Love's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  King Nathal also spoke, and Ansley’s heart pounded with every word. Would he announce her betrothal?

  She’d heard about Cera and Jorrin’s formal betrothal being decreed at a feast celebrating the defeat of Lord Varthan, and though it was common knowledge she and Leargan had been betrothed, Ansley didn’t want the painful reminder of why her father and the king had come to Greenwald.

  Before long, all of Morag’s women poured into the great hall with laden trays.

  Ansley looked at the steaming cut of steak on her plate. The tempting scent teased her nose, and she couldn’t wait to enjoy it in her mouth. She glanced at her father, who was seated next to her, and exchanged a smile with him.

  Reaching for her knife, Ansley made quick work of slicing the tender meat. She placed a piece in her mouth, ready to savor the flavor on her tongue. Bile rose and she fought the urge to vomit. After chewing quickly, she swallowed hard, unable to hold back a cough that sounded more like a choke.

  Concerned gazes darted her way, and her father’s large hand swallowed her shoulder. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “Do you need me?” Lord Dagget asked.

  Ansley cleared her throat and accepted the goblet of water Cera pressed into her hand. “No, but thank you,” she said at the same time her father barked, “Aye.”

  “I’m fine, Da.”

  She ignored his searching gaze as heat settled in her cheeks.

  “Are you sure?” Murdoch asked.

  “Aye. It went down the wrong way. Finish eating.” Ansley grabbed her fork. She wanted everyone to stop staring—especially Leargan. Although she’d not looked in his direction, she could feel the worry in his dark gaze.

  He was seated next to the king, three chairs away and across the table. It didn’t matter how far away he was.

  Ansley always knew where Leargan was.

  Dammit.

  She studied the contents of her plate, but her appetite was gone.

  Cera patted her hand, and their eyes met. Concern wasn’t the only thing in her friend’s steel gaze, but Ansley ignored the obvious questions.

  Her stomach rebelled against the two following attempts at eating the steak, so Ansley gave up.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Sipping water helped, and she was able to eat two slices of warm bread.

  Laughter and lively conversation surrounded her, but Ansley sank into her chair, her body heavy and hungry, despite her lack of desire—or apparent ability—to eat.

  Since when did she have a finicky tummy?

  Cera kept shooting her looks, her expression calculating, but Ansley ignored her.

  Over and over, her gaze collided with Leargan’s. Pain rushed her every time. His dark eyes were worried, hurt, but she didn’t let it affect her.

  Ansley didn’t speak much, answering when someone spoke to her, and forcing a smile when required. Perhaps everyone believed she was having a pleasant evening.

  When the music started, people drifted from the tables to the dance floor, couples holding each other close. She looked away from happy smiles and kisses pressed to cheeks, sweet looks passing between men and women, even those she called friends.

  Pretended not to watch Leargan as he rose and pushed his chair in, slipping from the dais behind the king and her father. The three of them stayed together, stopping by the personal guard’s table to talk to Niall and his wife.

  One of the younger men of the personal guard—Ansley thought his name was Teagan—stepped over to join them, one of the king’s men with him. The knight looked enough like Teagan to be his father.

  Aimil’s giggle caught her attention as Tristan bowed lavishly and bid her to dance. Cera and Jorrin also headed to the dance floor, exchanging a loving smile that made Ansley feel even worse.

  So much for a nice evening.

  “Mistress Ansley.”

  After meeting leaf green eyes, Ansley managed a genuine smile for the young knighted mage. “Sir Lucan.” She inclined her head.

  His cheeks went pink. “I was wondering if you would dance with me?”

  “Aye, I’d like to dance with you.” She rose and placed her hand in Lucan’s.

  His blush deepened, but he gave a half bow and led her to the dance floor, stopping not far from Jorrin and Cera. The duchess caught Ansley’s eye over the lad’s head and winked.

  The song was a slow love ballad and Ansley looked away from her friend, tucked into her husband’s chest, his arms holding her close. She focused on the lad trying to pull her to him and gave Lucan an encouraging smile.

