It toys at me, but I don’t have time to coax it free because Bran and a young woman step into view. The woman is stunning. Her hair is strawberry, lighter than Pippa’s auburn, almost blond. Though she is tall, her features are delicate and graceful, making her willowy.
They are handsome together, so perfect I can almost see a tiara nestled into her perfect hair.
“Tell me something horrid about her,” I whisper to Pippa, looking away, hoping Bran won’t glance in our direction.
“Her name is Willamina,” Pippa says. “She’s the daughter of a Marquis of Glendon. Supposedly she adores children, visits her village’s sick and hungry in her spare time, cultivates roses, and plays not only the harp but the lute as well. She knows five languages, and she’s working on her sixth.”
I gape at Pippa and the way she spouts off the facts as if she were reading them from a list.
“Archer and I sat with Irving and Audette this morning,” she explains. “Which you would know if you’d bothered to join us for breakfast.”
Eating has proved to be problematic, so I do as little of it as possible and never when people can witness how much salt I use.
“None of those are horrid,” I say, ignoring her teasing.
Pippa wrinkles her nose with distaste. “You don’t think so?”
I roll my eyes and keep all my attention on the chore of cleaning up my mess. Like snails squirming through honey, the pair strolls past.
Just when I think we’re safe, Kiernan looks up from his insect exploration and spots Bran. Holding a big, fat grasshopper between two fingers, he leaps to his feet.
“Bran!” he yells, pure glee radiating from him. “Look what I found!”
And then he’s running toward the king and the lovely Lady Willamina (saint extraordinaire), with the grasshopper held high.
Just when I think I’m going to have the pleasure of watching the woman squeal like a pig and faint dead away, she steps forward, kneeling, waiting for Kiernan like a child would a puppy.
“What is it?” she asks, her eyes bright and indulgent. She coos over the insect and tells Kiernan what an amazing find it is. When the boy wanders away several minutes later, his face is stretched in a grin of supreme satisfaction.
And it’s in this moment I decide I hate the woman.
While I’m having this grand epiphany, Bran’s gaze locks on mine. Too late, I realize my thoughts must be branded across my face. He schools a grin, reading me all too well, and escorts Willamina down the garden aisle.
Finally noticing Pippa and me, the lady sends us a friendly greeting before she disappears.
“Why was Irving speaking of her this morning?” I demand as soon as Bran and Willamina are gone.
Pippa shoots me a questioning look. “People are beginning to speculate that she’s the one Bran will choose. This is the fourth afternoon they’ve spent together.”
It is?
He hasn’t mentioned her, and I spoke with him yesterday evening.
“You’re such a liar,” Pippa says abruptly, laughing.
I turn to her, shocked.
“Not a week ago you looked me right in the eye and told me you didn’t feel a thing besides friendship for Bran. Remember? When we visited the shore?”
I don’t dignify her comment with an answer.
“Come on,” Pippa says, pulling me up. “We’re going to the practice yard.”
“I can’t leave all this,” I say, motioning to my canvas and paints as she drags me away.
“I’ll have someone come back for them,” she promises.
I yank out of her grasp. “Why the practice yard? Do you think I need to learn to shoot? Spar like Audette?”
The princess grins, and it’s a wicked thing. “Perhaps later, but for now, I have a different purpose.” Over her shoulder, she calls, “Come along, Kiernan.”
“And what might that purpose be?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bran
Willamina has no idea how close she came to becoming the queen of Triblue. Out of all the women I’ve spent time with, she’s the most tolerable.
No, that’s not fair to her. She’s lovely.
But she’s not for me.
Though I walk with Willamina, my mind is seated firmly with Elle. She looked exceptionally beautiful today, wearing a gown in a light peach that brought out the blush of her cheeks.
I’ve freely supplied her with everything she could possibly need—clothes, paints, canvases—but she insists on paying me back somehow. I told her to paint me a portrait—a split-second decision I might come to regret now that I’ve seen her work.
Like a fool, I smile just thinking of it. I knew I’d find Elle in the garden maze, stumbled on her very much on purpose. She’s been visiting it every afternoon. And yes, perhaps I was curious to see what she’d make of the woman by my side.
Elle has been obnoxiously agreeable to me finding a bride. She coaxes me, reminds me it’s my duty.
I swear there is something between us, but she’s doing an excellent job of smothering it. But she slipped this afternoon. I saw the irritation flash across her pretty face, saw the way she looked at Willamina.
I’m smug, far happier than I was when we entered the maze, and glad to reach the end. This particular path lets out very near the practice yard. The sound of metal meeting metal rings through the air as visiting nobles and knights spar in the pleasant spring sunshine.
“Thank you for the walk,” Willamina says, smiling in a way that worries me. She’s a nice girl, but I don’t want her to get her hopes up. “I always enjoy your roses.”
“It was a pleasure,” I assure her.
She offers me her knuckles, asking for a kiss. Instead, I bow over her hand, giving her a friendly smile. The poor girl hides her disappointment behind a smile of her own and glides into a side entrance of the castle.
I watch her go, chastising myself. I’ve spent too much time with her, gave her hope.
That was wrong.
