The Sea King

by C. L. Wilson

  “Thank you, Myerialanna Spring.”

  “For what?” Spring smiled obliquely and turned back to the tomato plants. “Be sure to close the door behind you on your way out.”

  Chapter 14

  The Courtship Siege was over.

  The morning after Gabriella had returned the puppy to Dilys, there was no carpet of flowers on her balcony to greet her with a riot of color or an intoxicatingly delicious perfume. There was no gift on her breakfast tray. Instead there was a simple card, tucked beneath her plate, that said:

  Forgive me, Gabriella. My gifts were meant to please, not to distress you. To atone, I shall honor your wishes and refrain from sending you more.

  Dilys

  He was true to his word. In the five days since, she hadn’t received so much as a single rosebud from him. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him either. He no longer haunted the palace gardens. He wasn’t at any of the meals. The Calbernans still played with the city’s children on the palace lawn and in the city parks, but Dilys was no longer among them. And though she got up early and stayed up late to look, she no longer found Dilys Merimydion—scantily clad or otherwise—swimming in the fjord below.

  She had done it, then. She had finally driven Dilys Merimydion away.

  She told herself it was for the best. She had no future with him, no future with anyone. But the absence of his relentless attention—of him—made her feel bereft, as if she’d lost something precious.

  Although she put on a serene face and carried on as if nothing was wrong, her customary mask felt strangely brittle and ill fitting, a feeling that intensified as the days passed. Her nights were restless, beset by dreams that alternated between erotic yearning and heart-wrenching loss that more than once dragged her from sleep to find tears soaking her pillow. As the days progressed, she became aware of an aching emptiness that had taken root in her chest and was slowly growing, becoming more aching, more empty, with each passing day.

  This morning, six days after she’d returned the puppy, Gabriella couldn’t stand it anymore. She broke down and sought out Ryllian Ocea to find out where Dilys had gone. She’d tried to be subtle about her inquiry, sneaking in the question between morning pleasantries, but she could have sworn she saw a glint of something—relief? Satisfaction?—in Ryll’s golden eyes when he told her, “Ono, Myerialanna. The prince has not left Wintercraig. Well, he has, but only temporarily. There were matters demanding his attention, so he swam out to meet one of our ships at sea.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Nothing the Myerielua cannot handle.” Ryll smiled. “He should be back soon. I will tell him you were looking for him.”

  “Oh . . . erm . . . no, that’s not necessary. I’m not. Looking for him, that is.” She gave a small, nervous laugh and tucked her hair behind her ears. “I just wanted to make sure he was here—I mean well! Make sure he was well. That he wasn’t suffering any sort of lingering ailment from . . . um . . . the thing with Lily’s father . . .” She could feel herself sinking in a pit of her own making, so she said, “I’m glad he’s in good health,” clamped her mouth shut before she could make a bigger fool of herself, and hurried away.

  She should have known Ryll would tattle on her, and that Dilys would take it as an invitation to resume his courtship. Which was exactly what must have happened, because that evening, just as Gabriella finished dressing for dinner, there was a knock on the door to her room. Amaryllis went to answer it and returned carrying a sealed vellum envelope.

  “For you, ma’am,” Amaryllis said, holding out the envelope and fighting a smile.

  For almost a week now, Gabriella had been telling herself that the termination of Dilys Merimydion’s courtship was the right and necessary thing, but the instant she recognized the same bold, masculine hand that had written, “Claim me as thine” on hundreds of cards, her traitorous heart did a giddy little dance. He hadn’t given up!

  She took the envelope, which Dilys had addressed using her full, formal title: To Her Royal Highness, Gabriella Aretta Rosadora Liliana Elaine Coruscate, Princess of Summerlea, Duchess of the Vale. Around her name swirled an intricate design of decorative loops and whorls, a pattern of growing vines decorated with dots of tiny, colorfully inked flowers. A beautiful design. One that must have taken him hours to complete.

