Taxing Courtship (The Hands of Destin Book 1)

by Jaycee Jarvis

  He would rather be alone than love a woman who did not love him back with equal fervor.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning Em took the steps two at a time as she entered the manor house at Merdale. Heavy silver links rubbed against her skin with every step, reminding her of her victory. The deed chain was hers. All of Violet’s schemes were about to end. She should be glorying in her triumph, but it all tasted like ashes.

  She wanted to crawl into bed and not come out for a month. Though if the night before were any indicator, even curling up in bed wouldn’t lead to restful sleep. When sleep proved impossible, she tried to focus on the future and what she needed to do next to reclaim her lands. Instead, her mind kept circling back to Quintin and his aborted proposal.

  Nothing would ever come of it, he had told her that fateful day in the jungle. She had known, even then, forgetting the truth would lead to heartache and pain.

  But forget it she had, for one brief shining moment when their desires had aligned. In the ecstasy of perfect harmony, hope had given her heart wings.

  Until cruel reality intruded. Dwelling on her grief, she blindly crossed the family courtyard.

  “Emmie, you’re home,” Isabel called from a seat near the fountain. Em’s brothers, along with Lord Evan and his daughter sat at a table laden with fruit and honeyed treats.

  Em paused to bow at the gathering. “I hoped to change out of my riding clothes before any of our guests awoke. A thousand pardons for my appearance.”

  “Think nothing of it. I like to think we are more like family than guests.” Lord Evan smiled at Em and gestured for her to join them. “Besides, you look quite fetching in a kaftan.”

  Em bristled at his familiar tone, reminded of his insulting scheme to marry her. The deed chain around her neck took on new weight and importance. She no longer had to entertain thoughts of an odious marriage for the sake of Aerynet.

  “Come have some mango. I know it’s your favorite.” Jon dished up a plate and set it in front of the open seat next to him.

  Em sighed and joined them.

  Isabel wagged a finger at her. “Your father has been far too indulgent, letting you live at your temple this past week. Do you know about the celebration we have planned for today?”

  “Father told me to return today. He didn’t say why.”

  Isabel snorted softly. “Typical.”

  “We are going to honor your bravery, my dear.” Lord Evan grinned broadly. “A pair of Hands representing the Novenary and the Mortarary will be coming up from Trimble, while I will represent the Luminary. I thought it only fitting the Troika thank you for saving one of their Hands, and Mistress Isabel has been most indulgent in letting me put together this little ceremony.”

  Isabel made a dismissive noise. “I’m happy to help.”

  “Qui—I mean, the Han-Auditor is coming here? This afternoon?” Her stomach churned. How could she face him again so soon?

  “I’m afraid Han-Auditor Quintin won’t be there,” Isabel said. The calculating look in her eye countered any relief Em might have felt at the reprieve.

  “I did invite him, but this is a very busy time for tax collectors.” Lord Evan patted Em’s hand. “We’ll still have a very nice feast, my dear.”

  “I’m not your dear,” Em said before she could think better of it.

  Jon forced a laugh. “What?”

  Lord Evan raised his brows. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Em tilted her chin up. If she’d slept better the night before, she would have had the presence of mind to confront Lord Evan in private. There was no help for it now. Since she’d started, she might as well speak her piece. “I know you mean to marry me.”

  His jaw dropped. “Marry you?”

  “I overheard you talking about the marriage settlement with my father.”

  “And you thought I intended to marry you?” Lord Evan pressed a hand against his chest with a wheezing laugh. “Marana have mercy, no. You are far too young and headstrong for an old man like me.”

  “Then what—?”

  “Catherine has done me the great honor of agreeing to become my wife,” Jonathan said. He bumped Em with his shoulder. “Now you’ve ruined the surprise, Emmie.”

  Isabel clasped her hands together, her eyes sparkling. “Is this true?”

  Catherine blushed, looking simultaneously embarrassed and delighted. Her hand rested on Jon’s. “It is.”

