Clare finally managed to speak past the dryness in her mouth. “Why would Newlan kill the queen?”
“Their match wasn’t made for love,” Serene said. “It was purely political. Devendra needed the trade routes and Zennor needed financial security. My parents didn’t even meet until their wedding.” The corner of her lip curled sardonically. “I used to think it was romantic. Now, as I face something similar, I know the fear she must have felt.” Vulnerability leaked through the words and Serene seemed to notice. She moved to the settee and sat on the edge, her hands smoothing over her lap with almost nervous energy. Her spine was painfully straight and she didn’t meet Clare’s eye as she spoke. “My father was supposed to go to Zennor and claim her hand, but he sent his cousin to fetch her instead: Ivar Carrigan.”
The familiar name made her scalp prickle; the man had incited a civil war and ultimately stolen Clare’s father from her.
“Ivar journeyed to Zennor and met my mother. They fell in love, but my mother refused to give into her feelings. She insisted they remain friends only, even though it hurt them both. Ivar escorted her safely to Iden and into my father’s arms.” Serene’s eyes skipped to Clare. “Ivar and my father never saw eye-to-eye after that. Their fall-out was public and bloody, and when my father crushed the resistance, my mother helped Ivar flee Devendra. Somehow, my father found out. He could have spared her. Banished her. Executed her with dignity, even. Instead, he poisoned her. She probably never even knew it wasn’t sickness that killed her, but her cruel and vindictive husband.” Serene’s hands shook; she rolled her fingers to fists. Moisture clouded her eyes. “I’ve known the truth for two years and I haven’t been able to confront him.”
Clare moved forward, coming to sit beside Serene so she could wrap an arm around her shoulders. Serene stiffened, then relaxed against Clare’s side, allowing the embrace. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Now you understand,” Serene whispered. “You understand why I can’t trust him or Grandeur.”
“Are you sure Grandeur knew about the poison?”
“Yes. I’ve seen proof. And though Grandeur might mourn our mother, there is guilt there, too.”
“How did you learn about this?”
Serene hesitated. “Some things I’m not ready to share, but trust me—my father is a danger to everyone in Devendra.”
Clare’s lips thinned. That was a truth she knew. “He needs to be punished for the queen’s murder.”
“Believe me, I’ve considered every course,” Serene said. “Killing him myself, going to the court, telling my uncle.” She shook her head. “My father would either kill me, evade the public accusation, or there would be war with Zennor.”
“But he can’t go unpunished.”
“He won’t.” There was promise in Serene’s dark eyes. A chilling, final kind of promise. “I can’t act now, but soon.” She stood suddenly, and the look she sent Clare was almost embarrassed. “I’m sorry that I thought the worst of you. I truly thought you were in league with my father. That you were taking the risks of becoming the decoy in the hopes that my father would kill me and make you my replacement.”
Clare pursed her lips. “You don’t really think your father would do such a thing?” But after what Serene had just told her, Clare didn’t know if she believed her own words.
She let out a tight breath. “He will try to kill me someday. I know it. I only pray I can kill him first.”
Clare shook her head. “Your family will be the death of me.”
Serene’s mouth twitched, though her eyes were sober. “Probably. But you could help me. I want to avenge my mother, but even more than that I want to protect Devendra. If you help me, I swear I can help you and protect your family.”
Clare eyed her. “Do you have a plan?”
Serene edged out a smile. “Always.”
Chapter 32
Clare
Clare was back in the queen’s rose garden, pacing in a small circle to vent her rising anxiety. The sunlight warmed her dark hair and skin, and birdsong trilled nearby. An idyllic scene, but her heart pounded a rapid tempo, each thud echoing harshly in her ears. Yesterday she’d stood in this garden and overheard Grandeur and the man with the deep voice, and now she waited for the prince to appear.
Tension pulled in her gut, and she prayed this would work—that Serene’s plan was the right one.
Grandeur strode into view. Concern traced lines over his dark, handsome face, but she didn’t trust the sincerity in his eyes.
His guards hung back without prompting, giving them privacy. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Your note sounded distressed.”
She forced her teeth to unclench. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
He frowned. “You can tell me anything, Clare.”
He sounded sincere. Perhaps he was sincere, and she was making a mistake by calling him here.
But she could not ignore what Serene had told, or what she’d overheard with her own ears.
Her hands fisted at her sides. “I found a note addressed to Serene. It was on the floor of her suite.” She drew out the small square card. “I didn’t know what else to do but share it with you.”
Intrigue sparked in his eyes as he took the paper, his long, warm fingers brushing hers. He flipped open the note and scanned the words.
Patience. Your time will come. Be careful.
The scrawled message had been written in Serene’s left hand, giving it an unrefined look. A messy nobleman’s scrawl, or a peasant’s untried hand—it truly was anonymous. “My cousin Imara taught me that,” Serene had said, true affection in her voice. “She’s a master at this sort of thing.”
Grandeur’s eyes narrowed on the written words and Clare swallowed. “It could mean anything,” she said, pouring out the practiced phrases. “It’s vague, and yet . . . I keep thinking of your fears about Serene, and what she might plan for Devendra. I can’t let harm come to my family.” An edge she couldn’t control entered her voice. “I would do anything for them.”
