by Kara Jaynes
Her mother looked shocked at her outspokenness, and Grace bit her lip, suddenly unsure of herself. Her father was nodding thoughtfully, though, and it gave her courage to continue. “I think the era of slavery has passed. I think it would benefit both parties equally if we could come to some kind of agreement and work together. If the nomads can put aside their anger, we could, perhaps, convince them to use their magic to make Ruis even stronger.”
She trailed off under the scrutiny of Mr. Jameson. The man was looking at her, rubbing his chin. He turned to her father, smiling. “Your daughter is intelligent, as well as beautiful. A delightful combination, to be sure.” He faced Grace again. “Lord Flores has invited me to your family’s Winter Social. I would be delighted if I could have the first three dances.”
Three? Grace batted her eyelashes, trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm. “I would like nothing more.”
Grace remained in the parlor long after Mr. Jameson took his leave, her parents following him to give their polite farewells. A year ago she would have been ecstatic to have captured Mr. Jameson’s attention. She used to take pleasure in attracting men—the more the merrier—but that had all changed.
Now every time a man tried to catch her eye, she could only feel disappointment that he wasn’t a tall nomad with intense, brown eyes. Drat the man, Grace thought sourly, and she wasn’t sure if she meant Mr. Jameson or Bran.
5
Bran
Bran smirked to himself as he watched Grace pull herself through a hole in the floor—the attic’s entrance. She sneezed, rubbing her nose vigorously, then stood and made her way toward the large window, holding her pale blue and cream skirts up to avoid the dust. She walked right past Bran’s hiding place behind several stacked boxes. He rose silently and followed her.
She stopped when she reached the closed window. She sighed regretfully, lightly brushing her fingers across the glass panes. Bran’s smile grew. She’d missed him.
Grace gave a muffled shriek when he put a hand over her mouth. “Shhh,” he whispered, his mouth next to her ear. “It’s just me.”
The young lady squirmed, glaring up at him. He lowered his hand and she hissed, “Don’t sneak up on me like that, you dunderhead!”
“I couldn’t resist.” Bran chuckled and sat on the dusty floor of the Flores attic, pulling Grace down to sit beside him. “We were supposed to meet at the market two days ago. Why didn’t you come?”
“Because of my mother,” Grace growled. “She made me stay for tea with blasted Mr. Jameson.”
“Who is he?” Bran asked, hoping his tone sounded casual.
“Just some gentleman visiting to discuss business with my father.” She waved her hand dismissively, but her cheeks were flushed and she wouldn’t look at him.
“I see. . .” Bran watched her closely. Grace looked a little flustered.
“You’re lucky I decided to come up here today.” Grace changed the subject, still looking away from him. “I was going to go shopping with Mother, but hoped you might come.”
Bran took a deep breath. He wasn’t looking forward to her reaction when he told her about Kenroc’s push to move the nomads south, but avoiding the discussion wouldn’t do her any favors. “Grace, I need to talk to you.”
The young woman tilted her head to the side quizzically, her eyes large. Her blonde curls tumbled about her shoulders. “You are talking to me, dear.”
“I know, but that’s not what I meant. I mean, I—”
“Will you go to the Winter Social with me, Bran?”
“What?” Bran stared at her, perplexed. “What social?”
“The social of the year,” Grace said proudly, lifting her chin. “My parents host it every winter. It’s the most popular annual event in Ruis.”
“Sounds dangerous.” Bran arched an eyebrow at her. “For a nomad, anyway.”
“It’s a masquerade ball,” Grace looked at him through lowered lashes, a slow smile spreading across her face. “A mask is mandatory.”
When Bran didn’t reply she rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Don’t you see? You can come and no one will know who you are.”
She handed him an envelope, closed with the Flores seal. “Your invitation is in here. Present it at the door and you’ll be allowed in. Just be sure you’re wearing a mask.”
“And if your parents want an introduction?” Bran countered. “What am I supposed to tell them?”
