by Kara Jaynes
“Lord Archer.” Grace said, turning to the man. “Lord Sirius Archer of Sen Altare.”
“‘Lord,’ is it?” Mr. Jameson drawled. His eyes took in Bran’s clothing. Bran tried not to wince; he was wearing his very finest, but they were still rather plain compared to the men here. “Well, Lord Archer, if you’ll excuse us.” His hand—Bran resisted the overwhelming urge to break it—lifted from Grace’s shoulder only to take her hand. “You promised me the first three dances, Miss Grace.”
The young woman grimaced, but without another word allowed Mr. Jameson to lead her out onto the dance floor, leaving Bran quite alone.
10
Grace
“Trust me, Miss Grace.” Mr. Jameson’s grip was iron and quite uncomfortable as they waltzed across the ballroom floor. “You don’t want to get mixed up with the likes of that man. He may cut a fine figure—” Mr. Jameson’s mouthed tightened in displeasure, “—but coming from the south, he’s sure to have no manners, and wouldn’t know how to treat a lady properly.” He smiled condescendingly down at her and it took everything Grace had to keep from smacking him upside the head. Pompous fool.
When they turned, she momentarily stood on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder and was shocked to see Bran talking quite animatedly to another woman. Another turn in the waltz and she momentarily lost sight of him. A break in the crowd showed the nomad chief again. He was talking to Annabelle! Out of all the women there, Annabelle was the last woman Grace would have picked to interact with Bran. If Annabelle got it into her head that she fancied the man, she wouldn’t be happy until she had him wrapped around her finger. That dirty puzzle. Annabelle would talk to him. Grace would have to strangle her later. How dare she talk to her Bran?
Perhaps Mr. Jameson realized what she was doing, but whatever the reason he firmly led them to a different section of the dance floor, quite effectively blocking her view of the handsome nomad. “Quite the cold winter we’re having, wouldn’t you say?” He began to engage her in pointless, boring conversation that Grace was obligated to answer. The first dance finished, and the second began. It felt endless.
Grace ground her teeth in frustration. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her evening going at all.
11
Bran
Bran stared after Grace’s retreating form. Did she not care for him? He had been so sure she did. But if that were really the case, why did she dance with another man? His hands curled into fists at his sides. A young woman walking past him tripped and stumbled. Bran instinctively caught her, helping her regain her footing.
She looked up, pushing her golden mask up onto her forehead to get a better look at him. She smiled demurely through long, dark lashes. Her hair was black as crow feathers, and glistened in the light. “Thank you, sir.” She stepped closer, her gaze traveling over his body in a way that wasn’t demure at all. “I really must watch my step.”
“No problem.” Bran’s eyes lifted over her head, scanning for Grace. There, in the center of the ballroom. She looked stiff and thoroughly uncomfortable. Good.
“And to whom do I owe my thanks?”
Bran blinked, looking down again at the young woman. He’d forgotten about her. “Bran—er, I mean, Sirius. Sirius Archer.”
“Oh?” Her enormous eyes were the color of midnight. “And where do you hail from, Mr. Archer?”
“Lord Archer,” he corrected with a grin. “From Sen Altare.”
“A Lord?” Bran didn’t think the young woman could get any closer, but she did; they were almost touching. “How exciting. Grace didn’t tell me about you.”
I can see why. Bran wasn’t interested in anyone besides Grace, but he’d have to be a blind fool to not be aware that the young lady was pleasant to look at. “Are you a friend of Miss Grace, then?” he asked. He flicked his gaze to where Grace and the cursed Mr. Jameson had been dancing, and was disappointed when he couldn’t see them in the crowd.
The young woman grabbed his arm with both hands, pulling him toward double doors that led to an outdoor balcony. “It’s rather warm in here, wouldn’t you say? Come, let’s go outside for a bit. The winter air will do you some good.”
Bran frowned. She was being awfully bold for a woman who hardly knew him. Why so interested? “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He wasn’t sure how a lord from Sen Altare was supposed to act though, and allowed her to tug him outside. They were the only two out on the balcony. It was dark, and a chill wind had sprung up.
The young woman clutched her crocheted shawl around her narrow shoulders and sat on a marble bench. She patted the empty space next to her, and he sat. “It’s a mite cold out here.” She laughed, shifting closer so their legs touched. “It was a bit stifling in there, though. My name is Miss Annabelle Fontei. But you can call me Annabelle.” She smiled slowly.
Bran looked around. They were well and truly alone. He hoped there wasn’t some angry father ready to spring out at him. He had no idea who this woman was, but didn’t want to be rude. He sat on the edge of the bench, as far from her as he could.
“Lord Archer.” The young woman shifted closer to him. “What is it like in Sen Altare? I’ve never been to the southern city. My father doesn’t have any estates there, though many in Ruis do.” Her dress was cut low enough that Bran cleared his throat in alarm when she leaned forward a little. “I’d love to visit someday. Perhaps you could—”
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” Grace stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a glare on her face. Annabelle jumped, startled, but Bran kept his expression calm as he looked up at the angry woman.
“Yes, it is,” he said blandly, satisfied at the fury on her face.
