Dedicated to a random commenter - thanks for your support @yulie_is_awsome :)

Chapter 5: One Step Forward (Part 2 of 2)

By midsummer, Amelia had taken to sitting idly for long hours in some obscure corner of the manor, devising new plans to rid herself of the marriage she'd never asked for. As the sweetest plum juices began to burst from their fire-red skins, the once-overflowing juices of mischief in her head were fast running dry.

Each day, she recounted to herself the efforts she'd expended on provoking Drake. She wanted to see him enraged, infuriated, aggravated to the point of an earth-shattering explosion—whatever would make him march his way to the Goddess Temple and demand an annulment. After all, they'd not consummated their marriage and neither of them had expressed a desire to.

But each day, the prospect of returning to her old life felt bleaker than the day before.

When he took that first bite of the sourest plum pie mankind had ever tasted, his face had scrunched up like a newborn babe on the verge of bursting into tears. Seconds later, with no more than a flash of outrage in his eyes, he'd recomposed himself into a stone statue of coolness and grace.

The next day, she had acquainted herself with the stable master, who'd kindly introduced her to Drake's beloved stallion. A sneaky jar of oil on his saddle later, Drake's plan to ride out with Henry, Skar and Isabella ended with him falling gracelessly on his buttocks with a loud curse. Despite becoming the object of a fortnight's jests and mockery, he'd conveyed no more disapproval of the event beyond that pithy curse.

The day after that, a thick coat of glue on Drake's seat had him stuck in the Great Hall for half a day, unable to protest before his people for fear of shame; unable to even lift his arms from the sticky armrests to feed on the food served under his nose. With smugness plastered all over her face, Amelia watched him blanch and struggle—quietly and discretely—to no avail. All those hours she sat beside him on the dais, sneering at him, waiting for him to utter the hateful words that would bring her freedom...

The words that never came. Not that day, not the next, not even after she had demanded William to take her to Drake's silk house and 'accidentally' splattered coloured dye over a crate of fine silk that was ready for shipment.

Desperate but unrelenting, she'd sunk as low as to peruse old tricks she'd tried on her father when she was but a child of five: the toad-in-the-bed, the worms-in-the-shoes, the laxative tea... He never so much as frowned a little.

Didn't Timo say Northerners hated royal ladies from the South? She had spent ten days ordering big dresses, coloured wigs, headdresses and face paints. She donned the awful things every day and daubed her cheeks red, blue, purple.

Against her own will, she made a habit of yelling at servants whenever he was present.

Where was the man that looked like he could strangle her? The man that scolded her for lighting firecrackers? Where was her freedom?

Amelia sat by herself in a shadowed corner of the manor library, her shoulders slumped from the heaviness of the foot-tall wig; yet even that was naught compared to the weight of the uncertainty that plagued her mind.

She had exhausted all the tricks up her sleeves, and he still had no harsh words or repulsive looks to throw at her. He was the ever-courteous, ever-polite and handsome Emir of Steersberg who greeted her as "sweet wife"—

Oh Amelia, his gainly appearance is no business of yours! she mentally scolded herself. Looking down into her lap, her ears pricked at the busy whispers drifting from the hallway.

"... I heard the Emira be crazy..."

"... I heard she put pigs in m'lord's bedchamber!"

"Aye, aye! Ah heard she been sneakin' 'round wit' that garden boy!"

"Oh, no she didn't!"

"Oh, she did! I saw with me own eyes!"

"Disgraceful!"

Amelia's lips curled into a sneer of self-mockery. The whispers behind her back had become as routine as her daily meals. As it seemed, women north and south ran their tongues. If there was no stopping them, she preferred to ignore them. But Drake must have heard them too. All his people thought her detestable, why wouldn't he?

"Oh, oh, and have yous heard, the other day, the Emira told little Mari to get her a hot tea. But when Mari came with the hot tea, she yelled at Mari for wanting to burn her throat. So Mari went and brought another cup of tea, and this time the Emira complained 'twasn't a hot tea!"

"Poor Mari!"

"I 'ope she does burn 'er throat! All that screamin' rah-rah wah-wah, can't 'member the last time I had slept a proper."

"Ah thought m'lord woulda married Lady Isabella. Then Lord Enache would come 'ere more..." The sound of girlish giggles echoed in the hall.

"Ya think the Emira bewitched—"

"Bewitching?" The whispering voices died abruptly with the rise of a stern one. Amelia lifted her head to see a plump figure appear at the doorway. "Who do you think you are to talk behind your lady like so? Shoo! Out with you yabbering witches! Out, out, out!" Marge waved her hand in dismissal before turning into the library.

Amelia smiled up at her maid's slow, waddling approach.

