Running to the Army to Escape my Bride-to-be - 2

Long before the day I heard the thunder of Mensaean hooves, before the blood and smoke of Castel Ford, there was another meeting that changed the course of my life. I was seventeen then, fresh from the academy at Stellasophia, with my commission still smelling of wax and ink. My sword had never been bloodied, my uniform never torn by ball or bayonet. I thought myself a man of the world—until that summer’s afternoon when I first met her.

My mother, the Countess Maritia d’Arpad, had summoned me home “for a most important introduction.” I imagined some local dignitary, perhaps a political ally of hers. Never did I expect the truth: she had arranged for me to meet my betrothed.

The gates of Santo opened to the warm embrace of home—fields golden under the sun, the soft whisper of olive branches swaying in the breeze. I could smell lavender and fresh bread drifting from the kitchens. And there, waiting in the courtyard, was my mother herself, her silvery hair caught up beneath a lace veil, her gown rich but not ostentatious.

She hurried forward the instant I stepped down from the carriage, her arms already outstretched. “My son!” she cried, gathering me into a fierce embrace before I could so much as bow. “You’ve grown thinner. Too thin. Have they been feeding you enough at that dreadful academy?”

“I’ve been well, Mother—”

“Nonsense, you look pale. I told you not to go to that accursed place! We’ll have you to the kitchens immediately. No, first the baths. Oh, and your room—your sheets have been aired, and your old writing desk polished. I made sure—”

“Mother,” I said with a small smile, “I’m fine.”

She gave me a fond, exasperated look, smoothing my hair like I was still a boy. “You’ll forgive me if I wish to keep my son alive and in one piece. And… speaking of keeping you…” She turned slightly, her eyes brightening. “There is someone you must meet.”

I followed her gaze—and there she was.

Lady Mária-Lujza Bernadett d’Aurillai, Countess of Aritia.

She stood just behind my mother, hands folded gracefully before her, posture perfect. She was the image of demure elegance—an ivory gown with gold embroidery, a ribbon of black velvet at her throat clasped with a golden rose. Her long dark hair, nearly black, was braided and twisted into a coronet that shimmered in the sunlight.

Her eyes—emerald, clear, and warm—lifted to mine with a smile so flawless it could have been painted.

“My lord Francisco,” she said in a voice like soft music, dipping into a curtsy so deep it might have pleased a queen. “It is an honor to finally meet you. Your mother has spoken of you with such pride.”

I bowed automatically. “Lady Mária-Lujza, the honor is mine.”

She stepped forward with a lightness that seemed almost ethereal, her gaze never leaving mine. “I prayed for this day,” she said, her tone tender enough to melt the coldest heart. “To meet the man God has chosen for me… for us to walk together in virtue and duty. I only hope I can be worthy of you.”

My mother beamed, clearly enchanted. “Is she not the sweetest creature you’ve ever seen?”

“She… is certainly gracious,” I said.

Mária-Lujza laughed softly at that, her cheeks coloring faintly—as though she were shy. But there was something else in her eyes, something neither  my mother nor I, at the time, could see. Not shyness. Not modesty. It was too quick, too sharp.

Possession.

When she took my hand in hers, her fingers were warm and delicate… but her grip was just a fraction too tight, her thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist as though committing it to memory.

“I have waited for you a very long time, my lord,” she whispered so low my mother could not hear. “And I do not like waiting.”

Then she stepped back, smile perfect once more, and my mother laughed, already speaking of the dinner she had prepared.

I should have been charmed. Any sensible man would have been. Yet even then—before I ever saw her true nature—I felt it, a prickle at the back of my neck. The sense that I was not meeting a gentle lady of a back country estate, but a hunter who had finally cornered her prey.

Years later, amidst the roar of guns and the blood-soaked earth of war, amongst the dead and dying, I did not fear, yet I would remember that smile and shudder. For the first battlefield I ever stepped upon was not against Mensaean hussars or wretched Drachan freikorps—it was in my mother’s courtyard, standing before the lady of Aritia.