It would be a sunny day in the Lone before Emaurrians would accept a foreigner as king above any man of their own.
“Even if the Crag can be ousted, then, our land would still be in turmoil.” Rielle’s foot ascended his leg, but she evaded his hand.
A bold advance.
“There are those among the Houses who would support the return of an older dynasty,” the duchess said carefully.
Rielle’s foot reached his thigh. Lunge.
He took it gently in hand. Parry.
He brushed a finger across her sole—her foot jerked, her knee bumping the underside of the table with a soft thud. Riposte.
He quickly brought his goblet to his lips to keep from laughing at her pointed scowl.
Even the duchess hid a smile.
Rielle cleared her throat. “Not the Duke of Maerleth Tainn?”
The duke? Jon straightened. He’d visited Maerleth Tainn with Tor. “Duke Faolan Auvray Marcel?” Marcel was a master negotiator, businessman, and strategist.
“You know the duke?” The duchess turned to him, and Rielle stiffened.
“I squired for his brother, Your Grace.”
“You squired for Torrance?” Warmth colored the duchess’s expression.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
She smiled. “I knew him when he was just a boy. He was a fine young man, and his success among the paladins is well earned.”
Success. The duchess referred, of course, to the likelihood Tor would succeed Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin, who’d hand-picked Tor as his squire decades before. Guérin had been a favorite of King Marcus’s father, and Tor was the younger brother of the most powerful man among the Emaurrian Houses. Bloodlines figured even among a non-governmental entity like the Order of Terra.
“If I may ask, Your Grace,” Jon said, “is there any news of the paladins?”
The duchess leaned back in her chair. “There is little. Nearly every paladin in the land has been summoned to Monas Amar. Although I do not know their plans with certainty, I can guess. The Order has never been able to look away from injustice, and what has happened in Courdeval—and continues to happen—is injustice given form.”
He couldn’t agree more.
“It seems, however, that just as it is unsafe for mages to travel toward the capital, so too is it for paladins. Two groups from Monas Tainn were attacked by rogues, one paladin among each killed before the assailants were defeated.”
Killed?
The thought became solid, a lump in his throat. Not Valen—he’d just seen him in Bournand. It couldn’t be him. Florian, who played the lute and had been transferred last spring? His former squire, Stefan, who’d gone on mission? Not Tor—he’d be in Monas Amar, wouldn’t he?
Rielle’s foot rested against his under the table, and when he glanced at her, solidarity shone in her soft gaze.
Finding his voice at last, Jon asked, “Do you know their names, Your Grace?”
“Forgive me. I confess I do not. They were both young. That’s all I know,” the duchess answered quietly. “You have my sympathies. I know paladins to be good, honorable men.”
Countless names flew through Jon’s head as he considered who the victims may have been.
“Heartseekers attempting to cut off reinforcements to Monas Amar?” Rielle cut in.
The Heartseekers were naught but blades, wielded by a swordsman of wealth. The same one who had hired Gilles and his mercenary army. Had Derric known of this? Was this the reason why he’d requested a mage escort?
Was it that Derric considered him a son? Clearly the other paladins hadn’t been afforded extra guard, nor perhaps even warning.
He glanced around the table, at the duchess’s signet ring and Rielle’s. Was it possible...?
Was it possible he was some noble’s bastard, like many other paladins? One of the “Order of Third Sons,” as the Order of Terra was sometimes called?
He’d squired for a former noble, been trained in strategy, manners, educated beyond most paladins. Many in the court had lost their lives, and if some nobleman’s heir and spare had died, a bastard paladin son could well be the last of his line.
Or maybe Derric just loved him that much. The years they’d spent together, father and son in all but name, spoke convincingly.
The doors to the great hall opened then, footmen staggering after a man walking through, but the duchess waved them off with a sigh. The same man he and Leigh had seen at The Rose Garden. Tregarde, heir to the dukedom of Maerleth Tainn, Duke Faolan Auvray Marcel’s eldest son.