“Then you’ll introduce yourself as Sirius Archer.” Grace patted him on the shoulder. “Be a gem and do say you’ll come.”
“I’ll think about it,” Bran promised, leaning forward to kiss her. He left a short while later, only remembering once he was walking down the street that he’d forgotten to tell her about Kenroc’s push to go south.
6
Grace
“Polly, you’ve got to help me!” The slave-turned-servant had come into the room to dust, and Grace slipped off her bed to hurry to her, clad in her nightgown. Bran had left hours ago. “You need to make me beautiful.”
Polly laughed, patting Grace’s cheek. “You say that every time there’s a social, love. You know you’re already gorgeous. Besides, the party isn’t for another two weeks.”
“No, I really mean it this time.” Grace clasped her hands together earnestly. “I need to be—have to be—the prettiest woman there.”
Polly clucked soothingly. “Well, don’t worry, dear. We’ll make sure everything is perfect.” She no longer wore a collar, but Polly had been with the family for so long that even when she’d worn it, the Flores’ tended to forget she wasn’t a member of their family. She was one of the few slaves who had stayed. Grace’s father had always given Polly a small wage, despite the fact that she’d been a slave.
Together, the two women went through Grace’s things. “How about this one, dear?” Polly asked, pulling out a shimmering silver gown.
Grace waved a dismissive hand. “I wore it last year. Aaric didn’t seem impressed.” She paused a moment, thinking about him. She cared for Bran more than she did Aaric, but she still didn’t understand why Aaric would have chosen Adaryn over herself. The nomad woman had rather striking eyes, Grace admitted, but her hair was always a mess and she was thin as a rail, with no curves to speak of. Oh well. His loss.
“This one would look lovely with your eyes.” Polly pulled a lavender silk dress from the wardrobe.
“It’s the wrong color for the season,” Grace pouted. She threw her hands up. “There’s nothing for it, I’ll have to go shopping.”
“You’ve never worn this one.” Polly pulled out a scarlet red gown.
“Hm.” Grace tapped her lips. It was a deep shade of red with a low neckline. Quite striking. “I’ll wear it. You’ll put my hair up?”
Polly laughed delightedly. “Who is it, love, to have put you in such a tizzy? Is it that Mr. Hartford?”
“Who?” Grace had to think a moment before remembering the man. Short and round, the man had frizzy hair and a bulbous nose. He was ridiculously rich, but that was hardly a consideration. Not since Bran had entered the picture, anyway. “Oh. No, not him.”
“Mr. Jameson, then?” With the crisis of what Grace was to wear averted, Polly had resumed her dusting. “He has beautiful eyes and a charming smile, and from the gossip, his estates out in the country are massive.”
Grace chewed her lip nervously. “Not him either, Polly. If I tell you, promise you won’t breathe a word to Mother, all right?”
“You can tell me anything, sweetie.”
“I’m in love with a nomad.”
Polly dropped her duster.
“Don’t tell my mother,” Grace warned, pointing a finger at her.
“Who is it?” Polly pressed, her eyes wide.
“His name is Bran,” Grace said dreamily. “He’s tall, with these brown eyes that are so large you feel like you’re drowning every time you look into them. His smile is enough to melt your heart, and set your insides on fire all at the same time. His hands—”
Polly laughed, interrupting. “No need to describe his hands, dearie. I’m sure they’re lovely.” She tilted her head, considering. “I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard of him. They said he united the clans and killed his own father to do it.”
“His father was horrible.” Grace snorted dismissively. “He tried to have me killed.”
“That doesn’t sound very nice,” Polly admitted. “I grew up with the man before I was captured.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “He was a hard boy, and grew into a hard man. When his parents were killed, he became even harder. I came to Ruis before Bran was born.”
Grace blinked. She had never stopped to consider that Polly probably had a life before she was born. As far as she remembered, Polly was always there.
