A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  The tie pin Jules had . . . what a bloody good actor, the fellow was. Enough so, that Alistair blushed even worse, the heat of it scalding beneath his linen collar—even knowing Julian’s attentions were all for show.

  Julian wasn’t even where Alistair’s amatory interest resided. That was in a decidedly different direction, one more auburn-haired and highlands-born—and likely far younger than even Julian himself.

  Even so, Lord Marcus Avenleigh was not at this house party, nor had he ever spared a word for Alistair at a society event. The young man was a rake, through and through, tarnished by that horrid scandal with Lord Harcourt, the infamous Earl from the Garden.

  Right now—right here—Julian was the one practically cooing at Alistair like a dove, and even though he was not the man whom Alistair silently pined for—he blushed all the same. Especially when for the barest moment he imagined that it wasn’t Jules who sat beside him so adoringly, but none other than Lord Marcus Avenleigh.

  And, if he were honest, Lord Marcus had spared a glance or three his way—if only Alistair knew what those looks, cast across crowded ballrooms, even meant.

  “Have we lost you entirely, old man?” Lord Vincent asked him, popping a bite of plump sausage in his mouth. “You sit there blushing like a school girl, don’t you?”

  “I . . . no.”

  “Then what are your thoughts on the matter?” Lord Vincent bleated at him, dabbing his lips with his napkin with a barely concealed smirk.

  Fucking hell. What had Lord Vincent and Jules even been discussing?

  Julian didn’t wait. “It should be obvious that King Arend has many supporters among his lords and his people.”

  “Know of provincial politics, do you, Lord Julian?” the fellow pressed.

  “He doesn’t need to, Blaine,” Sam called down the long table. “He need merely look at you to realize which opinion to stridently oppose. You shan’t ever find yourself on the winning side in all this, Lord Vincent.”

  The entire table fell silent. Blaine blinked, then cut a glance at his brother. Viscount Colchester avoided the stare, instead seeking Sam out with his gaze.

  Blaine harrumphed triumphantly. “I believe our handsome duke has just slapped”—there was an odd pause, one of emphasis that jolted Blaine’s brother—“the truth betwixt us all this morning. Shall we openly discuss sides and winning, and who is behind whom?”

  Sam blushed at that one, perhaps a first in all the years Alistair had known him. Who is behind whom.

  “I wager you let any fellow behind you who seeks the opportunity, Blaine,” Sam said. “Have no concerns about my quarter. Your virtue is safe from me,” Sam said archly.

  Sam took a long, long drink of his orange juice, sounding a bit drunken. Alistair studied the man’s goblet and realized that somehow his cousin had gotten ahold of gin—if that’s what was sloshing around along with all that juice.

  “Well, I never let anyone slap me around.”

  “Too busy wielding your own open palm, then?” countered Sam, but there was an unexpected edge to his tone. Farther down the table, Viscount Colchester appeared strained, almost as if his brother were throwing punches that the rest of their table couldn’t see.

  Blaine turned to his brother, and observing his stricken expression, hesitated. With a sidelong look at Julian, the man said, “I shan’t say more in the presence of one so delicate as Lord Julian.”

  Colchester suddenly pushed out from the table, causing dishes to clatter. “Enough.” The viscount clutched the table edge until his knuckles whitened. “Enough, Vincent.”

  Enough, indeed. Blaine had held the entire table hostage, to varying degrees, for long enough. He’d held the crown and Arend himself hostage long enough, too, and Julian along with him.

  Lord Vincent was a true bully. And like all bullies, he would only respond to a fierce show of strength. Without a word of apology, Alistair shoved back from the table, as well. “Pardons, Lord Julian,” he murmured, before standing tall. “Your Grace, I find that my appetite has vanished.” He dropped his linen napkin onto his chair, staring hotly at Blaine. Without ever blinking, he crisped first one cuff, then the other.

  Blaine regarded him with unblinking steadiness “Did something I say upset or concern you, Finley?”

  “Quite the contrary. Observing you reminded me that there are times when only a fine display of strength will suffice.” He crisped a bow to Sam and then Colchester and Julian. “Good day, gentlemen. I’ve things to do and matters to attend to.”