“His Lordship,” the herald announced hesitantly, “Brennan Karandis Marcel, Marquis of Maerleth Tainn, the Marquis of Tregarde, the Baron of Calterre.”
The tall, handsome, well-muscled man with dark hair, bronze skin like his, and hazel eyes strode through the doorway, garbed in high fashion—a black doublet and black trousers trimmed in gold. On his left hand, a golden signet ring engraved with a fierce wolf’s head adorned the fifth finger.
The marquis had an air of distinction, his keen eyes fixed on the table through dense, dark lashes. As he neared, the man revealed his sharp, white teeth in a fleeting, imperious grin.
Jon’s shoulders grew tight.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Tregarde said to the duchess, his voice equal parts convivial and masculine.
The duchess’s eyes widened—stunned but not unwelcoming. “Brennan,” she greeted, “what a pleasant surprise.”
Tregarde approached the duchess and took her hand. “I could not countenance missing the pleasure of your company, Your Grace.” His eyes dancing, he raised her hand to his lips while she waved off his flirtation.
“You cruelly flatter an old woman,” she replied while Tregarde rounded the table. He approached Rielle, who sat stiff as stone, her face drained of all color, as if death itself were taking her hand in his and greeting it with a kiss.
“Favrielle,” Tregarde said, his voice smooth and languorous while he flowed around her chair to the next, close. Too close. He took the seat next to her, and at once, servants flitted around him, bearing plates, utensils, food, laying a napkin on his lap—while, blasé about all the commotion around him, Tregarde stared across the table at Jon.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Tregarde hooded his amused eyes and offered a matching smile, holding out a goblet that a servant quickly filled.
Before Jon could answer, Tregarde cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.
“No, I stand corrected.” He sat up. “Tor’s loyal shadow, aren’t you? Years ago, you bewitched my sister Nora with your pleasing visage, you know. Made her impossible to live with for days. She still asks Uncle Tor what’s become of you, commoner though you are.”
“Brennan, you will address my guests respectfully.”
“My apologies, Your Grace. A slip of the tongue.” Tregarde never looked away.
Neither did Jon. Tension coiled in his body, the way it always did when combat was imminent. He allowed the coldness he felt to chill his voice. “And now you know what’s become of me.”
Smirking, Tregarde looked over at Rielle, whose pallor—impossibly—had increased.
“Yes, it seems I do.” Tregarde stared at Rielle dreamily. “I suppose it falls to me to tell Nora a different lure was needed to catch her prize.”
Every muscle in Jon’s body went rigid. Pain blossomed on his chest and back, but all that mattered sat across from him, unsettled by the man leering at her. Her lips a thin line of distress, Rielle moved not an inch, but as Tregarde’s vulgar stare persisted, at last she flinched.
Polite company or not, he wouldn’t allow this violation a moment longer. He pushed his chair back, but Rielle’s abrupt turn toward Tregarde stayed his rising.
“What do you want?” she demanded, terrified, pleading, enraged—he couldn’t discern.
The duchess glared at Tregarde. A clear warning.
With every passing second, Jon’s fists clenched tighter beneath the table. Whatever this man had done
to cause her such anguish, Jon wanted to bring him to his knees for it.
Tregarde smiled, blinking away the intensity of his gaze. “Nothing more than to look upon my betrothed. Is that so wrong?” He turned to Jon with an arched brow.
Betrothed.
Rielle’s eyes widened, her lips parting.
As the word sank in, his chest ached with pressure. Fit to burst. He turned his head to Rielle, willing her to say something, anything to dismiss Tregarde’s claim. Her chest heaving, she eyed the table.
His heart raced. Had he abandoned the chance to rejoin the Order for a woman promised to someone else?
It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
Slowly, she raised her face to meet his. She said nothing, but her haunted eyes said it all.
Terra have mercy, it was true.
All this time, she’d pursued him, tempted him, kissed him, loved him, and she’d had a fiancé all the while?