“Don’t you fret.” Polly’s mouth firmed. “You are already the most beautiful woman in Ruis, and after I’m finished, you’ll be so dazzling this Bran won’t know what to do with himself.”
Grace beamed. “Thank you, Polly.”
She turned to look at herself in the mirror. Gray-blue eyes, milk-white skin that curved in all the right places, and blonde curls that hung in loose waves to her shoulders. She would make sure that Bran had eyes for her, and only her.
7
Bran
“You’re going into the city again?” Donell asked, his brow lowering in confusion. “Why?”
It was the evening of the Flores Winter Social, but Bran certainly wasn’t going to tell him that. No one in the clan knew he was visiting Grace. He tried to think of a suitable reason. “I. . . I plan to spy on some of the nobles. See what they’re up to.” He held Star’s reins in one hand, and patted the fiery stallion with the other.
Donell nodded, his face grim. “Good plan. So you’ve considered my suggestion of war.”
“No. I don’t plan to go to war with Ruis.”
Donell’s face darkened. “Then why would you spy on them, if you don’t plan to use their information against them?”
“‘Knowledge is power, stronger than magic,’” Bran quoted an old saying. “You know that. If they do plan something, we’d need to know, right?”
Donell’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t still seeing that golden-haired strumpet, are you? The one who followed you into camp with Adaryn?”
Bran gaped at him. He’d been so careful to keep her a secret. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, frowning at the younger man. “And I’m tired of you questioning me. I’m the clan chief, Donell. Don’t forget it.”
He turned and stalked away from camp, leading Star, ignoring the questioning looks some of the clan members gave him. He was so intent on getting away he almost walked into Kenroc at the edge of encampment.
“Again?” The lines around Kenroc’s eyes were creased with suspicion. “Bran, you keep entering the city. If you’re caught skulking around, the repercussions could be serious.”
“I’ll be fine,” Bran said, a little more sharply than he intended. He moderated his tone. “I’m just going in to see if the magistrates and nobles have any plans regarding us.”
“Have you given my suggestion any thought?” Kenroc asked. “If we left, it wouldn’t matter what Ruis planned.”
“I have thought about it,” Bran replied slowly. “I still haven’t decided.”
“There was a time when you wouldn’t hedge and hesitate so much.” Kenroc eyed him doubtfully. “And a time when you were more honest.”
“I am honest,” Bran snapped, before remembering he’d lied to Donell moments earlier. He took a deep breath. “I’m still considering it, Kenroc. But I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”
Kenroc didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and withdrew.
Bran’s mood had taken a turn for the worse by the time he left the large, sprawling camp behind. If clan members were beginning to question his authority, then he needed to put on a stronger show of confidence. He glowered at nothing as he rode Star to Ruis. Kenroc was probably right; the clan would do better to travel south, even if the villages and towns were fewer and farther between. But he couldn’t leave Grace. He loved her. At the thought of the bubbly, vivacious young woman, Bran smiled to himself, urging Star to a trot. He’d never been to a Ruis social before, or any social for that matter. This was the night he’d sweep her off her feet.
8
Grace
The Flores Winter Social was a major event. All the important people of Ruis were invited and the Flores family spared no expense in decor, music, and food. The entire house was decorated in splendor, the most skilled musicians were hired to play, and the finest wines and delicacies were put out on several long tables that were lined up against two of the walls in the ballroom.
Grace was wearing her red dress, the neckline just low enough to emphasize her full bosom. Her hair was swept up, blonde ringlets falling on either side of her face. Her rouge was set. She wore pearl earrings and a matching necklace, and her snug white gloves were delicately crocheted. Her mask was small and white, edged with gold. She looked absolutely lovely—her father had said so. She knew so, too, after looking in the mirror.