  His awkwardness was endearing. Ansley took his hand and gently settled at her waist. Lucan jumped, but moved closer as they swayed. He averted his gaze, and Ansley grinned.

  He was almost as tall as her five feet ten inches, but his frame was slender. She sensed strength in him and not just magic. Lucan was building muscle with training. He’d only fill out with age. Handsome and sincere, he was a sweet lad that would no doubt become a good man.

  They found a rhythm soon, and Ansley found herself thoroughly enjoying his company. Lucan was soft spoken, but witty and funny, and she danced with him through the next two songs, too.

  Her father stepped in after that, and Ansley liked dancing with him as well. Though he was a knight, he’d never been much of a courtier, so Murdoch was almost as awkward as the lad had been, in a different way. But it was very sweet of her father to take time to dance with her.

  Unwillingly, her gaze kept finding Leargan. He danced with no one, but he was moving about the room, talking to anyone and everyone who stopped him or called with a smile. His position as captain of Cera’s guard made his company desirable as much as whom he was as a person.

  However, Ansley didn’t see him speak with any females alone.

  If he was waiting for an opportunity to ask her to dance, Leargan was going to be disappointed. It mattered not if the whole room knew them betrothed. Ansley wouldn’t be that close to the man she was no longer going to marry. Her heart would be unable to endure it.

  Before she could even take a seat, Alasdair asked her to dance, bowing with a charming flourish that made her grin. She couldn’t refuse him or the twinkle in his blue eyes. He was very handsome in his blue doublet and fine navy breeches.

  He pulled her close to his well-muscled chest, and Ansley pretended not to feel Leargan’s dark gaze burning her as they twirled past him.

  Alasdair’s touch was firm, but nowhere near inappropriate, yet jealousy was written all over Leargan’s face. Alas was either ignoring his captain or didn’t notice.

  He sat with a few men of the personal guard watching. Ansley couldn’t look away from him, either, no matter how she ordered herself to do so. Distraction caused her to miss a dance step and nearly tromped Alasdair’s foot only halfway through the lively tune.

  Her face warmed when she met his blue gaze and she apologized.

  Alasdair wore a lopsided grin. “No problem.” He steadied her with a hand on her forearm. “Are you all right?”

  Ansley nodded.

  The knight’s gaze became concerned, studying her face. “Let’s get you in a chair and something to drink. You look flushed.”

  “I do?”

  “Aye. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Nodding again made the room spin, and Alasdair slipped an arm around her shoulders, pinning her to his side.

  “Easy.” After guiding her off the dance floor, he pressed her into the nearest chair. “I’m getting Lord Dagget.”

  Before she could protest, the knight disappeared into the crowd.

  Cera appeared in front of her, a goblet in her hand. “Ans, are you all right? Alasdair said you almost fainted.”

  “I did not.”

  “You are pale. Here. Water.”

  “I’ve been dancing for over an hour. I’m fine. Everyone needs to quit fussing over me.”

  Cera’s expression brooked no argument, so Ansley took the water and sipped.

  “I’m fin
e,” she repeated feebly. A yawn took her by surprise as fatigue made her limbs heavy. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”

  Her friend studied her, then nodded. “Jorrin,” Cera called. In a moment, the half-elfin duke appeared at his wife’s side. “Can you escort Ansley to her room?”

  “Sure, love,” Jorrin said.

  Ansley sputtered. “I’ll find my da.”

  Cera’s gaze swept the great hall. “Sir Murdoch isn’t here.”

  She groaned. The king and Leargan were missing from view as well. That couldn’t be good. “Well, it’s not necessary. I can find my own quarters.” The great hall whirled as she stood.

  The duke grabbed her arm, the only thing that kept her from landing in a heap on the floor. “Whoa.”

  “Looks like it is necessary.” Cera’s tone concerned, brows knitted tight.