“The shadow bleeds,” Tregarde’s wry voice cut. Tregarde—the man who had a legitimate claim to the woman Jon loved.
“Brennan,” the duchess warned.
He’s considered by many one of the cleverest men in Emaurrian society, and one of the cruelest. Leigh’s words echoed in Jon’s mind. His nails bit into his palms.
Shattered, his fiancée begged him before his guests not to forsake her. But viciously, he refused her—humiliating her to all society.
His heart stopped. Terra have mercy, she was the one?
Rielle was Tregarde’s fiancée.
And Tregarde the man who had hurt her.
When Jon turned his attention to him, all he heard was the pounding of his own heart in his ears, all he felt the heat of his own blazing blood, all he saw—
His hands wound into fists so tight his knuckles cracked. His hostile body rose from the chair of its own volition. Kill him. He would kill him.
“Your stitches.” A voice. The duchess’s. She nodded toward the left side of his chest, where all eyes aimed.
Even he, teeming with rage, glanced down. Sure enough, just above his heart bloomed the stain of blood. As he watched its languid spread, he cooled just enough to regain control of his body, if nothing else.
Keep it together. He had to keep it together. He held on to that control with every last shred of his strength.
“Forgive me, Your Grace.” His entire body throbbing, he bent to the duchess. “I must take my leave and see to this at once.” Attempting even another minute of control courted disaster.
“Of course,” the duchess replied.
Without sparing a glance in Rielle’s direction, he headed for the doors. He had to leave, lest his boiling blood overpower his sanity.
“Jon,” Rielle called after him hoarsely.
His hands numb with tension, he had already crossed half the great hall and didn’t stop.
Chapter 42
Rielle gaped at Brennan, curling her fingers against the violence coursing in her veins.
“Did he not know?” Brennan’s casual expression did little to hide the venom in his mocking tone. He raised his eyebrows in feigned innocence before taking a long drink from his goblet.
She wanted to throttle him, but finding Jon and explaining was more important. He’d been livid, even angrier than when he’d hunted down Feliciano. Although his smoldering gaze had fixed on Brennan, she hadn’t been exempt from it either.
Hiding her betrothal from Jon... The choice between truth and secrecy had seemed impossible: telling him would have pushed him away, and yet, so had not telling him.
Her hands shook with the need to do something, anything to salvage what they shared. “Gran, I—”
Gran nodded toward the doors. “Go.”
Rielle spun to leave, but Brennan caught her arm. “No kiss goodbye?”
She slapped him.
He opened his mouth and popped his jaw. Gran stood.
“Monster,” Rielle snarled at him, wrenching her arm from his grip to hurry for the doors.
“Marquis Tregarde!” Gran bellowed. “Stay where you are.”
“I only wish to speak to her, Your Grace.” The sharpness of his tone belied the politeness of his words.
Rielle hadn’t even crossed the threshold when his determined footsteps clicked behind her. She walked faster.
“If you harm even a hair on her head—” Gran threatened.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Grace,” he hissed.
Perhaps the one woman who could truly jeopardize the Marcels’ position economically and politically, Gran was never to be taken lightly. Still, Rielle quickened her pace and didn’t look back.
Behind her, the echoes of his pursuit drew ever closer, and although she ran, she couldn’t outrun him. Stupid shoes. Stupid dress. Stupid corset.
Just as she reached the staircase, Brennan grabbed both her wrists and twisted her arms behind her back. He drove her into the stairwell and pressed her to the wall.
“Let me go,” she bit out, her cheek flattened against the stone, “or—” It hadn’t occurred to her what yet; he was immune to magic.
“Or what?” he taunted. “You’ll use magic? You know you can’t hurt me.” His breath came hot against her ear, his body hard and flush against her back, his cinnamon-and-cypress scent invading her nostrils.
What was this? Why antagonize Jon? Her? “What do you want?”