  A drop of ocean-blue wax stamped with the trident of House Merimydion sealed the back of the envelope. It popped free easily at the press of a fingernail. Inside, nestled in gold foil, a card written in a less elaborate version of court script announced:

  Sealord Dilys Merimydion requests the honor of your presence at dinner in the Southeastern Garden Arbor. Seven o’clock in the evening. Follow the path of flowers.

  “The path of flowers?” Gabriella murmured aloud.

  “Out in the hall, Your Highness.”

  Curious, Gabriella headed for the door of her suite and pulled it open. Two parallel rows of potted and arranged flowers led from her door all the way down the hallway and disappeared around the corner. The space between the rows was strewn with a thick carpet of loose petals and whole plucked blooms.

  “Did he denude every flower garden from here to Summerlea?” He probably had, damn him. She scowled at the resulting shivery thrill that shot through her at the romantic extravagance. “What time is it, Amaryllis?”

  “Ten minutes ’til seven, ma’am.”

  She should refuse. The flowered path that led to Dilys Merimydion also led to immeasurable danger.

  And yet, Summer found herself handing the invitation to Amaryllis and saying, “Please put this on my dressing table. And don’t touch the ink.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” No longer succeeding in hiding her smile, the maid curtsied and carried the salver into Summer’s chambers.

  Summer stood in the hallway for a long moment, breathing deeply, trying to quell the nervous knots tangling and twisting in her belly. “Oh, I am so going to regret this,” she muttered.

  And with that, Summer Coruscate put out her right foot and began walking down the flowered path that led to Dilys Merimydion.

  Word of Summer’s approach reached Dilys long before the woman he intended claim as his own came into view.

  He stood in the dappled shade of the vine-covered arbor. The evening sunlight shone coolly upon him as a gentle breeze whispered across his skin, carrying the scent of the sea and the perfumed beauty of the garden.

  Behind him, awaiting his lady’s pleasure, sat a small, cozy dining table covered with pristine white linen, two comfortable, cushioned chairs, and a silver bucket freshly filled with ice to chill an uncorked bottle of the finest sparkling sweet wine from the cellars of Cali Va’Lua.

  He’d sent for the wine the day he’d realized Summer’s coldness towards him had nothing to do with lack of interest, and picked it up this week while planning the next stage of his siege to conquer the fortress that was Gabriella Coruscate’s heart.

  Now, as he stood awaiting her arrival, Dilys was aware of a strange tightness in his chest, an uncomfortable twisting disquiet in his belly. His hands, which should have been resting loosely at his sides, were opening and closing in fists.

  Nerves, he realized.

  He was nervous.

  The was the first time she’d made the choice to come to him. The first time she’d indicated her willingness to consider his suit.

  She might think she was coming to put him off. Knowing his skittish little honeyrose, that was exactly what she had in mind. But regardless of her intentions, she had made the decision to come to him. She had accepted his invitation and followed the path he’d laid out for her . . .

  Keeping her here once she arrived would be entirely up to him.

  He stood alone and silent as she approached, his hair spilling down his back. He wore a pristine white shuma, his belt pure platinum encrusted with diamonds. He watched her with unblinking eyes, drinking in her gentle, soothing beauty. She was garbed in soft lavender, a pretty pastel shade that gave her beaut
iful eyes a faintly violet hue. The thick, black mass of her hair had been artfully piled atop her head in a confection of curls and braids, with long curls left to cascade down her back to her waist. She wore narrow lavender slippers on her feet.

  “You look exceptionally beautiful this evening, Gabriella. Lavender suits you.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was crisp, no-nonsense. “Sealord Merimydion, I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear that this—”

  “Dilys,” he corrected. “I am Dilys to you.” He pitched his voice deliberately low, making his name a murmur so husky it was almost a purr. Bright, watchful eyes noted the tiny catch in her breath, the little shiver she couldn’t manage to suppress. He hid a smile. Oh, yes, she thought she’d come to end his courtship once and for all.

