by Cara Coe
“It is those same rulers you praise that hold the rule in place.”
“It is an ancient one, but not struck in stone. As your company proclaimed, many think these marriages benefit everyone. Perhaps they’re not enlightened that there are some-”
“Like you.”
“-yes, like me, who would not rejoice at such a match.”
Lord Crawford’s smile grew. “Well, perhaps one day you will enlighten them. May I have this dance?”
Amelie knew that smile. She’d stayed too long, engaged him too much, stopped her efforts on her magic in her passion for her argument. He was not taken yet, but she pleased him and dancing would entrench it further. “I’m inclined to say no, if only to take a break from our heated debate.”
“Then perhaps you will take a turn with me,” a voice said behind her. It was a pitch deeper than Lord Crawford’s light-hearted timbre and it caused the attendees in her company to bow deeply and flush. Amelie turned and took in the sight before her. A tall gentleman, about a head above her own height, looked at her through a simple green mask with a golden crest at the corner of each eye for variety. His eyes were dark, appraising her. His hair was dark as well, midnight, short and slightly rumpled on top. The only piece of him out of place. Everything else was rigid. Expectant. Waiting. His arm was outstretched slightly towards her, palm up.
“Your Highness,” Lady Pinch spoke breaking the silence. Amelie’s breath caught in her throat at the address. Lady Pinch was refined in her explanation of the overheard conversation. “We were merely discussing the particulars of the betrothal in the lightest of sense. No opinions cast were serious, of course. We have complete confidence in the court.”
“Mine were serious,” Amelie disagreed, sending a darting glare to the woman before turning back to the dark haired prince. “If they offend you, Prince Kernan, I regret that consequence but it does not change them.”
The prince’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “I’ll be sure to let my brother know your sentiments on his engagement.”
“Damn the Angels.” Amelie’s ears were on fire. “Prince Seth,” she corrected bowing again. “I apologize. Your mask…you look so much like your brother…” She hoped her stammered apology would suit. She had been bored as Sir Duncan had her study the royal portraits of the neighboring kingdoms. Two had prince siblings. In one kingdom they resembled each other greatly. In the other, one was slim and tall, the other short and belly-stuffed. Amelie hoped Draeden held true to the former.
Prince Seth didn’t give her an indication to whether he looked like his brother or not. His eyes searched hers, softening to assuage her embarrassment.
“Well, my lady, you have mildly insulted the laws of Draeden and the royal court, damned my brother’s betrothal, called me by the wrong name, and left me standing here with my dance invitation in my hand. My arm is growing tired. Will you at least show me mercy on one of these accounts?”
His eyes twinkled with amusement and Amelie felt the fire spread from her ears down her neck. She flushed visibly and pushed her gloved hand into his.
“Of course, your Highness.”
Amelie allowed herself to be escorted to the floor to join the other couples in a dance in progress. She and the prince took their places in line, her steps a concerted effort to avert even further embarrassment. Thanks to her bold remarks and the prince’s sudden interest, her hope of anonymity was quickly fading as several masked faces peered curiously at her from the sidelines.
“I feel the weight of a thousand eyes,” Amelie muttered.
Prince Seth made his agreement with a slight nod. “I rarely dance at these things.”
“You’re doing well,” Amelie remarked honestly. He was covering her ill attempts at gracefulness and he knew it.
“Yes, well it was required of me to learn dance. I prefer to be a spectator.”
“Except tonight?”
“Except tonight. Your thoughts on Draeden law were much more engaging than the bloated compliments from a shipping lord worried about losing his arrangement with the palace.”
“Ah. Well, if you thought to continue that line of conversation, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I think I’ve exhausted my thoughts on the matter, and in quite a humiliating manner. I don’t know when to hold my tongue.”