  Unfortunately, Alistair wasn’t far down the hall before Blaine’s grating voice called after him. “Mr. Finley, a moment, please!”

  Shaking his head at the bastard’s temerity, Alistair slowly pivoted at the foot of the grand staircase. With several footmen posted along the hallway. Alistair lowered his voice. “What more, Blaine?”

  Alistair didn’t bother with scrubbing his tone to a polite sheen. Not when the man before him meant to destroy his brother and family. “I am plainly purposed and busy, with urgencies demanding my attention.”

  Lord Vincent laughed. “Of course, there are! The palace will soon be going up in flames when word of His Majesty’s concubine reaches the scandal sheets—and his own Council.” Blaine made a tsk-tsk sound. “A king of his age ought to know better. Does a fellow of his middle years even experience desire any longer?”

  “You insult His Majesty and his honor with such a lewd statement!” Alistair moved much closer to the other man, too close, allowing his sizeable form to shove into the fellow. He was more than six feet three and weighed some twenty-one stone or possibly more, even. He could be physically intimidating. And this once, he used that advantage.

  Again, he stepped forward, crowding Blaine. “King Arend is not yet even two and forty. He is virile, powerful and in command of his throne.”

  “Debatable.” Blaine stepped back two paces, studying his nails.

  “You wanted something, in stalking after me, my lord?” Alistair demanded.

  “I was just curious.” The fellow batted those blond lashes as if Alistair might be susceptible to his non-existent charms.

  When Alistair didn’t take the bait, Blaine edged closer—and this time, he was the one who nudged up against Alistair’s thickset middle. “Curious if our king does indeed intend to wed by summer’s end—but if it shall be a man, rather than a woman? Now that we see where his amorous interest resides—and upon whom—it does make one wonder if a masculine spouse might not suit our king best.”

  Vincent tittered as if amused. “That is, if we can deem such a cultivated lily as Lord Julian to be properly masculine. Although, I suppose his contradictions prove heady to some. Those males who relish”—Lord Vincent thought a moment—“blurred lines whilst buggering their wantons.”

  Alistair grew very still, staring down at the other man, who still had the poor sense to be standing chest-to-chest with Alistair. Blaine had no idea that one thing Alistair had always excelled at in school was fisticuffs. “His Majesty,” Alistair said, “shall marry by summer’s end. And he shall follow his heart when he does so.”

  “You speak for him now?”

  “Him? Our king, you mean? Yes. I am His Majesty’s secretary, and I am indeed his mouthpiece in this matter. In many matters, which you well know—even with your very limited experience at Council. Experience that may become yet more limited still.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Alistair crisped a cuff. “His Majesty has preeminent supporters, true loyalists, in every corner of this kingdom, pup. When he is done with you—when I’m done here? You won’t be able to show your face at even the farthest reach of King Arend Tollemach’s realm. Now if you’ll excuse me”—Alistair withdrew, giving an ironic bow—“our king has a mutiny to quash.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Arend rode his mount beside Alistair in silence, waiting for his secretary to speak his mind. That Fin had asked for this ride at all? Was obviously code. Because Alistair Finley was
rarely astride a horse, something to do with his being “too stout for the task.”

  Certainly, yes, Alistair was portly—and very tall and sturdy. But he wasn’t a behemoth, not by any stretch. Fin possessed an elegant seat, and always handled his mount with skillful grace. But he avoided the saddle as a rule, so the invitation this morning was clearly motivated by one purpose only: to escape prying eyes and ears back at the house.

  They’d ridden in silence for a good distance, leaving the stable yard and heading to the estate’s secluded forestland. They now slowed to a trot as the forest grew denser, following a alongside a small stream.

  Arend had memories of the two of them, just lads—Sam in the lead—playing in that very stream. Pretending to be pirates and dragons. And kings. Although Arend would’ve rejected that game outright, if he’d had any idea how fucking hard it was to be king, and how uncomfortably he’d sit upon his throne.

  Until Julian. Something in the man enabled Arend to breathe, to be still inside in that place where, before, he’d always silently raged.