“You did the right thing,” Grander took her hand with his free one. His fingers flexed around hers, dark and strong. When he peered at her, she almost believed his words. “I can protect you and your family, Clare. I can protect all of Devendra. But I need your help.”
Though it wasn’t part of the plan, she couldn’t stop herself from whispering, “Maybe Serene is innocent. Perhaps you should talk with her—tell her your fears.”
She wanted him to agree. To prove that he could still be considered a friend, despite the evidence stacked against him.
Grandeur shook his head. “I can’t tip our hand. Besides, she’d only deny her treasonous intentions.”
“But surely this note isn’t a sign of treason—”
“As you said, it could mean anything. We must treat it as the threat it could be.” He dropped her hand and tucked the note into his pocket.
Clare straightened. “What are you going to do?”
“This isn’t enough evidence to place before my father. We need to watch Serene. Catch her if—when—she truly turns treasonous.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, head ducked so their gazes were level. “I need you to watch her.”
Clare shook her head slowly, her eyes still locked with his as she gave the response Serene had laid out. “But we leave for Mortise soon. You won’t be around to help me.”
“You won’t be cut off.” Grandeur pulled back his hand, only to twist off one of his many rings. It was heavy and thick with a crest on top: a bird with wings outstretched. “This was my mother’s. Use it to seal any letter and any city guardsman within Devendran borders will see it safely to me. Convey anything that could be useful in bringing Serene’s plans to light, and I swear you and your family will remain safe.”
She hoped he didn’t notice the sweat on her palm when she took the offered ring. He’d believed her so quickly. Almost like he trusted her.
A waver of doubt, lined w
ith guilt, thickened her throat. What if Grandeur truly was a friend, and she had somehow misread the conversation in the garden? What if he’d been playing the spy, too?
But what if he was an enemy?
Grandeur looked at her full on. “There’s no turning back from this, Clare. Are you sure?”
Her pulse drummed and her heart clenched.
He was right. There was no turning back.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I’m sure.”
Clare walked briskly toward the garden’s exit, hands still trembling over what she’d done. Grandeur had left in the other direction so they could take separate exits in case anyone watched.
The desire to talk to Bennick was strong, reaching past the strain between them. But Clare had promised Serene she wouldn’t share any of this. Besides, Bennick could do nothing against Grandeur or Newlan and Clare didn’t want to put him in danger. For now, she would follow Serene’s lead. Despite their rough history, she trusted the princess.
Clare quickened her step, anxious to shrug off this encounter and focus on her normal routine—as both Grandeur and Serene had urged her to do. She had defense training with Dirk; Bennick had turned the task over to the older guard, after the truth about Eliot had come out. In many ways, training with Dirk was harder because his style was different. She was grateful for the added challenge. It kept her focused on the moment, and she needed that more than ever.
Rounding one of the final corners, Clare hit into a hard chest. Steel hands grabbed her arms, steadying her. She opened her mouth to apologize, but when she looked up the words caught in her throat.
The commander stared down at her, a frown twisting his face. “Miss Ellington.” His hold tightened. “Just the person I hoped to find.”
Fear lanced through her chest and her breath came out too harshly. “Release me.”
Slowly—deliberately—he lifted a finger at a time and peeled his hands away.
Clare took a step back and gripped her gray skirt in her fists. “Let me pass.”
The commander didn’t move. “We never had a chance to discuss what happened at the ball.”
Anger tightened her skin and she gritted her teeth. “I was trying to help your wife.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “My wife’s well-being isn’t your concern.”
“Nor does it seem to be yours.”
His blue eyes—like Bennick’s, but far too cold—narrowed. “Just because you look like Serene doesn’t make you the princess. You have no authority. And I think we both know the king wouldn’t take well to you parading around as his daughter, issuing orders in her name.”
Clare matched his glare. She had no words for this man—this monster. She stepped around him, but his hand snagged her wrist and jerked her close.
Her pulse tripped as his fingers squeezed. He leaned in, his voice low and dark. “If you interfere in my affairs again, I’ll tell the king you abused your illusion of power. You’ll be at his mercy, and I don’t think he’ll have much to offer.”
“Do you think he’d show you mercy?” Clare shot back.
His brows slammed down. “What?”
“You disobeyed the king’s orders. You told Bennick about me. I wonder if the king would forgive you?”
His grip on her wrist turned strangling. “You dare threaten me?” The coldness in his voice caused a flash of alarm inside her. They were alone, and while she’d learned defensive skills from Bennick, the commander towered over her.
She tugged her arm against his hold. “Let me go.”
Beside them, pebbles shifted underfoot. They both turned to see Bennick round the hedge, Dirk at his side.
Seeing Bennick after four days was an exhilarating kind of shock. Clare’s breathing halted. Her eyes latched onto him, scanning him. He looked tired. His blue uniform was well-maintained, but his stubble was thicker and the skin beneath his eyes was shadowed.