“Well,” Grace’s chin rose as she looked down her nose at him. “If I had realized you were so busy with Annabelle—” She shot the dark-haired woman a venomous look, Annabelle staring coolly back. “—I wouldn’t have interrupted you.” She turned with a swish of red silk and marched back inside, back stiff with anger.
Bran leapt to his feet, ignoring Annabelle’s protests, and strode after Grace. He caught up with her inside in the hallway and grabbed her arm. She glared up at him. “Let go of me.” Her voice was ice. He ignored her demand.
“What’s your problem?” he growled. “You made it perfectly clear you preferred the other man’s company to mine, yet you get your shift in a wad when I talk to another woman? What kind of double standard is that?”
Grace’s mouth hung open in astonishment. “What do a few dances with Mr. Jameson have to do with anything?” She looked bewildered. “It would have been rude to not accept.”
Bran’s frown deepened. “In our nomadic society, a woman does not dance with a man she is not romantically interested in. By accepting his offer, you’ve made it quite clear you prefer his company to mine.”
“It was three dances!” Grace’s face was flushed, her eyes glittering with outrage. “You really think that means I like him? It’s call being polite, Bran, something that is obviously foreign to you. I would have embarrassed myself and my family if I’d declined.”
Bran stared down at her, trying to come back with a response. His mind was blank. He knew those from Ruis and Sen Altare had different cultures from the nomads, but he didn’t realize it went so far. It was ridiculous that a woman would dance with a man she had no intention of potentially marrying.
“You shouldn’t have danced with him,” he muttered.
Grace’s gaze softened. Not by much, but a little. “If you claim the remaining dances, I won’t have any choice but to comply.”
“Well then,” Bran put her arm in his. “I claim the remaining dances.”
“And stay away from Annabelle,” she snapped. “She’ll try to snatch you up quicker than the last hotcake if you’re not careful.”
Bran smiled. “I’m not interested in Annabelle.” He looked down at her. The redness in her face had diminished somewhat, but she still looked flustered. Still beautiful. At this point they were back in the ballroom. Masked c
ouples circled their way about the large room, while servants carried trays filled with tall goblets of wine. Mr. Jameson detached himself from the crowd at the same time that Annabelle caught up to them. The dark beauty looked decidedly sullen, and Mr. Jameson’s expression was one of irritation.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Grace,” he said. “I was wondering if I could have the pleasure of the next—”
“Miss Grace will be dancing with me,” Bran said firmly. His grip on Grace’s hand tightened before he could catch himself, but was pleasantly surprised when she squeezed his hand briefly in return.
Mr. Jameson didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Grace?” he asked.
Grace nodded. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Jameson,” she replied, “but I assure you I have no need of it.” She turned to Annabelle. “Mr. Jameson, I don’t believe you’ve made the acquaintance of Miss Annabelle Fontei. Annabelle, this is Mr. Jameson.”
She all but dragged Bran away as the former two made polite introductions. Bran smothered a laugh. “That was brilliant.”
Grace’s lips twitched, she was trying to hold in a chuckle. “Those two deserve each other.” They were in the center of the ballroom, and she turned to face him. “You know how to dance, then?”
Bran smirked. “A little.”
He was considered a very good dancer in the clan. He quickly discovered, however, that dances in Ruis were nothing like tribal nomadic dances.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, after stepping on her foot for the third time.
Grace winced. “I thought you said you could dance.”
“Oppressor dances are pointless,” he shot back. “There’s no soul in them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you want me to show you?” He tilted his head, listening to the music. It had no solid beat in its rhythm, but he might be able to make it work.
“How much ‘soul’ does your dance have?” Her lips curved in a smile. “You’ve already drawn much attention simply by being here. You might not want to garner more.”
Bran nodded. “The first nomad to ever be invited to a Ruis social, no doubt.”
“To any social as a guest, even if I’m the only one to know it,” Grace replied. “Nomads have come to socials in Ruis, of course, but always as slaves. I met Adaryn at a party. Aaric had brought her.” She was silent a moment, and when she spoke, her tone was reflective. “I don’t think she knew it at the time, but she was already in love with him. I was jealous.” She laughed.
“Are you still jealous?” Bran asked seriously.
Grace shook her head. “Of course not. Not when I have you.” She smiled up at him for a brief moment before pulling him over to the tables, ending their conversation.
12
Bran
The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully. Bran made a mental note to himself to never attend a social again. Aside from the food—which was delicious—it was beyond boring. The only things discussed within his range of hearing were of dresses and shopping from the women, and hunting and gambling from the men. The hunting initially sounded interesting, but he’d turned away in disgust when he found most did it purely for sport. It was wasteful to end the life of an animal so.
After a couple of hours, Bran found himself yawning. The mingling scents of food, wine, and perfume were becoming overwhelming and his eyes hurt from the constant swirl of colored silks and the sparkling of light off jewelry and sequins.
Reaching up, Grace patted his shoulder. “I think I’ve had my fill of parties for one evening.” She gestured to the nearest door. “Let’s go to the gardens.”