"My lady!" Marge exclaimed with her hands on her hips. "What are you doing sitting on the floor again?"

Amelia lifted her shoulders into a dainty little shrug and feigned a scowl. "Didn't I say to leave me be?"

"Not for this, my lady, not for this." Marge drew out a folded parchment from her sleeve and waved it in the air. "A letter from your father!"

With a squeal of excitement, Amelia snagged the parchment out of Marge's grasp and stared down at the gold wax seal. Her fingers trembled as they traced the embossed 'W' of House Weston.

In her determined ploy to find her way back home, she'd forgotten to write to the one person that meant home. Homesickness and shame fell over her like a heavy blanket, and her lips quivered with the onslaught of tears. From the corner of her blurring vision, she saw Marge retreat in understanding, shutting the heavy doors behind her.

Realising that she was, now, truly all alone, Amelia released the dam of emotions she had held inside since stepping foot on Northern soil.

* * *

'Twas a strange morning. Almost... frightening.

The sun had risen halfway into the clear sky, casting a soft golden glimmer over the satin bed sheets. In the distance, the birds chirped away merrily... When was the last time he heard the birds chirp in the morning? Drake frowned. The house was quiet. Far too quiet.

He sat up with a jolt. Amelia! Where is that screeching hellcat?

Despite his deliberate efforts to keep a 'safe' and respectful distance away from his wife, he had come to understand her a little more over the past few sennights. That is, if she wasn't screaming, she was scheming. And between the two evils, he knew which one he preferred.

Suddenly paranoid, he checked under his covers and glanced around his chamber for signs of unseemly creatures. Feeling pathetic about his newest morning ritual, he threw aside the covers with a frustrated grunt. It had taken five chambermaids an entire day to clean out the shite from the darned farm beasts. Everyday thereafter, she dished out more shite. No wonder married men liked to warn others not to let their wives climb atop their heads.

Ordinarily, he would have found a way to put an end to this already. Unfortunately for him, trouble came not in three, but a ton.

Pulling on his leather boots, he made sure to tuck a slim dagger in each. Bandits had been raiding the Westdawn Farmlands for the past moon; stealing goods, robbing villagers and killing workers, no doubt seeing his wedding as an opportunity to cause trouble. Daring lowlives, for who did not know that Westdawn housed the three richest farms in the Northern Lands? Heavily guarded by trained men from Henry, Skar and himself, Westdawn was near unbreachable. Yet they'd been able to slip through the patrols with an ease that did not belong to ordinary outlaws.

If only the matter was as simple as charging into a group of rebels and cutting them down. Already, productions in Westdawn had stilled. Most of the workers, fearing for their lives, had moved away and deserted his silk farms. Silk cloth was especially popular in the summer and stock was running low. To make matters worse, his dearest Lady Amelia had ruined a large shipment due for the Royal Court a fortnight ago.

However, as Duran had uncovered no evidence of any real malicious intent behind Amelia's antics, he had let her be and hoped that by his non-reaction she would bore herself before he had time to deal with her. But the wench had proved far too persistent for his liking. She kept him on edge, kept him alert, for even Duran could not always keep up with her tricks or report to him in time?

Just three nights ago, he had entered his private chambers without first checking his surroundings, and triggered a tripwire that brought down a bucket of cold ice upon his head. Aye, he was careless, but since when did carelessly entering one's own chambers in one's own manor become a mistake worthy of punishment?

Out on business, he wondered what tricks she would greet him with at home. While training with his men, he pondered on the ways by which she could be tamed. Even during dark hours of the night, it was Amelia's impish glares he saw in his mind. As much as it shamed him to admit, the unpredictable witch now haunted every waking moment of his days like no woman ever did, so much so he was overcome with unease when he lacked knowledge of her whereabouts or doings.

'Tis why, following a brief meeting with Henry, he was unpleasantly surprised to see a relaxed Duran leaning against the wall outside the library.

"I told you to watch her," Drake said grimly.

"She's not doing anything now," Duran responded with an unconcerned shrug.

Oh aye, mayhap if pigs could fly she'd be doing nothing. "Where is she?"

"In there." Duran jerked his thumb at the set of closed library doors.

"How long has she been in there?"

"All morning. Three hours at least," Duran grumbled and yawned, and took this opportunity to throw an annoyed look at his lord, who thought to 'demote' him to a mad lady's secret watchman.

Drake's brow crinkled into a suspicious frown. "Three hours? Does she even read?" He doubted a hellcat could sit and read quietly, let alone for three— Gods be cursed, if this woman had decided to wreak havoc in the library the books were no match for her.

"I s'pose so. Her maid gave her a letter then left."

"A letter?" What letter was more important to her than tormenting him?