  Isabel squealed and jumped up to give Catherine a hug. “A wedding! How wonderful!”

  Gregory pounded Jon on the back in hearty congratulation.

  “Now, now.” Lord Evan raised his hands over the hubbub. “We are in mourning until Allgoday. There will be no announcement until after the festival.”

  “What a way to start the new year!” Isabel’s dimple flashed. “This will be a Fermenasday to remember.”

  The celebratory chatter floated around Em like tendrils of mist, obscuring her sight without ever touching her. Crushing loneliness hollowed out her chest, leaving no room for anything else. She couldn’t even muster up a spark of embarrassment for believing Lord Evan wanted to marry her. Why would he?

  If a man who professed to love her was horrified by the prospect, how could anyone find her suitable?

  “Em?” Catherine leaned in close. “Are you crying? Have we upset you?”

  “No, no, I’m very happy for you.” Em grabbed her brother’s betrothed in a fierce hug, willing her tears to go back where they came from. If she gave them free rein, they might never stop. “Though I’ll have you know Jonathan doesn’t deserve a woman as good as you.”

  “I know I don’t, Em,” Jon said quietly. “I’m trying to do better.”

  Em’s arms tightened around Catherine. Her deed chain dug into her skin.

  Catherine pulled back and rubbed her chest. “Are you wearing a necklace?”

  “Sorry.” Em wiped her eyes before pulling the chain out from under her kaftan.

  Jonathan gasped. “Is that a deed chain?”

  “It’s Mother’s.” Gregory grinned, delight filling his voice.

  “Not Mother’s. Mine. I have my own plans for the year of Fermena.” While none of them were as joyful or lovely as a wedding, they were good plans nonetheless. She caught Gregory’s eye. “For too long I’ve let my temple be grounded in the past. I want to start living in the now and would beg your assistance with bringing my goal to fruition.”

  Gregory poured himself a goblet of wine. “What might I do to help?”

  Em toyed with her deed chain. “Well, first I need a new grounds-keeper.”

  Chapter 38

  Three hours later, after a quick and satisfying trip to her temple lands, Em hurried to her room to prepare for the visit by the representatives of the Troika. Her mind on her lands and newfound possibilities, she allowed a maid to wrap her in a fresh sari.

  “Hold a moment,” Em instructed, before the maid pulled the end of her sari over her hair. She unwound the deed chain from her wrist and slipped it around her neck.

  The maid’s eyes darted to the chain and a frown wrinkled her brow, though she said nothing as she pinned the sari to Em’s hair.

  Em fingered the rough pumice stones. “My father doesn’t care for my deed chain, yet it seems only fitting to acknowledge my place as a Lady entrusted by the Novenary when being honored by the Troika.”

  The maid’s face cleared. “‘Tis a pity it is so unsightly. No wonder I’ve not seen it before.”

  “Unsightly or not, I have resolved to wear it more often in recognition of my station.”

  “As well you should, my lady.”

  Once the sari was folded and tucked to her satisfaction, Em slid all the bangles she owned onto her wrists in an effort to hide the abrasions from the stocks. Fi
nally garbed like a proper lady, she made her way through the family wing to the public courtyard to await the Hands. A crowd had already gathered, as their guests had little other entertainment before the Allgoday festivities.

  “Here, Lady Emmanuella.” Isabel’s mother beckoned her to a raised platform in front of the central fountain.

  Em approached the cluster of guests but balked at getting on the dais. “This is too much.”

  Lord Harold thumped his hand against the wood. “It is a fitting tribute to your bravery.”

  “You will look as beautiful as a goddess up there. I vow you are the loveliest Lady here.” Isabel’s mother perused her with a wide smile, though her smile faltered when it reached her neck. “What an . . . interesting necklace. Is it a deed chain? It’s not in the usual style.”

  Em touched the silver links, marveling at its solid weight, proof of her daring success. “It is very old.”

  Lord Harold’s eyes bulged. “How—”

  “I know it’s not very flattering.” Em interrupted quickly with a warning smile at her father. “Yet I should take pride in my station when being honored by the Troika.”