“You know what I want,” he rasped harshly. “I do your bidding, protect you, and what do you do? Refuse me and parade around your lover.” He breathed her in despite the hoarseness in his voice. “I tire of waiting, Rielle. I need to know I’ll be free of this curse. Accept my offer.”
He’d never stop hurting her.
“Never.”
“Damn you!” he growled back at her, pushing her into the wall with renewed force. Scraping pain bloomed in her cheek, a blunt ache in her ribcage. He held his cheek to her head, his lips almost touching her ear. “Any other man would just take what he wanted.”
And whatever the cost, she would see him dead if he tried. Still, the thought did little to calm the terror creeping over her skin, seizing her paralyzed muscles already at his mercy.
“Have at it, then, if you’re so sure of yourself—reveal what kind of man you are,” she spat. Insult, her final maneuver before she’d bring the stairwell down around them. “A jilted, spoiled libertine who can’t come to terms with rejection.”
He exhaled sharply into her ear.
“An artless boor who, to get the woman he needs, must force apart her thighs.” Even as she uttered the bold words, she trembled against him.
At any moment, he could overpower her, and she knew it. Perhaps she’d always known it.
“I—” He hesitated.
His painful grip on her wrists loosened as he backed away. She whirled to face him.
Wide eyed, he looked upon her. Did the remnants of her fear show in her face?
She narrowed her eyes. Good. If he could see her fear, he knew she took him seriously. Serious as death.
He sobered, the tautness of his bearing slowly fading.
“Rielle,” he began, “I don’t pretend to be a gentle man, but you know I would never—I’ve never—”
“Damn you.” No explaining this. No smoothing this over. If their war of barbs had changed from words to weapons, then it was time to shed the shadows and face each other openly.
He snapped his mouth shut, and a muscle worked in his jaw.
Enough. She headed for the stairs, but he blocked her path with his arm, his palm flat and firm against the wall at her side.
“Wait.”
She flinched, then hardened from foot to head. “Let me pass.” One sudden move, and she’d level this place around her and scream for Gran’s guards. Let him fight them all. Let him try.
“I just—” He sighed. “I don’t want to be a monster, beholden to you or anyone else. Can’t you understand that?”
Her blood burned beneath her skin, scorched by the memory of weeping in a kitche
n, the stone floor rough beneath her as he laughed with his guests. It wasn’t the Wolf that made him a monster.
“You’ve forced me to this, Rielle. You keep from me the one thing I need. I’ve tried everything. I tried befriending you, courting you, pursuing you, ignoring you, hating you—” He paused, directing an anguished stare at the floor. “Like it or not, you are my only chance at redemption.”
Her jaw tightened, cracking her clenched teeth. “You squandered that chance three years ago.”
“Tell me what I must do. I’ll do anything, give anything. Just grant me this one boon. You needn’t even marry me if you find me so repugnant. Just. Break. This. Curse.”
She closed her eyes. He wanted his suffering to end—that was understandable—but she owed him nothing; she wouldn’t force herself to endure the humiliation of his bed in order to redeem him.
And even if she did, she wouldn’t leave any child of hers in the care of such a cruel man.
She opened her eyes. “There is nothing you could ever do, ever, that would convince me to lie with you.”
His fist struck the wall. She raised her hands, rooting her magic in the stairwell’s stone.
“You dare to judge me?” he snarled, fixing her with a maddened glare. “Mark my words, Rielle, one day you will beg to share my bed.”
“Never.”
He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him the chance to speak; instead, she ducked under his arm and rushed up the stairs.
“Your parents weep in the Lone at how you sully their good name with that commoner.”
The words stopped her in her tracks. How dare he drag her parents into this?
Her eyes stung, but she refused to blink.
All he understood was power and powerlessness, the hunt and the kill, pleasure and pain; he did not understand what it meant to love someone with all his heart, to put someone else before himself. And she wouldn’t waste her breath explaining it to him.
“I’ll see you soon,” he called out to her.
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 38