She was going to turn heads tonight. Normally the thought thrilled her. It was fun to see how many men she could lead along. Tonight, though, she felt positively ill with nerves. She pressed her hands to her stomach, trying to stay calm. Why did she invite Bran? Her father couldn’t possibly approve of the man she’d chosen; her mother certainly wouldn’t. What would everyone else think of the stranger? That dratted Mr. Jameson expected her to dance with him. Three whole dances! Why had she said yes?
She put on a smile and greeted people warmly as they crossed the Flores threshold. Men’s eyes, single or not, turned to her. She remembered Polly telling her she’d be a head-turner, and she was right. But what about Bran? There would be plenty of other beautiful women. Would he still find her pretty?
“Grace!” With a swish of gold silk, a young woman wearing an elaborately painted mask hurried toward her. It was Annabelle, Grace’s lifelong friend. They hugged briefly, then Annabelle stood beside her, practically bouncing on her toes. “I’m so excited!” She looked over the party with a gleam in her black eyes. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to a social. My family and I have been in the city of Harbor for months now and have just come back.” She smiled, her jet-black hair tumbling to her shoulders in silky waves. “Parties are not nearly as fun in Harbor as they are here. How was Sen Altare? And did you really get captured by rovers?”
“Who told you that?” Grace laughed.
“You’re the talk of the town, dearie,” her friend replied. “Word is a tall barbarian carried you off to make you his bride.”
I wish, Grace thought sourly, but simply sniffed. “If that were true, how could I possibly be here?”
“The inventor saved you, of course.” Annabelle’s eyes were constantly shifting as she compared the men—eligible and non-eligible alike—in the room. “But then he had to go and destroy the Tower, throwing our entire city into chaos. All that for a slave woman. He’s quite mad, you know.”
“Undoubtedly.” Grace still didn’t see Mr. Jameson, but she noticed with alarm that Mr. Hartford saw her, and was pushing through the crowd in her direction. She grabbed Annabelle’s arm, pulling her the other way. Annabelle saw and giggled, putting a slim hand to her mouth to stifle it.
“Come now, Grace, Mr. Hartford may not be much to look at, but he’s filthy rich.”
Grace shuddered. “I’d sooner marry . . . just about anyone else, really.”
Annabelle didn’t hear her. “Be still my heart,” she murmured, looking toward the entrance. “Who is he?”
Grace’s head snapped toward the ballroom entrance and, though she was several yards away, found herself swallowed up in the intense gaze of a tall, lean man.
Bran. He’d come! He looked smashing, dressed in a black jacket, red vest, and form fitting gray trouser and black boots. His mask was adorned with black swan feathers. Grace’s knees
wobbled under the intensity of his stare, but she tried to hide it as she walked over to greet him.
9
Bran
Bran felt a little unsteady looking across the room at Grace. Shades alive, she had always been a beautiful woman, but tonight she was absolutely stunning. Her hair caught the light of the lamps, making her hair seem to glow. Her silk ball gown exposed pale shoulders, and her full, red lips curved upward in a smile. She glided gracefully across the room to stand before him. She looked up with a smile. “You came.”
Bran had to swallow twice before he could speak. “I couldn’t turn down your invitation.”
“I’m glad. Did you have any trouble getting in?”
Bran smirked, pretending to be confident. “I’m Lord Sirius Archer of Sen Altare. I get invited to all sorts of parties.”
“See?” Grace laughed, putting a delicate hand to her mouth. “I told you it would work.”
Bran scanned the area. The ballroom was massive. It could’ve held fifty nomad tents with room to spare. Candles set in sconces lined the walls, and chandeliers sparkled with light. Tables were practically groaning with the weight of food and drink. His stomach growled, and he eyed the tables again. He’d been in such a hurry to get there he didn’t stop to eat. Grace noticed and tugged on his arm. “Are you hungry? Come, you can—”
“Miss Grace, there you are.” A tall gentleman, wearing an outrageously large silver mask, came to stand by her side, placing a hand on her shoulder in a way that seemed much too familiar to Bran. The man smirked at him. “If you don’t mind, Mr.. . .”