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

four : of weddings and war

The foyer of the royal palace was almost ludicrously intimidating.

Beneath his feet, the floor consisted of midnight-blue marble with white veining, all of it gleaming, giving Connor the illusion that he was walking across a stormy sea or a star-studded sky. Above him, murals separated by crown moulding attempted to give the reception hall some sense of refined opulence, but the scenes they held were rather bloodthirsty, filled with knights charging into battle and kings beheading men. They were all in shades of navy and violet; he recalled the Blackmore family crest as being a silver star on a dark background, its motto being the highest and the brightest. He wondered, pacing the length of the room, if they had forgotten one important thing: that the higher you rose, the more devastating it was when you fell.

Anxiety crawled through his body, crept under his skin, quickening his pulse. Connor strode from one end of the room to the other, counting his steps. When he had taken sixty-four steps, one per floor tile, he reached the west end, marked by a bust of the late queen on a small table. The east end held a portrait of the deceased king.

"Lord White," a voice behind him spoke. He started, turning around. It was the current queen, her hair caught up in a chignon beneath her heavy crown. She would have had to walk across the hall to reach him, so why hadn't he heard her footsteps?

"Yo-your Majesty," he sputtered out, giving a stiff bow. Connor wondered if her ability to walk so silently was a result of his lack of observation or a useful skill she'd developed in her hypothetical murderous exploits.

"My mother always loathed that bust," the queen informed him, tracing the marble visage with a manicured finger and some sort of detached sorrow. "She said it made her appear snobbish, and that she was a woman of the people."

"Oh," he responded tersely. "Well, she still looks lovely, Your Majesty."

"She would have hated to hear that," the monarch continued, making him wonder if he had been called here to hear her reminisce about her deceased parents. "Mother despised pandering as well, and told me it was only for simpering, power-hungry courtiers."

Connor couldn't help but agree, awkward as he felt. "I hate to be blunt, Your Majesty, but why have you summoned me here?"

"Forgive me, Lord White; I have wasted far too much of your time by being nostalgic. Follow me," she commanded, her voice echoing. "You will find out soon enough."

Her heels made clicking noises as she walked; it gave him some small relief to hear, knowing that he had simply been too absorbed in his thoughts to notice and not that she had the eerie power of inaudibility.

He followed her down a corridor into a glass-encased solarium, sunlight flooding into the room and glistening off of the snow outside. Despite the vast expanse of glittering windows, heat wrapped around him in a sweltering cloak, and he shrugged off his topcoat, folding it over his arm. The Queen took a seat in an ornately carved chair; he would almost consider it a throne if not for the fact that every chair in the room was identical. Connor lowered himself into his seat, joints still stiff from the long sea journey he had completed not two days ago.

Her Majesty Queen Natasha Blackmore interlaced her fingers and placed her hands on the table between them. Perhaps, given the rumours of her that had reached his ears, (monster, shrew, murderess), he ought to have felt like he was in the same vicinity as a coiled viper, ready to strike. But all he felt was respect, admiration, and all he saw was a grieving girl who was doing her best to keep a heavy crown from slipping off of her head.

"As you may have heard, several peerages have been murdered these past few months, and it's believed that I played no small role in these grisly attacks," the queen spoke, untwining her fingers and tucking an errant strand of hair behind an ebony-earring-clad ear. "I'm afraid there's no easy method of dealing with such a situation."

"No, I don't suppose there is," Connor responded delicately. What had any of this to do with him?

"There have been some theories suggesting that I murdered my suitors because I don't wish to marry, or that I have some vendetta against men." She swallowed, a bob of the delicate throat, a reminder that no matter how regal her posture or powerful her actions, she was very young, very feminine. "I can assure you, that is not the case, but I need some manner of assuring the public the same."

"And what manner would that be, Your Majesty?" His palms dampened, and he wiped them on his trousers beneath the long conference table.

"I need a husband," she replied. "Someone inoffensive, someone who would have no motive to be the murderer, someone not at all suspicious."

"And you consider me to be that candidate, Your Majesty?" All liquid had been sucked out of his mouth and throat, releasing itself in the form of
perspiration.

"Yes," she responded. "I do."

"No," he refused straightaway. "I can not, I will not. All due respect, Your Majesty, I already have - "

"Victoria Rutherford," she interjected. "That's your reason, isn't it, Lord White? Well, I have a reason as well."

Connor saw the steel in her spine, the iron will behind the silk glove, and forced as he was, he bent. "And what reason would that be, Your Majesty?"

"Your mother," she answered. "Is the Lady Elizabeth White not ailing?"

Dread dropped to the pit of his stomach like lead. "You had no way of knowing that."

"I am the queen," Natasha replied. "I had every way. I did not want it to come to this. I had hoped that you would be cooperative. If you marry me, I will see that your mother is provided for, that she will have the finest doctors, the best medicines. And don't try to tell me that you could afford such things. After all, I'll see that the White estate is cared for. Winchester Castle is a crumbling ruin, but oh, how men like their legacies, don't they?"

Natasha Blackmore was a queen. Natasha Blackmore was a grieving girl. Natasha Blackmore was struggling to keep the crown on her perfectly coiffed head - and she would do it by any means necessary. Connor never should have come home.

"I'll do it."

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