The Iron Princess (Excerpt/Preview)

'I don't need a wife.'

Copyright©2015 by Sandra Lake; eBook ISBN:978-0-698-18718-4

InterMix Books Published by the Penguin Group (USA)

THE IRON PRINCESS IS AVAILABLE FOR $0.99 (for a limited time) at all major ebook retailers.

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Higher and higher the breeze carried the fluttering, yellow creature. Shading his eyes, Lothair watched, waited, until an upward gust sent the butterfly over the gray stone wall. A linked crown of iron thorns garnished the top of the outer walls. Fearlessly, the beautiful creature came to rest on the point of a razor sharp spike. 

Lothair stood with his arms folded as he stared up, contemplating the enormity of Tronscar's keep. The soft, natural beauty of flora and fauna contrasted with the manmade designs, all of which seemed to be designed to glorify steel and weaponry—the tangible representation of Tronscar's lust for war, power, and blood. Lady Katia was hidden somewhere deep inside those thick layers of stone and iron. At this very moment, she might be looking down on him out of the colored glass windows of one of the high chambers.

Lothair looked away. Life would be simpler if she did not already possess a corner of his mind, if she wasn't so captivating. He continued to count the spikes on the west parapet wall. The more he tried to push her out of his thoughts, the more she dug in. She smiled for everyone, for everything, all the time. Lothair could now easily read the differences in all her smiles. For her young female companions, she had smirks and endless giggles that filled the halls and yards with constant female chattering and laughter. For the servant that brought her the bread, she smiled genuinely. For the duke, his own unworthy father, who kept trying to engage her in conversation in Saxon, she forged a grimace-smile.

After Lothair had been seated next to her for a few meals, the jarl seemed to take notice of her smiling in the young swordsman's direction. They were seated apart after that. Her father had apparently also noticed that she smiled differently for different people.

By the end of the weeklong visit, Lothair was anxious to leave Tronscar. The iron palace was undeniably impressive. Every square inch was carved with intricate patterns. Brightly polished steel and silver works were inlaid into tools and instruments. The custom in the castles of Deutschland he had visited was for the officers to be offered a place to sleep by the hearth in the main hall, with the lower ranked soldiers housed in the haylofts and outbuildings. Not so in Tronscar. Every man was provided a bed. The secondary barracks offered the visiting envoy bunks, stacked five men high by twenty rows deep. The private chambers given to the noblemen were massive in scale, with beds that had plush mattresses of soft linens, furs, and thick wool. The wooden doorframes were carved with forest creatures in a labyrinth of vines.

To understand the character of the Jarl of Tronscar, a man need not look further than the Great Hall: power and wealth balanced alongside art and function. Nothing in Tronscar was not without thought, purpose and design, with the exception perhaps of the opinionated princess that lived above stairs.

Lothair scratched his head, trying to uproot the flower-scented memory of her hair. The harder he worked to not think of the feisty little imp, the more his head rebelled by tormenting him with the remembrance of her last smile and the last searing touch of her small hand upon his.

Nay, he refused to think of her again. The training yards were what he would commit to memory. Aye, an orderly system where bloodthirsty men worked hard every day to improve their skill in killing one another—that was what was truly impressive about this fortress, and nothing more. One day he would replicate much of the well-organized grounds. He had committed to memory his lengthy discussion with the blacksmiths on how to improve on the strength of Lubeck's steel. He had learned much about the crafting of weaponry, including new methods to smelt and forge iron.