  Alistair reined in his mount, bringing him to a slow walk; Arend fell in beside him. “Think we have enough privacy now?” he teased his brother, hoping to alleviate at least a little of their shared anxiety. “Surely the morning blooms and chirping wrens aren’t spymasters employed by my Council.”

  Alistair remained solemn. “Lord Vincent knows who Julian is to you,” he announced, gaze straight ahead. “What he is to you.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.” Arend blew out a sigh. “He outright accused Julian last night—and then myself. Called us out for being lovers, and outright said that Jules came from Sapphor. And that wasn’t even half of it all.”

  “Why didn’t you summon me at once?” Alistair cursed under his breath, nimbly wheeling his mount around. “What more could there be?”

  Arend’s pulse quickened. “Blaine all but forced himself upon Julian last night. Threatened us both. It took Sam’s intervention to keep me from shoving the little ponce’s bollocks down his throat.”

  Alistair’s horse whinnied, head jerking, almost as if mirroring the livid reaction of the man astride the stallion. “He sought unwanted liberties?” Alistair asked, aghast. “With dear Julian?”

  “I know. I bloody well know, Fin.” Arend rubbed his temple, which suddenly pounded as he remembered the frightened expression on his beloved’s face.

  Fin’s face reddened, and he cleared his throat, staring straight ahead again. “As I say, at breakfast, he implied that Julian is a paid bed servant. He means to expose you, wield that knowledge against you.” Alistair looked at him pointedly. “Blaine means to drag you through the scandal sheets, Arend. To capitalize on your present situation at Council, by weakening your position with tawdry gossip. He will have Julian’s identity known. That much he made very clear.”

  “If only it were just Blaine we had to worry over.” He could handle the gossipmongers and rumors about Julian’s true role. “But the Marquess of Wycombe is the one pulling his son’s strings. Working him like a marionette to his purposes.”

  “You’re certain of that?” Alistair asked in surprise.

  “Yes, Viscount Colchester told me over cards last night.”

  “He seems a very decent gentleman, quite unlike his brother in all regards.” Alistair’s expression turned briefly approving.

  “Your perceptions align with my own.” Arend tapped his reins and fell into stride beside Alistair’s mount. “And Sam’s apparently, if his dalliance with the fellow is any indication.”

  “Samuel is having an affair with the viscount?” Alistair repeated quizzically, although he didn’t look overly surprised. Then again, this was Sam they were talking about.

  Alistair’s expression darkened. “Perhaps the viscount is unfaithful to the realm, not just his wife. Playing the part of loyalist, whilst plying Sam for sensitive information.”

  Arend shook his head. “He is loyal, of that I’m confident. And not just to me as his king. I also believe”—Arend hesitated, but Alistair needed to know he could trust Colchester—“I think he’s in love with Sam.” He mentioned a young man he’d wanted, in his youth. Someone who he’d grown up near. Well, I’m not dunderheaded. Colchester’s estate borders Sam’s own.”

  “But the viscount could be feigning affection.”

  That assertion drew a laugh from Arend. “Have you not noticed the way he gazes at Sam? Didn’t you witness that last night—once the fellow had consumed a bit of port?” Alistair shook his head vaguely. “No, you’d not have done,” Arend said, “You’d already set about pilfering Blaine’s rooms.”

  “Utterly useless, that. Found nothing.” Alistair growled.

  Arend nodded. “Blaine wouldn’t have left anything about.”

  Alistair shook his head, appearing perplexed. “I realize Sam has an uncanny effect on the masculine gender. Everywhere he goes, fellows swoon at his flirtation; virginal lads blush when he winks. And even the most upright noblemen become beguiled, despite the obvious presence of our cousin’s lovely wife.”

  “Urm, this time’s different,” Arend said, choosing every word carefully. “With Lucy, I mean, and this particular affair.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s given her permission, as I realize she allows his infidelities.” Anger simmered beneath Alistair’s words; he adored Lucy. “She knows the manner of gentleman she married.”

  “Uh, Fin? I’m reasonably sure it’s not just Samuel who has stolen Colchester’s heart.”