"From home, methinks."

All of a sudden, it became clear to Drake why his little wife had made it her life mission to be the thorn in his side. How had he not guessed? She had a lover, they remained in contact, and she still loved him... He knew not what made his legs carry him to the library so hastily. He wanted to... wanted to make sure she wasn't... about to set fire to his books—Aye, that was it! He was saving books.

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not ignore the strange bitter taste on his tongue.

Upon entering the library, glaring sunlight from vast open windows assaulted and blinded his eyes. No books burned; just the unmistakable small figure, curled up on the floor in a shadowed corner. In the warm, bright room, Amelia let darkness envelop her like a shroud. She hugged her knees to her chest, her forehead rested atop them, and in those slender fingers she clutched the paper that brought her sorrow.

He took slow steps towards her, wondering for a brief second if this was another of her tricks. But he dismissed the thought, for the sadness that emanated from her surpassed even the awkwardness of her fat yellow dress and ludicrous blue wig. Blue?

As he came within a couple feet's reach of her, he caught the sound of her quiet sobs. The bitterness increased.

It was not until he crouched before her on one knee and placed his hands on her trembling shoulders that she raised her tear-streaked face to his. For the first time, he realised how fair his wife really was. Her tears had washed away most of the powder on her face, and the blotchy remnants of them failed to conceal her smooth, sun-kissed complexion. As she blinked, a single teardrop fell from her lashes, leaving a glistening trail down to her quivering lips—so pink and full after she had licked away the dreadful red—

"Papa!" Amelia cried and threw her arms around a stunned Drake.

"Amelia?" He tried to pull away, but she whimpered and clamped her arms tighter about his neck.

"Don't leave me, I promise I'll be good," she continued to sob, nuzzling into his shoulder like a young child seeking solace. "Don't leave me."

Sweet Goddess, what fancy words did the man write to turn this witch into a puddle of affectionate mess? Even as Drake thought curiously—and somewhat sourly—upon Amelia's lover, he instinctively closed his arms around her and gingerly caressed her back. Almost immediately, her sobbing subsided.

The thin piece of parchment fell from her fingers and landed beside his knee. 'Twas a short letter, its masculine script affirming his suspicions. Drake craned his neck to read:

'Dear Amelia,

I trust you are well.

Take care.'

That was it? That was all it took to tame the Wild Witch of the South? His eyes traversed lower to the writer's signature, the black ink smudged by a droplet of tear. N-Nic... Veston? The name sounded so familiar... Oh. He shook his head and admonished himself for his stupidity. Nicholas Weston. The Duke of Marlborough. His father-in-law. At once, the bitterness died.

"Papa..." Amelia snivelled.

She may not have a lover, but mistaking him for a man past his forties was not acceptable. "Amelia, I am Drake." He tried once again to pull her arms off of him.

Like the giant tentacles of a sea monster, her grip tightened around him. "Don't leave me..." She wept violently again, this time wiping a combination of wet tears and snot on Drake's shirt.

A disgruntled sigh later, he relented. For reasons he could not explain, he found himself quite willing to oblige.

With the ease of picking up a babe, he scooped her onto his lap, though not without cursing her large dress in the process. In that moment, all he wanted was to shield the fair flower from the winds that dishevelled her.

Truth be told, he despised crying women. After his father's death twelve years ago, his mother had spent many years more interested in wallowing in her own misery than her son's upbringing, and as a youth he was forced to watch her wither away. But for a merciless creature like Amelia, tears only served to make her seem more human.

She chose this moment to remove her face from his chest and stare up at him through eyes that reminded him of an iced lake, one which held waters that gleamed a clear blue beneath a layer of icy resolve. Waters he could sink right into and drown in if he wasn't careful. He brushed away a tear on her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Another fell. This time, he dipped his head and kissed it away.

Their gazes locked once more. He searched for a hint of doubt, she conveyed none. With one hand cupping the back of her neck and the other snaking around her waist, he pulled her into him and pressed another gentle kiss to her cheek. And another. And another. Her eyelids fluttered close and she tilted her head back, as if inviting more. With every breath, the smallest movement of her parted lips hypnotised him, enticed him. "I won't leave," he whispered, just before capturing her lips with his own.

Despite the ludicrous blueness of Amelia's hair, despite all the ways she grated on his nerves and made him question his sanity, he gave into the slow warmth that spread and seeped into him from their joined lips. And he held her, cooed her, kissed her. And she kissed back.

He revelled in the dance of their lips, tenderness to fierceness, drunk on the intoxicating sensation of hatred-turned-affection. Naught else mattered, not until—

He only caught one glimpse of her horrified expression before he felt that familiar, sharp blow to the side of his cheek—again.