His gaze sliced over her, narrowing on her wrist, where the commander grasped her with a white-knuckled grip.
Bennick’s nostrils flared. “Release her.”
The commander’s jaw worked, but he unwrapped his fingers. Clare snatched her arm back and retreated a step, rubbing her wrist.
Bennick was still focused on the commander when he asked her, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
Bennick’s face remained hard as he eyed his father. “Dirk,” he ordered curtly.
The older bodyguard moved forward, gesturing for Clare to follow him.
She hesitated, looking at Bennick. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No.” His voice was pure ice as he glared at his father. “The commander and I need to talk.”
Chapter 33
Bennick
Tension rode Bennick hard as he viewed his father. Commander Markam was tall and broad-shouldered. Age had touched him lightly. His features were strong and square and his booming voice carried authority with ease. When Bennick was young—back when he idolized his father—he’d always wanted to look more like the commander. Now he wished nothing tied them together.
He’d been watching his father since the ball, instinct warning that the commander would make a point to corner Clare and intimidate her. Bennick had also been watching Clare, and he knew she’d made a habit of wandering the queen’s garden. Apparently, the commander had noticed, too.
He heard Clare follow Dirk’s prompting and he was grateful his friend led her away. He couldn’t focus on his father when she was there, watching him. He longed to be the one taking her arm, but he knew he’d lost that privilege, and the pain of that loss only flared his anger.
A vein in the commander’s temple throbbed, his eyes trained on his son. “It looks like you have something you want to say.”
Fury rippled under Bennick’s skin and his hands fisted. “You will not approach Miss Ellington again.”
The commander scowled, the corners of his eyes creasing. “You have no authority over me.”
“In this I do. Miss Ellington was placed under my protection.”
“And you deem me a threat?”
“Yes.”
The commander huffed. “You truly think I would harm her?”
“You’re no fates-blasted saint.” Bennick pulled in a breath, fighting for calm. “You won’t threaten her, touch her, or even make her uncomfortable, or I’ll report you to the king.”
Commander Markam stepped closer, voice dropping low. “You fool. You’ve lost the king’s regard. Every attack made against the princess or decoy brings you closer to losing your career.” He shook his head. “You never should have thrown away your future in the city guard. Bodyguards fall out of favor too easily.”
It was an old argument and it made the muscles in Bennick’s neck tighten. Best to ignore it. “I can’t be any clearer. If you threaten Miss Ellington again, you and I will exchange more than words.”
The commander’s lip curled. “You will treat me with respect.”
“Respect is earned. You told me that, back when your words meant something.” Bennick grit his teeth, cutting himself off. The smell of roses was thick on the warm air, almost smothering him. He retreated a step, hands spread. “I’m done.”
“No.” His father glared. “This needs to end. You ignore my advice in public and in private. You make rash decisions just to defy me. I offered you more men for the princess’s tour to Mortise and you all but spat in my face. Do you truly think you won’t need them?”
“I don’t need anything from you.”
Commander Markam’s teeth bared. “Fates curse you, boy, I’m only trying to help!”
“You always act like it’s my fault,” Bennick snapped. “Like I’m the one in the wrong because I can’t forgive you for a simple mistake. But it’s never one mistake with you. It’s a thousand mistakes, made repeatedly and with no remorse.”
“Ben—”
“You threatened her.”
The commander stilled. “What?”
“Clare. You threatened he
r life and forced her to become the decoy. She told me everything.” Bennick pushed a hand through his hair, disgust pulling at his insides. “You have no honor.”
“The king tasked me with finding a decoy, and once I was assured she hadn’t taken part in the attack, I knew she would be an excellent choice. You can’t deny she’s been the perfect decoy!”
Bennick shook his head. “I should have guessed the truth. I learned a long time ago you don’t care who you hurt.”
Something like regret ghosted across his father’s face, but Bennick dismissed it. Regret, from the man who hadn’t seemed the least bit ashamed when his son had found him in the arms of a mistress? Impossible.
Bennick had so much he wanted to say, but he knew his father would meet him with excuses, as he always did. He turned on his heel.
“Don’t walk away from me,” the commander ordered. “Ben!”
Bennick’s footsteps didn’t slow, and he didn’t look back.
Cardon’s hand snapped up in surrender. “I yield,” he gasped, chest hiking and dropping roughly as he stepped back.
Bennick ground his teeth and disengaged from the fight. He’d discarded his shirt a half hour ago and sweat slicked his front and back. His hands throbbed, blisters forming as he swung the wooden staff; it had been too long since he’d sparred with it.
He and Cardon stood in the castle orchard. Sometimes Bennick came to train here when he wanted to avoid the other soldiers on the training field. The solitude was comforting, as was the fluttering of green leaves blown in a gentle breeze. The calm surroundings were a contrast to the storm raging inside him.
Cardon breathed deeply, feet spread wide. “Are you going to tell me what war is happening in your head?”
Bennick swiped a hand over his brow, knocking back damp strands of hair. “I’m fine.”
The older man snorted. “You’re just strangling that staff for no reason. I’m sure you also had no reason to spar here, rather than the training yard where Clare is.”
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