  Alistair jerked in his direction, the sudden motion unsettling his mount. “Lucy? With the viscount and . . . what exactly are you saying, Arend?”

  “Oh, for bollock’s sake! Are you really such an innocent?” When Alistair gaped back at him owlishly, Arend cursed himself. He often forgot just how inexperienced his shy brother was. “You are truly such an innocent, blast it. Never mind.”

  “I’m not a virgin, Arend,” Alistair replied crossly. “And I am familiar with ménage.”

  “Not too intimately, I hope. I’d have to rearrange my perceptions of you.” He cut off whatever tetchy reply Fin had been about to make. “I’m not entirely positive it’s all three of them, mind you.”

  Of course, it was all damned three of them. This was Sam, after all. Nothing ever proved too outrageous or scandalous for his cousin.

  Alistair rubbed his ruddy cheeks. “I can understand such bed play if it’s a rare, risqué indulgence. Something sensually unexpected, perhaps while quite foxed at a wicked house party. The sort where courtesans are about, and lords and ladies are pairing off in odd numbers, and the wrong fellows are in gentlemanly laps.”

  Arend’s eyes widened. “I take back what I said: you’re not innocent whatsoever,” he observed admiringly. “Dear lord, brother mine. Never would I have pinned you as a frequenter of bacchanals.”

  Alistair didn’t answer, just rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes drifting shut. Arend recognized that expression; he’d long ago deemed it Fin’s “plotting and solving face.” Arend waited out the silence, listening to the birds high in the forest trees, and the soft chuffing noises of their horses.

  And then Alistair resumed talking as if they’d never ceased. “What I can’t accept—not this easily—is Sam and Lucy engaging in a ménage.”

  Arend sputtered in disbelief. “This is what you choose to focus on? The fashion in which Their Graces spend time abed?”

  Alistair gave him an irritable glance. “Colchester could be a spy; he could be gaining bedroom secrets from Sam or Lucy and relaying sensitive information back to your enemies, to his own father, the Marquess of Wycombe.”

  “Then why the devil would he warn me about his father? To what purpose?” When Alistair kept silent, Arend said, “See? You’ve no answer because we can count on Colchester. He pledged his loyalty to me last night.”

  Alistair drew his horse to a stop, then turned in the saddle to face Arend, who also halted. “I’m glad we can count on him, then. We’ll
need his support, to be sure.” Fin’s face spread into an unexpected smile. “Because I have a plan. A real one,” his brother said. “I mean to stop them all—for you to stop them all. I know it can be done, Arend. Together, we are going to mount a counter-strike.”

  “You don’t sound yourself,” Arend said, suspicious of the half-mad tone Fin had adopted. “My royal secretary advises conservativism in all things.”

  “Until it’s time for aggression.” Alistair’s horse whinnied, almost as if in agreement. “And it is time, Arend, lest these traitors in Council depose you. You have allies in chambers—and they far outnumber your enemies there. It’s time we called the most powerful of them home. To your home, back at the palace.” Alistair’s smile reached his eyes. “You have the power. It’s yours to wield, sire.”

  Arend began to smile, too. For the first time since the original edict was delivered, he experienced a true spark of hope. They’d been so cowed by the Council’s demands, and the force of them, that they’d been in retreat. “You’re saying ‘charge’.”

  “I should have advised you thusly a week ago.” Alistair gave him an apologetic glance. “I wanted to protect you. I always do, Arend. I simply didn’t recognize the full extent of this mutiny. But they’ve underestimated you.”

  Arend smiled now. “And you, as well, apparently.”

  “I promise, I will fight. I will not relent.”

  “They underestimated something else, too.” Arend thought of a concubine, one who loved him—one whom he’d promised to fight for. “My love for Julian.”

  Beside him, Alistair rumbled a laugh. “At least you’re freely admitting it.”

  Arend laughed, too. “Denying it proved utterly pointless.”

  Nodding, Alistair said, “I approve.”

  “Even though I’m stealing your beau?”

  Alistair blushed, opening his mouth—closing it. “Oh, God, tell me you don’t legitimately fancy Julian.”