The warm light of candles danced around the room, throwing golden shadows over the luxurious silk sheets. Amelia lay with her back to Claude, his body heat spreading into hers even though she had tried to place a little distance between them.
She hadn't intended for this to occur. Again.
And yet, there they were.
Claude moved behind her, the mattress sagging beneath his weight as he let out a deep breath. His arm, flung over her waist in his sleep, tightened a little, drawing her closer.
Amelia's heart raced.
She should wake him, shove him off her, remind him that they were not the sort of husband and wife who slept together like this. And yet… she didn't.
She rolled onto her side, closing her eyes and letting herself relax, listening to the even rise and fall of Claude's breathing.
Morning came too early.
The golden light filtered through the thick curtains, falling onto the soft bedding. Amelia woke, drowsy from the heavy sleep she had sunk into.
She was conscious of the heat beside her, of the hard chest her cheek lay against.
Her eyes flew open.
Claude was awake, staring down at her with an inscrutable face.
"You drool in your sleep," he whispered.
Amelia pushed him away, her cheeks aflame. "I do not."
Claude grinned, resting back on his elbows. "Should I get a mirror?"
She snatched the nearest pillow and whacked him with it. He only laughed—a rich, deep sound, so rare that Amelia forgot her embarrassment for a moment just to listen to it.
He reached out, tugging on a lock of her hair. "You're oddly comfortable in my bed, Duchess."
She glared, smoothing her nightgown. "I blame the wine."
Claude chuckled but didn't argue.
Just then, a sharp knock interrupted them.
"Your Grace, a message has arrived from the capital."
Claude's smirk faded. He sat up immediately. "Enter."
The door groaned open, and a messenger entered, bowing before delivering a sealed letter with the royal crest.
Claude broke the seal with ease, his eyes scanning the letter.
His face grew dark.
Amelia sat up, suddenly awake. "What is it?"
Claude exhaled through his nose and handed her the letter.
She read it swiftly, her stomach knotting at the words.
The kingdom summons Duke Everthorne again.
The Southland war escalates. Your services are needed on the front. You are to leave at once.
Her grip on the parchment tightened. She looked up at Claude, her breath frozen in her throat.
He was already moving, grabbing his shirt and buckling his belt, his expression unreadable.
"Claude," she said, attempting to keep her voice steady, "they're sending you to war?"
His jaw tightened. "It appears so."
Amelia's chest ached at the thought. She had barely begun to get used to him being here.
And now, he was going away.
Perhaps forever.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "When?"
Claude buckled his belt, his movements crisp. "I depart at dawn."
The atmosphere at the manor house was heavy with foreboding. Servants hastened to collect Claude's equipment, armor, and travel gear, their faces grave. The war in the South had been intensifying, and now the King had called for his most trusted commander—her husband.
Amelia stood beside the window of their room, observing as the soldiers saddled the horses and load the gear in the courtyard below.
Claude was going away.
She knew that this was his responsibility, but a strange, unaccustomed pain settled in her chest at the prospect of him going to war.
Behind her, Claude was buckling the straps of his leather armor, his movements smooth and familiar. He had done this hundreds of times before, and yet… this time it was different.
She spun to face him, her arms crossed. "And what if you don't come back?"
Claude stopped, looking at her. "That won't occur."
Amelia snorted. "Oh, certainly not. The great Duke Everthorne is invincible, then?"
A grin twitched at the edge of his mouth. "Something like that."
She tossed a pillow at him.
It struck his chest with a faint thud, but he hardly shifted. Rather, he laughed, shaking his head.
But Amelia wasn't laughing.
She took a step closer, her voice lowering. "Claude… this isn't a game. People don't always return from war."
Something passed through his expression—something she couldn't identify.
"I know that," he said, voice gentler now. "But I will be back."
She regarded him, looking at his face, hoping to find some sort of assurance beyond his words.
And then, without consideration, she reached out and took his hand.
Claude froze.
"I mean it," she whispered. "Return."
His hand closed tighter over hers for a fleeting instant. A fleeting instance of weakness.
Then, with the same abruptness it arrived, it left. He released her, falling back and collecting his sword.
"I always do," he murmured.
Amelia let out a sharp breath. "Not reassuring."
Claude grinned, securing the sword to his hip. "I wasn't aiming to be."
The sky had not yet lightened when the hour came for him to depart. Soldiers waited, horses saddled, torches casting shadows in the sharp morning air. There was the ring of hooves and clanking armor in the courtyard.
Claude stood before her, clothed in his entire battle gear. He was every inch the warrior he was reputed to be—strong, unafraid, invulnerable.
And yet, as he looked down at her, something in his face relaxed.
"If you require anything, have one of my men send word," he told her. "I've told them to guard you while I'm away."
Amelia nodded. "Just don't give me a reason to require protection, and we'll be fine."
A fleeting smile. "Duly noted."
He went to put his leg over the horse's back, but just as he set one foot in the stirrup, Amelia caught his wrist.
Claude blinked in surprise.
Then, before she could think twice, she leaned forward and left a quick kiss on the side of his face.
It was brief. Gentle. But enough to have his fingers tighten ever so slightly where they lay against the saddle.
When she drew back, she cleared her throat, feeling terribly self-conscious suddenly.
"Good luck," she mumbled.
Claude leaned in, his eyes fixed on hers.
Then, with the most subtle of smirks, he bent down just a little—so near that she could sense his breath against her skin.
"Save a dance for me when I come back, wife."
And with that, he mounted onto his horse, giving the signal to his men.
The gates creaked open.
And just like that, Claude Everthorne rode off to war.