Bran was more than happy to leave, and followed her out of the massive ballroom. She took him down a series of hallways, and down a few staircases, before they found themselves out in the Flores garden.
The city was in the grip of winter, and the Flores property was no exception. Still, their garden was beautiful, with an unearthly quality about it. Stone statues of mythical beasts and angels dusted with snow were arranged with care around the brick pathway as well as some carefully pruned trees that Bran didn’t recognize.
Magic. Bran’s head jerked up, straining to sense where it was coming from, but it faded so quickly he couldn’t pinpoint its location.
“Are you all right?” Grace asked him.
“What? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.” Bran shrugged it off. Probably just a nomadic servant.
Both removed their masks as they strolled down one of the paths. Grace glanced up at him. “Do you feel any better?”
“Better?” Bran blinked at her.
“You looked like you were suffocating in there.”
Bran laughed uncomfortably. He hadn’t realized she noticed. “It was getting a little stuffy.”
Grace smiled and began to step away, but Bran impulsively took her hand in his. She paused, letting him trace her gloved palm with his finger. Her hand was so much smaller than his. He lifted his head and his gaze caught in hers. They stood motionless, neither wanting to end the moment.
The sound of laughter broke the stillness. People were beginning to leave the social. It was doubtful anyone would come down the path at this time of night, but Grace sighed regretfully, turning back toward the mansion.
“Thank you for coming, Bran, I had a lovely time.” Her smile widened. “One of these days you’ll have to show me one of those nomad dances you were talking about.”
Bran, still holding her hand, tightened his grip and tugged her deeper into the garden. “I can show you now.” He was loath to part company.
Grace looked confused. “There isn’t any music.”
“There doesn’t have to be.” He led her to a small gravel clearing in the garden beneath a large willow. “The music’s in my head.” He paused, closing his eyes, remembering the slow, steady beat of drums from a clan dance. It was a wedding song that he thought of, but she didn’t have to know that. His feet began to shuffle in time to the beat in his head. He led Grace, hand in hand, in a smooth circle, humming wordlessly. Side-step, side-step, circle. He opened his eyes to discover the young woman looking up at him, and Bran’s voice caught in his throat. In the darkness of night, her beauty had taken on an ethereal quality. Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight, and her blonde curls framed her delicate face. She was smiling. A more beautiful woman, Bran had never seen; she was absolutely breathtaking.
He wrapped his arms around her slim waist and, lowering his head, pressed his lips feather-light against hers. Grace moved into the kiss, reaching her hands up to caress his face. Heat coursed through his body at her touch. His arms tightened in their embrace, his mouth becoming eager. Grace kissed him back just as aggressively. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Bran’s pulse pounded as he lost himself in her scent, her touch, her taste. He never wanted it to end.
Grace pulled away with a gasp and laid her head against his chest for a moment. Bran swallowed, trying to slow his galloping heart.
“Well, this has been an eventful evening, I daresay.” Grace giggled as she stepped away from him, her head tilted to the side as she regarded him with a wide smile on her face. “I’ve found it quite . . . exhilarating.” Still laughing, she retreated to her home, leaving Bran standing alone in the garden. He felt his heart might burst from happiness.
13
Grace
“Whatever is the matter, Father?” Grace, on entering her father’s study, saw him sitting slumped at his desk, face in hands. It was the morning right after the social, and her father was still wearing his clothing from the night before. He looked up when Grace approached, smiling tiredly at her. “I’m all right, Gracie. Nothing you need to worry about.”
Grace set down the flask of brandy she’d brought up for him and, pulling an extra chair over, sat down. “Tell me.”
Lord Flores sighed, running a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “There have been some kidnappings,” he said, his tone matching his concerned expression. “Children are disappearing.”
“In the city?” Grace’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Yes. Taken right out of their beds from the looks of it. It’s only been a handful of children, but there’s no guarantee that it won’t keep happening, of course. The kidnappings have been going on for weeks now, and I still don’t have a suspect. The other magistrates aren’t concerned, as the children have all been from the lower district.”
The lower district held the greater population of the city, but they were also the poorer population as well. “But you’re concerned.”
Her father nodded. “I’m head magistrate of the entire city, not just the nobles.” He smoothed his mustache, brow furrowed in thought. “It could be some local rogue, someone from the mobs, planning to do heaven knows what, but I don’t think so. Door locks aren’t broken, and same for the windows. It’s like no one was there.”
“Who do you think it is?” Grace knew the answer as soon as the words left her lips. She hoped her father wouldn’t come to the same conclusion but it was a vain wish.
“I’ve kept my suspicions to myself. I don’t want to start a war. But children disappearing without a trace, snatched from their very beds while asleep? Locks undisturbed? Who else could be responsible than the nomads with their magic?”
“No.” Grace shook her head in denial. Her father was wrong. He had to be. “They’re not like that. They wouldn’t do this. Not to children.”
Lord Flores arched an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “If I recall, dear, these people you’re defending are the same people who tried to kill you.”
Grace tossed her blonde curls with a shake of her head, dismissing his comment. “Their clan chief was a fool, but they aren’t all like that.”
“Really.” Her father leaned back in his chair, considering her. “And how would you know that?”