  He had no intention of letting her.

  “Come, moa leia, sit.” He walked to the waiting table set out beneath the arbor and pulled out a chair, but she made no move to take it.

  “Sealord . . . Dilys,” she modified when he flicked a warning glance her way. “This must stop.”

  “Of what do you speak, Gabriella?”

  “The flowers, the notes, the gifts. This!” She waved to the beautifully set table beneath the arbor, to the servants waiting crisply for Dilys’s command. “All of this!”

  He lifted her hand. It was so slight compared to his, the slender fingers so delicate, almost bird-like. The creamy, burnished brown of her Summerlander skin was soft and satiny. Carrying that hand to his lips, he pressed a lingering kiss against the deliciously fragrant skin, then calmly told her, “No.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. Such soft, pink, delectable lips. He wanted to kiss them so badly.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?” she demanded.

  He kissed her hand once more—a poor substitute for her plump, moist lips, but better than nothing—and said, “I mean no, Gabriella. I will not surrender my right to court you.”

  “Your right?” Her nostrils flared. Her eyes flashed. He’d never seen her eyes go quite that shade of blue. More fire than sky, hot and electric. He loved it.

  “If you think you have the right to any part of me, you are mistaken, sir!” Summer continued. “My sister, Queen Khamsin”—Her emphasis on the word “queen” almost made him smile. As if her sister’s title could persuade him to alter his course. Him, the son of the Myerial, grandson of too many Myerials to count—“made it very clear that neither I nor either of my other two sisters are required to accept your suit. And I most definitely choose not to accept it. So thank you very much for the dinner invitation, but I must regrettably decline this and any such future invitations as you should desire to make.” She gave her hand a tug, trying to free herself from his grip.

  His fingers remained curled around her delicate wrist, the grip gentle but as unyielding as stone.

  She yanked harder. Yanked again. Tried to pry his fingers off her wrist.

  He remained a rock. The air around them grew warmer and the breeze kicked up. Summer didn’t often manifest her weathergifts unintentionally—probably because she’d spent her whole life keeping her emotions and her gifts in tight check—but she was starting to manifest them now. The breeze made the fabric of his shuma flutter, but Dilys himself could have been a statue carved from bedrock. When she lunged back, putting the full weight of her slender body behind her efforts to escape, no part of him swayed even a fraction of an inch.

  “Let me go!” she exclaimed.

  He gave her a lazy smile. “No.”

  Sweet lady of the sea, she was lovely. Her face was flushed, her eyes starbright. Her beautiful breasts heaved from her exertions, the soft swell of her bosom pressing against the confines of her lavender gown as she struggled to catch her breath. If he thought for one instant that she would allow it, he would bear her down to the sweet garden grass this very instant, tear that gown off her body, and devour every soft, delicious, intoxicating inch of her until that volcano inside her erupted and she drowned him in all that beautiful, powerful, searing fire she kept so tightly contained.

  “You have no right to keep me here,” she told him.

  The smile faded from his face. In complete seriousness and with all the tenderness in the world, he told her, “But I do, Gabriella. I paid for that right with the blood I spilled and the men I lost in the ice and snow of Wintercraig’s battlefields.”

  She went still, her fiery passion momentarily banked.

  “The contract I made with your brother gave me the right to take you as my liana, with or without your consent. I surrendered that right when I broke my contract with your brother, but my contract with your sister still guarantees me the right to court you. Three months to court the Seasons of Summerlea. That is what was I bought for myself when I joined your sister to defeat the Ice King. I have been patient, because I made so many mistakes with you from the start. But from this day forward, I intend to collect every day of courtship that is due me.”