  “You’re wearing your deed chain?” Violet edged close, craning her neck to peer at Em. “I don’t recall ever seeing it before. One would almost guess you didn’t have one.”

  Lord Harold recovered enough to glare at Violet. “She is a Lady of the Realm with all the rights and responsibilities that entails.”

  Violet gave a languid shrug. “I’d heard rumors she’d lost it.”

  Gasps and whispers echoed Violet’s words. Guests circled closer, attracted to scandal like vultures to dead meat.

  “You heard wrong.” Em pitched her voice to carry. She held the chain away from her sari so Violet, and the other guests, could see it clearly. “I never misplaced it.”

  Isabel’s mother sniffed. “Obviously not! You wouldn’t be so careless with a gift from your Novenary.”

  “A deed chain is more than a gift. It is a holy trust. One my family takes very seriously.” Lord Harold pinned Violet with narrowed eyes. “I expect more from my honored guests than to be slandered by baseless lies.”

  Violet’s nostrils flared, but before she could speak, her mother grasped her elbow.

  “My daughter meant no offense.” Aunt Florence bowed low, forcing Violet to do the same. “It was an honest mistake given how infrequently Emmie wears the chain.”

  “I’m not in the habit of displaying it,” Em conceded with a nod. “I was so young when I inherited, it has taken me time to grow into my role. As I enter my third cycle, I vow to attend to my duties more closely. Why, only this morning I replaced my grounds-keeper.”

  Violet straightened so fast she yanked her mother up with her. “You can’t do that.”

  Em stroked her deed chain, empowered by the rough stones. “I can and did.”

  “But, but,” Violet sputtered. “The old grounds-keeper, he’ll—”

  “He’ll be quite comfortable working on one of our other properties,” Gregory broke in smoothly. “He has been well-rewarded for his loyalty to our family. It is a pity the only position we have is on an estate far from here, though he was eager enough to take it.”

  “You can’t,” Violet protested again, her lips bloodless.

  “You are too kind, worrying so about the fate of a grounds-keeper. I assure you, we have no intention of punishing him.” Em smiled at her cousin, making sure to show all her teeth. “This year of Fermena is going to be good for me and my temple. We are all starting fresh.”

  Isabel’s mother nodded approvingly. “Changes are auspicious at this time of year, especially for a temple of Fermena.”

  A gong sounded at the front of the house, scattering the guests. Violet’s shoulders slumped as her mother dragged her away, whispering furiously in her ear.

  Em schooled her features to keep the triumph off her face. Aunt Florence would surely keep Violet in line, and her cousin would never be a threat to Aerynet again.

  Isabel’s mother clapped her hands. “Hurry now, Lady Emmanuella. You must be in position before they arrive.”

  Feeling a fool, yet seeing no help for it, Em allowed her father to help her onto the dais. Crossing her legs, she sat on a silken pillow, then straightened her sari to cover her feet and better display the beaded and embroidered hem. Proper and demure, she smiled politely at the entrance, ready to be rewarded for acting in a most unladylike fashion.

  Isabel entered the courtyard, followed closely by the representatives of the Troika in wedge formation. Lord Evan took the center position while a man in a guard’s uniform and a woman in a green sari flanked him. A pair of waccats completed the entourage. As they drew close to the dais, Em recognized the woman. Quintin’s lovely year-mate.

  Em’s smile turned into a brittle mask, as the way Quintin said Ophelia echoed through her mind. He’d welcomed her like a man dying in a desert welcomes water. This graceful woman was the year-mate he professed to love in his youth, Em was sure of it. Obviously, his love had not faded.

  Em knotted her fingers together to keep her hands from rubbing the painful ache in her chest.

  Quintin would not recoil in horror at the thought of marriage to his beautiful, honorable friend.

  Isabel presented the trio with great fanfare, introducing Lord Evan as if he had not been living at Merdale for the past week. The guard, a Trimble Han-Captain, made his bow crisply.