I wish I were better at this, a little more like Irving. Or even better, I wish I didn’t have a conscience…also like Irving. He was a regular cad before he met Audette, and I don’t remember him complaining about losing sleep over it.
My attention turns to the practice yard. I’ve been joining the men in the afternoons, edgy from spending so much time with the peacocks. Later, after I’ve worked off my frustration, I usually find Elle. Evenings have become my favorite time of the day.
Rolling my shoulders, I head toward the men. Several of my elite knights linger, as does Stuart. They acknowledge me with bowed heads and casual greetings, but then they return to their group.
I’m not the boy I was fifteen years ago, but you’d never know it.
It’s ridiculous to feel inferior at my age, especially when I, not Stuart, wears the crown. But I do, and I have no idea how to remedy that.
Archer and Irving are at the practice targets, and they call a greeting when they see me. Audette faces off against one of her infamous knights, and the pair has drawn a crowd. I mingle with the onlookers, crossing my arms as I watch the fight. Irving ends up joining me.
“She’s good,” I tell him, not bothering to hide my surprise when the princess bests her massive opponent. She’s ruthless, even at practice.
The crowd breaks out in riotous applause, thoroughly enjoying the show. The knight pulls himself off the ground, grinning with pride. You’d think he was the one they were cheering for.
“Does it bother you that your wife is constantly surrounded by those knights of hers?” I ask Irving, mostly out of curiosity but slightly to get a rise out of him. “They dote on her.”
“Not anymore,” he says.
“At first?”
He eyes me, and a rotten smirk stretches over his face. He motions to himself as if he’s a prime piece of meat. “Why would Audette want them when she has this?”
I snort and shake my head.
One of S
tuart’s men prepares to face off against another member of Audette’s guard. She brought two with her from Primewood, and they’re almost always at her side. This man is slightly older, and he wears a more solemn expression than the last, who looked amused even when Audette made him bleed.
“Hallgrave,” Irving says, nodding toward the knight as we watch the fight begin. “He’s a good man. Serious, devoted. A close friend of Barowalt.”
Barowalt is Audette’s brother and the king of Brookraven.
“Your girl is here,” Irving says suddenly, spotting someone.
I almost duck farther into the crowd, thinking he’s speaking of one of the peacocks. When I follow his gaze, I realize he means Elle.
“She never watches the sparing,” I say, surprised. But there she is, plain as day, finding a seat to watch the men. Pippa’s with her, already waving at Archer to let him know she’s here.
He grins, still a fool in love with his wife of eight years, and turns back to his target. Pippa usually joins him, along with several of their sons, but today the princess seems content to stay with Elle and watch.
The princess is kind to her, has taken her under her very influential wing, and I adore her for it.
One of my elite knights, Hubert, a man only a few years older than I, notices the two right away. They are a vision together—Elle with her pale blond waves falling to her waist and Pippa with hair as red as flame. It’s enough to make any man do a double take.
I find myself moving closer, only because I’m curious to see what Hubert has to say. For the fun of it, because he has nothing better to do, Irving wanders with me.
“Choose any man in attendance, my lady, and I will best him, just for you,” the knight says to Elle, gallantly bowing. “All I ask in return is a kiss.”
And my girl, bless her beautiful spirit, looks like she wants to roll her eyes.
No, I catch myself. Not my girl.
“Go on. Put the poor man out of his misery,” Pippa coaxes, laughing. “Choose someone.”
I’ve changed my mind. I loathe Pippa.
Half disinterested, Elle scans the crowd until her eyes lock with mine. Her lips curve just slightly, delightfully wicked.
“I choose His Majesty,” she says, looking back at Hubert, her voice sweet and innocent.
Hubert falters for a moment, unsure how I’ll respond.
“And if I win? Do I get a kiss as well, My Lady?” I ask.
I feel the crowd’s eyes on us. They watch and speculate, knowing nothing except that Elle is a lady of Ptarma—Audette’s cousin.
I ignore them, my focus on Elle alone.
Her lips twitch again, and she graces me with a genteel nod.
“Very well.” I hold out my hand, waiting for someone to place a sword in it. Less than thirty seconds later, an eager squire does just that.
Being king has its perks.
It’s a one-handed weapon, nicely balanced, so I take a shield as well.
“Your Majesty,” Hubert says, nodding with respect. He’s a good man, even if he’s partial to my cousin. We’re evenly matched, but I will not lose today.
We make our way to the center of the practice yard. The other duels have ended, and everyone stands to the side, gawking. Even Archer turns from his targets to watch.
I begin the fight, eager. I have energy coiled inside, ready to be let loose. Our blades meet, and their metallic crack fills the yard. Like a viper, Hubert lunges, but I’m easily able to deflect the swing with my shield.
We circle, each of us waiting for a misstep or stumble. Perhaps he expected an easy match, but I’m not so easily bested.
The fight draws on, and our crowd works itself into a frenzy.
Finally, Hubert tires enough he makes a mistake. I feign a swing, catching him off guard. When he stumbles, trying to catch himself, I knock his sword away.
It skitters across the packed dirt, raising a small cloud of dust. Hubert stands across from me, hands raised in surrender, none too pleased.