  He’d spent the last seven days deciding how best to proceed with her. Now that he had a better understanding of why she was so determined to refuse him, he had come up with a different plan to win her. She was a Siren. All the gifts he had selected with such care and showered upon her had been reflections of his ever-increasing devotion, gifts of love, given freely, which had only fed her strength and enabled her to bolster her resolve to refuse him. He had, unwittingly, been reinforcing the very gates he was trying to break down. And he’d been doing it from afar—without the personal interaction and companionship that might have helped weaken those adamantine walls of hers.

  So he’d changed tactics. He’d cut off the deluge, hoping to create a vacuum of need that would work for him rather than against him. Withholding himself from her this past week had been difficult in the extreme. He was already bound to her, and staying completely away—not even allowing himself a glimpse of her lest his own resolve crumble—was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. It physically hurt him to be away from her for so long while things were still unsettled between them.

  But yesterday, when she’d sought out Ryll to ask if Dilys had left the city, he’d known the strategy had worked. And now it was time for the next phase of his new plan: forcing her to face her fears, with him by her side to help her through it.

  He gestured to the chair beside him. “Please, moa kiri, sit. Your brother-in-law’s chef, Ingarra, has prepared something special for us. You would not want her efforts to go to waste.”

  Summer sat. Some other woman might have plopped into the chair in a fit of pique, but Gabriella was, as in all things, exquisitely graceful. She sank into the chair with a smooth, effortless elegance that seemed totally at odds with the smoldering look in her eyes and the clench of her delicate jaw.

  He ran a thumb across her hand in a final caress then reluctantly released her. With a brief nod to the waiting attendants, he took his own seat.

  Court etiquette stipulated that his chair should sit opposite hers at the small table, but he didn’t even want that slight distance between them. His chair sat at the quarter mark, close enough that when she plucked the folded napkin from her plate, he could have reached out to claim her hand again.

  The first course was laid before them. A delicate, cold summer soup of fresh, pureed fruits and sweet nectar. Into the thin crystal flutes beside their plates, a crisply dressed servant poured sparkling golden wine.

  She ignored both soup and sparkling wine and scowled at him. “Even though you won the right, there’s no point in you bothering to court me,” she told him bluntly. “It won’t do you any good. I won’t marry you.”

  “And yet, still, court you I shall. As provided for in my contract with your sister.”

  “You’re just wasting both our time and squandering the opportunity you say you paid for so dearly. If you truly want a Season for your liana, you should concentrate your efforts on Spring or Autumn. They at least like you.” She glared at him and added pointedly, “I don’t.”

  He
wondered if she really thought that scowl of hers would frighten him off? That he would take her declared—and utterly false—distaste for him as anything but a challenge. For a moment, he was tempted to tell her how beautiful—how utterly enchanting—he found her when she was angry. But if he told her how much he appreciated her temper, she would try to stifle it. The last thing he wanted from her was that serene mask she wore around everyone else.

  So instead, he smiled calmly into her flame-blue eyes and said, “Remember, moa kiri, the price for every lie is an intimacy of my choosing.” But instead of pressing for another kiss, he said, “Try the soup, shishi. The chef let me sample it earlier in the week. It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. A sweet dream for the tongue.” He lifted his own spoon to his mouth and closed his eyes on a hum of pleasure. “Even better than I remember. I’m serious, Gabriella, you must try this.” Just to tease her a little and make those eyes flash some more, he refilled his spoon and held it up to her lips in an intimate demand that she give it a taste.

  He had underestimated just how close to erupting the dormant volcano of her temper really was.

  She slapped at his hand, sending soup splattering across the pristine tablecloth and his spoon clattering to the paving stones.

  “I’m not interested in the soup! And you can take that contract with my sister and shove it up your—” Gabriella broke off the rest of her vulgar command, threw her napkin on the table and started to rise. She was done with Dilys Merimydion. So done.

  Dilys’s hand shot out to catch her wrist. She let out a curdled scream of fury between clenched teeth and went to yank her hand from his grip.

  The look on his face made her freeze in her tracks.