  Finally, Isabel turned to the beautiful Hand in green. “The Novenary has sent Han-Mystic Ophelia d’Marana, Hand of Destin and Seer of Trimble to give her blessings to your future.”

  The Han-Mystic pressed her hands together and bent in a low bow. “I requested the honor of representing the Novenary in this, for Han-Auditor Quintin is one of my year-mates and well known to me. I thank you personally and from the bottom of my heart for your bravery and skill in vanquishing the bogbear and saving my year-mate’s life.”

  Em’s fingernails dug into her palms. This woman’s flowery gratitude irritated her in a way Ulric’s blunt bartering hadn’t. “Only by the grace of Ferel my arrows flew straight and true and I was able to frighten the creature off. The Han-Auditor engaged the beast hand-to-hand. The Troika should be proud, for their Hand serves well and is a credit to them.”

  She swallowed against the pain rising in her throat. Quintin served so well, he scorned an outlaw such as herself even as he desired her. Lust stood no chance of overcoming his sense of duty and honor.

  Ophelia raised her eyebrows. “Han-Auditor Quintin is a man without equal, which is why we thank you, as an instrument of Ferel’s will, if nothing else.”

  “Indeed, the Troika are well aware of the value of each and every one of their Hands,” Lord Evan interjected smoothly. “For saving someone so dear to them, we present you with this.”

  With a flourish, he pulled away the cloth draped over his left hand to expose a detailed carving of a rearing bogbear.

  The crowd gasped and murmured. Bells jangled as women stomped the floor in approval.

  Lord Evan held the statue high as he spun in a slow circle. When he faced Em once more, he bowed low and held the statue out to her. “For your service to the Troika.”

  “It is an honor to serve. I will treasure this always.” Em curled her fingers around the smooth wood and placed it on her lap.

  Lord Harold clapped his hands together. “Bring out the beast.”

  Servants carrying trays of smoked bear meat and other delicacies entered the courtyard along with a troupe of musicians and mummers who reenacted the battle with the bogbear. Lord Evan’s approval of her unladylike behavior had changed her father’s tune from stricture to celebration.

  With the crowd’s attention diverted by the food and entertainment, Em studied the carving on her lap. She ran one fing
er down a groove in the wood. The statue was less useful than a pouch of beans and less dear than the cloth Quintin had given her the first night they spent together. Still, she would keep it in remembrance of Quintin and his hopeless declaration of love.

  “If I might have a word with you, my lady?”

  Em glanced up to find Ophelia had moved close enough to speak privately. Her stomach rebelled at the thought of an intimate conversation with Quintin’s friend, though she would endeavor not to make a scene. “What is it?”

  The mystic leaned close enough for Em to smell her flowery perfume. “Thank you for sending the messenger to take me to Nadine. I was so relieved to see her again.”

  “The child is well?” Em held her breath against the answer.

  “Yes.” Ophelia’s eyes unfocused as if she was looking at something no one else could see. “For now. Her future was grim, but I’m convinced the estate you sent her to was not the source of her troubles. To be safe, I’ve brought her back to Rivara and petitioned for her to become a novice under my guidance.”

  “I’m glad,” Em said sincerely. She didn’t need the girl’s fate weighing on her soul along with all her other sins.

  A pair of guests approached to congratulate her on defeating the bogbear. Em turned from Ophelia to greet them and accept their well wishes. After the guests drifted away, Em was surprised the Han-Mystic lingered nearby.

  “I wanted to repeat my personal thanks for saving Quintin’s life. He truly is as dear to me as a brother.”

  Em gripped the statue, its carved ridges biting into her fingers. Jealousy gnawed her gut, useless and idiotic. Quintin had curled against this woman like a lovebird. There was nothing fraternal about their embrace. “You needn’t hide the truth from me.”

  Ophelia’s smooth brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon.”

  Waving a hand to dismiss her words, Em tried to sound nonchalant. “I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn, yet a blind man could see brotherly love is a poor descriptor for the affection you share.”