“With me? Never. The royal court is nothing but a procession of held tongues. That’s one of the reasons I spend so little time there.” Prince Seth glided Amelie off his foot in a sweeping motion as the couples exchanged partners to their diagonal. Amelie smiled politely at her temporary replacement, returning his remarks about the assortment of fine art displayed on the walls.
“A generous collection,” she agreed. He “ooomphed” in response as her quarter turn nicked him in the shin with her heel. She stumbled slightly, but was instantly straightened again by the prince who had one hand clasped at her waist while the other firmly held up her forearm and they did a full turn. His mouth was set in a thin line. Amelie realized with horror he was withholding a laugh.
He spoke instead. “I saw that.”
She tucked an escaping plait behind her ear with her free hand and returned his look as stoically as she could. “I did not care for his conversation.”
They both broke out into full grins at this and Amelie felt at ease and Prince Seth chuckled at her expense.
“Few Draedens would feel comfortable speaking their mind as you did in the presence of royalty,” he observed.
“I did not realize royalty was present.”
“Few nobles would miss the gold crest on the mask of royalty and the royal guards.”
“Perhaps I’m not a noble.”
“Few peasants would attend a noble ball.”
Amelie’s eyes pierced from behind her mask and locked onto his questioning gaze. “Perhaps I’m not a peasant.”
“Whatever you are, my lady, has made my night the most enjoyable one in recent memory.”
Amelie smiled. “It was not my intention but that thought makes me glad nonetheless.”
“What is your name?”
“Let’s just dance.” Amelie almost breathed the words, not wanting to let ration leak into the experience.
They turned about the room. Step, step, curtsey, turn. Questions burned in the prince’s mouth, Amelie could see it in his glances, but neither of them broke the sound of the melody. It was a beautiful moment and it wasn’t until the final curtsey that Amelie realized how flushed she was. How warm the skin was beneath her white glove was where Prince Seth still held though the other couples had parted as new ones assembled around them. Without rational thought, she pulled from his grasp, removed her glove, and clutched his hand again. Prince Seth gave her a startled look, his eyes narrowing at their hands. She allowed herself a moment to touch his skin, touch another man without the cloud of intent ruling the sensation. With a sigh, she went to draw away, but he squeezed and ran his thumb lightly over hers.
“May I have another?” he asked quietly.
She was about to eagerly agree when Millie pasted herself to her side, subsequently breaking their hold.
“Your Highness,” she addressed Prince Seth, bowing deeply while clutching Amelie’s upper arm. He bowed in return. “We must not neglect the other guests, Amelie,” Millie urged, jerking her head towards Lord Lennox slightly.
Amelie started, realizing he’d left his welcome post and had been mingling with his guests on the sidelines. For quite some time, by look of his nearly empty wine glass.
“Amelie,” Prince Seth repeated. “A beautiful name. And since the secrets are spilling, may I have a last name so not to offend you with such a casual address?”
Amelie could not suppress a smile. “Just Amelie. I like the sound of your casual address, your Highness.”
“Seth. Please. As long as we’re discarding the formalities.”
“We must go now.” Millie tugged impatiently. “If you’ll excuse us, Seth…your Highness…sir…”
Millie bit her
lip in frustration as she pulled the princess off the dancing floor and behind a marble column. Amelie replaced her glove. Millie watched with patient concern.
“Should I douse you in saltwood ash? You did nothing to prevent his falling under.”
Amelie pinched her face in confusion. “Falling under…”
“Your magic. You encouraged it, my lady. Why would you touch him? The Prince of Draeden? We’re here for Lord Lennox. What did Sir Duncan say? Is there a new plan?”
“He…I felt no pull from him. I-” Amelie’s eyes searched the ground as if they held the words that she needed.
“He’s staring over here, my lady.” Millie shirked any discretion by craning her neck around the column to report his movements. “I think you had an effect.”
“No, I felt…I mean, I was warm.”