Slowly, I lower my sword.
“Congratulations, Sire,” he says, though his words are forced.
I hand off the blade and shield to the squire and wipe my brow with the back of my wrist. Our crowd continues to cheer. I nod, thanking them, and then I turn to Elle.
She sits in the stands, hands prim in her lap, waiting. Her eyes sparkle, and the pride in her expression stokes the flames in my chest.
“I believe you owe me a kiss,” I call to her, making our audience go silent.
Elle stands, a vision, and walks to the bottom stair, waiting. I cross the yard, questioning my sanity.
I can’t have this woman, this mermaid.
I’m playing with fire.
Careful to keep her hands to herself, she leans down to press a kiss against my cheek. Just before her lips meet my skin, she pauses. “Congratulations on your win.”
“Hopefully it’s the first of many if this is my prize,” I whisper nonchalantly, hoping she thinks I’m only teasing.
I’m not.
Her kiss is as soft and light as a butterfly’s wing, and it takes every scrap of my willpower not to turn my head and catch her lips with mine.
“Walk with me?” I ask, offering her my arm once she pulls back.
Her eyes flash to the crowd. “Perhaps that’s not a good idea.”
I grin, not caring what the people think. “Show me your painting, the one you were working on in the garden.”
Giving in quickly—which tells me she didn’t want to protest at all—Elle loops her arm in mine and allows me to escort her from the yard. “It’s atrocious.”
I give her a sideways look, teasing her. “Yes, I have no doubt, but show it to me anyway.”
She lets out an abrupt laugh and tries to jerk her arm free. I hold her close, not about to let her go.
People pretend to go about their business—more men line up to spar, archers return to their targets, people go back to their conversations—but they’re all watching us.
We pass a cluster of peacocks, and the women glare at Elle, not bothering to conceal their dismay.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Elodie
Footsteps crunch on the sand-covered rock behind me, but I don’t turn. I stare at the ocean, watching the dolphins. I could sit here for hours, though I’m always a bit sad when I finally leave. It’s worse today, though I’m not sure why.
Bran lowers himself to the rock next to me, dangling his long legs off the edge of the small cliff that overlooks the sea. “You missed the evening meal.”
Giving him only the slightest nod of acknowledgment, I continue to watch the playing dolphins. They swim farther out to sea, into the sunset waters, leaving me.
Not that I could follow them, not like this.
“Elle,” he says softly.
Bran’s studying me; I can feel it. I hold out until the dolphins are gone, too far in the blue water to see anymore. Then I turn my head to face him.
“Rosie sang tonight,” he says conversationally, pretending it’s not strange to find me here again. “I think you would have enjoyed it.”
Without saying a word, I squeeze his arm and turn back to the water.
Most men would leave me to my brooding—most men would have given up on me weeks ago. Not Bran. I cannot count the number of times he’s come looking for me, the number of times he’s sat quietly and watched the tide rise or fall by my side.
“It’s almost as if they’re calling to me,” I tell him softly.
He shifts, finding a more comfortable position. The last of the sun’s light catches his fair hair, making it gold. The stubble along his strong jaw matches, and I rub my fingers over his cheek in a teasing manner. “You forgot to shave.”
“Perhaps I didn’t forget.”
“Growing a beard, are you?”
He leans a fraction closer. “Maybe I just like it when you touch me…Elisondra?”
It’s our game now, one Bran enjoys immensely.
I shake m
y head at his guess. That’s not right—it’s not my name. I know that like I know my reflection. But it’s close, so close. The true one is on the tip of my tongue, always just out of reach.
One day I might remember—that’s what the physician keeps telling me. One day when I least expect it, my memory might return. But it’s been six weeks since Bran found me on the shore. I’m losing faith.
And I’m not sure I care anymore.
Bran and I sit in silence as the sun sinks into the water and the first of the evening’s stars dot the velvet sky.
A light appears in the ocean, far out, near the place the dolphins disappeared. It’s a green glow, almost like a star below the waves. I narrow my eyes, studying it. It triggers a memory, one the fog won’t let me have.
“Are you ready to go back?” Bran asks, startling me enough I turn to him.
“Yes,” I say absently, turning back to the sea. When I try to locate it again, the light is gone.
Strange.
“Yes,” I say, rising. I don’t mention the underwater glow to Bran. He’s already worried about my headaches, which have grown far worse in the last few weeks. If I admit I see things in the ocean, it will only worry him further.
A cold front moved in a few days ago, and there’s an almost brisk chill in the evening air. Bran sets his cloak around my shoulders when we rise. It’s warm and smells like his soap.
I could live in this cloak, wear it every day and never take it off.
The king offers his arm, and we turn toward the village. Four silent guards part for us and follow as we make our way past small sand dunes, rock clusters, and scraggly beach grass to the carriage that waits nearby. Bran’s rarely alone. We’re never together like we were all those weeks ago at the cottage—just us.
The waiting driver looks bored to death, but he straightens in his seat as soon as he sees us. Several more mounted guards sit taller in their saddles as well.
“Your Majesty,” the driver says, bowing his head to Bran.
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