the servant pulled out her chair with a scraping noise, he looked up, and the expression that flickered over his face... it was not only lust. It was something genuine, the truth at the heart of him, beneath the jovial banter and irritating smirks. Then it was gone.

She clenched her fists, and found herself wishing the trip was not yet over so soon.

And the responding look on his face, the gaze that flicked over her body as strongly as a touch would, made her think he felt the same.