Millie grinned at her. “You like him. That’s the warmth you speak of.” Amelie drew her eyebrows together and Millie laughed out loud. “Yes, my lady, it happens. And it feels wonderful.” She grew quiet as she glanced at Lord Lennox. “But perhaps you should have been more guarded. He’s the Prince of Draeden and you are about to openly flirt with the Lord.”
Amelie slapped a hand to her forehead. “Damn the Angels,” she hissed. “I’ll slip into a side room with him unnoticed and finish this quickly.”
“You’ll be cold.” Millie wagged a warning finger.
“I must leave quickly. This night has been…confusing.”
A sly smile slid across Millie’s lips. “Oh, you really fancy him.”
“Stop being silly, Millie.” Amelie smoothed her green dress and adjusted her mask, regaining a sense of purpose. Her voice was business. “He’s a prince.”
“You’re a princess, Amelie. Convent life and road missions may have left you feeling otherwise, but you are worthy of him.”
“Besides the complication of him hailing from a different kingdom from which we are not supposed to have contact with, he’s a man. And my infliction means he shall remain at a distance. Always.”
Millie frowned, but did not disagree. “I’ll create a diversion,” she offered.
“Nothing too large.”
Amelie broke away from Millie, heading towards Lord Lennox and seamlessly slipped into the conversation, nodding at the appropriate intervals while waiting for Millie’s cue. She inconspicuously slipped a cut stalk of silver root from the back collar of her dress where it was tucked away in a pocket at the nape and passed her hand in front of her mouth in a cough. Her tongue set the plant in the bite of her back teeth where she began extracting the juice in short, quiet sucking motions.
She didn’t have to wait long for Millie.
Millie had joined the next dance with one of the lords Amelie met earlier, Lord Trupdone. During one of the turns, she fell on her ankle, arms flailing, disrupting the dance enough that a few of the musicians caught on their instruments. Amelie’s party craned their necks to the floor to witness the commotion.
Amelie stepped in closer to Lord Lennox and grazed his elbow.
“Would you mind giving me a tour of your lovely home?” she purred into his ear. “Privately?”
His eyes glossed over and he turned to the princess with a lopsided smile. “I’ve been watching you tonight,” he gushed as they quietly disembodied themselves from the party guests.
* * *
Lord Lennox showed Amelie the private hallways and quarters of his expansive home, chattering the whole time. Amelie was grateful at the opportunity to just listen. She paid special attention to his speaking patterns, about which situations prompted more elaborate explanations and which encouraged more clipped responses. Amelie noted with some amusement that any topics that led back to the lord himself were the ones that induced lengthy ramblings. She sipped a glass of deep red wine Lord Lennox had poured for her as he showed her the renovations he had done to the kitchens.
“This is the library, original to the home,” he said, opening a large ornate door for Amelie to step through. He closed it behind her. “It houses an impressive collection of academic books, many written by my grandfather.”
Amelie feigned astonishment, pressing a hand to her chest. She rolled the silver root in her mouth, milking the last of its bitter liquid. This is where she would extract her information. It was the first room that they’d been truly alone, absent of servants. His tour so far had been a confusing mix of attraction and impassiveness, though his relation to her pull never wavered or increased. Amelie had never known a target to respond so erratically. She wanted this mission over with now. Millie’s warning flooded her head, but a night of cold and tremors seemed insubstantial at this point.
Lord Lennox stoked a fire dying in a stone worked fireplace with a metal poker, flicking warmth into the vast room. “I have a gift for you,” he said, turning from the fireplace and drawing a necklace from his pocket. He shook his head, unbelieving. “It’s silly that I even wish to give this to you, but…please.” He turned it over in his hand thoughtfully. “This is a trinket I picked up the last time I visited a trading village and I’ve carried it around in my pocket ever since. It’s beautifully unusual. Like you.”
Lord Lennox leaned the poker against a chair and held out a silver chain dangling a dragon pendant, its talons clutched around a brown stone with an orange hue. Amelie lifted the hair from her neck while he fastened the necklace. She suppressed her impulse to recoil and flashed him a dazzling smile. “I don’t know why, but I am curiously drawn to you,” he murmured.
“Perhaps we should forgo the curiosity and just see where our feelings take us,” she spoke suggestively.
Amelie rubbed the area of her chest where the dragon fell against her skin. It was a growing hotness spreading to her collarbone.
“This necklace burns,” she gasped in shock.
“Yes,” Lord Lennox agreed simply. “It does.”
Then he swung the fire poker at her head and Amelie’s vision blackened.
Chapter 8
Amelie
Amelie awoke to a biting pain in her wrists and a throb in the left side of her head. She was bound. Her eyes darted around quickly. And still in Lord Lennox’s library. He stood by the fireplace, wiping the poker with a gray cloth.
“It’s an antique,” he explained nodding to his tool-turned-weapon and replacing it in the holder.
Amelie did the calculations in her head. She wasn’t out too long. Just long enough for him bind her. The moon still cast the same slats of light through the gaps in the thick curtains and the temperature from the cracked window had not yet sunk into the lows that come with the transition from night to morn. That meant a room full of party guests through at least three inner walls. Screaming for help would not aide her, especially in this room where the plush rugs, curtains, and tapestries would absorb the sound.
“What was in the wine?” she demanded. A blow to the head would have not been enough to subdue her on its own. She felt the slick film on the back of her tongue from the residue of whatever he’d poured into it.
“It’s a pity he wants you alive. It was not strong enough to completely mask your charms. I wouldn’t mind indulging in the desire your witchery invokes in me. But I’d have to slit your throat lest you brought something into this world like yourself.”
“You really are vile.”
“No, Princess, I just think things through. Oh, you’re surprised are you?” The Lord picked up on her sharp intake of breath at his address. “Yes, I’m well informed about you. Not so hidden as you thought, eh? He’s been watching you.”
“Rankor.”
“Yes. We leave in the morning to meet him. I’d like to leave tonight, you see, but this party constructed to lure you here has also grabbed the attention of Prince Seth. Who has decided to quarter himself here for the night. So you can either take a larger dose of wine or I shall find a heavier object with which to knock over your head.”
“The wine.”
“I’ve never heard such a ready answer for one’s suff
ering.”
“Judging from your hand with the fire poker, I do not trust your ability to accomplish your goal without unnecessary damage. You will use something heavier with more force when the key is the placement of the blow. And you have an excellent red vintage with current of cedar.”
Lord Lennox tipped his head, impressed. Without a reply, he pulled a vial full of a powdery liquid and twisted out the cork stopper. He picked up a goblet and poured generously.
One, two, three, four. Amelie counted the seconds of his pour in her head. At four, he set the goblet down and replaced the stopper. He then took a generous whiff of the wine in a dark glass bottle, smiling slightly.
“This was a present from his majesty, King Armiss,” he said finally pouring in the wine. “I wanted you to like it so you’d finish your glass like a good little spy. Since I’m kind, I’ll offer you more.”
“So kind,” Amelie repeated bitterly. She surmised the goblet was at least one fourth sedative based on the pour. A heavy amount no matter what variety of poison he was using. She didn’t taste it before, but she knew she would now and braced herself to commit it to memory. She should have taken smaller sips with a longer wait in between to detect the residue she had now as she’d been trained, but she had gotten careless. Sloppy. One mesmerizing dance with a gentleman and she lost all her faculties and had forgotten the basic safeguards Sir Duncan spent years teaching her.
She gulped the wine without resistance, causing the Lord to raise his eyebrows in surprise.
“Again, you astound me. So obedient.”
“No reason to fight the inevitable.” Amelie hoped she wasn’t pushing it too far, playing to his vanity. In truth, she knew obedience and an air of defeat would give her peace much more quickly and a greater chance of escape. Resistance and fight would cause him to take extra care in her captivity. Lesson One from Sir Duncan.