  Ansley didn’t like the appraising expression that settled on the duchess’ face, though the redhead said nothing.

  “Let’s get you to your room.” Jorrin tucked her hand into his elbow and threw a worried glance at his wife.

  She had no energy to argue, so Ansley sighed. She was tired and hungry. The long day and light meal was getting to her. Obviously she was coming down with something.

  Cera looped her arm in Ansley’s free one, and the duke and duchess escorted her from the great hall.

  Ansley wouldn’t have been able to get away if she’d tried.

  Jorrin bid her goodnight and excused himself, letting Ali slip out of her rooms as he left. Her wolf would find Trikser and Isair and the three would likely go hunting.

  She didn’t fight Cera helping her undress, yawning as soon as her sleeping chemise replaced the gown and settled over her body.

  “In bed with you.” Cera tucked her in as if she was a child.

  “Tell my father I’m fine, please,” Ansley said with another wide yawn. “I don’t want him bursting in here.”

  “You should see Tristan in the morning.”

  “Just tired. Be fine with a good night’s sleep. Long day.” She ignored the disagreement in her friend’s expression.

  Cera’s mouth opened and closed, as if she was going to say something, but changed her mind. She gave a curt nod. “Goodnight, Ans. Sleep tight.”

  “Goodnight. Tell Jorrin thanks. And I really did have a lovely time.”

  “I will, and I’m glad. Sweet dreams.”

  “Thanks,” Ansley muttered, asleep before Cera even closed the chamber door.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Lucan he could handle. But Alasdair?

  Logic told Leargan his friend had innocent intentions in asking Ansley to dance, but seeing her in another man’s arms—even on a dance floor—grated.

  He growled.

  Artan paused.

  What had the knight said, anyway?

  “Captain?” The gruff voice of his friend had Leargan’s head swinging around.

  He met Artan’s dark eyes, avoiding the burn scar that consumed the right side of his face. The man didn’t like eye contact—even from a longtime companion.

  The whole right side of the knight’s body was scarred from burns—his own fire magic gone horribly wrong when they were small lads.

  Artan was from Ascova, brought back to Terraquist by the king, like Leargan. A man of few words, but he’d always been a friend. Always fought by Leargan’s side.

  “Sorry,” Leargan said.

  “Alas isn’t foolish enough to try to take your woman.”

  Damn.

  Artan had noticed where Leargan’s gaze had been glued since Alasdair had approached the love of his life. He cleared his throat. “I know.”

  “You should go get her.”

  Leargan muttered a nonresponse, and Artan said nothing more, swirling the ale in the stein in front of him before taking a sip.

  Kale and Bowen were seated next to them, but engaged in a lively conversation that neither Leargan nor Artan was a part of.

  Teagan had left the table moments before with his father, Tarmon, one of the king’s knights.

  Padraig and Niall were also gone, dancing with their wives.

  Roduch and Avril had retired for the night. The trial was in the morn, and despite the joyous feast, no doubt it weighed heavily on their minds.

  Dallon, too, was gone. Probably curled up with a willing woman somewhere.

  It was surprising Artan had even attended the feast. The knight wasn’t known for being social. Beyond time spent training with the knights of the guard, the man stayed in his quarters. Kept to himself. Because of his scars, he never bathed with the men after a long day on the fighting yard. Artan never even accompanied their brothers when they went wenching.

  Artan’s dark eyes darted to the left and Leargan couldn’t help but follow. A petite, fair-haired maid placed empty trenchers on a tray. When she looked their direction, she flashed a shy smile.

  His friend stared at the pretty girl.

  Shock rolled over Leargan. She’d been looking at Artan, not Leargan. A smile, not a cringe on her face as she regarded him. Locked eyes with him.

  Good for Artan.

  He was a fine knight, a hell of a warrior, and a good man.

  People tended to retreat from him, not giving him a chance, judging the scars.

  Especially women. Personality kept most females in fear of him.

  His friend had become gruff over the turns.

  If the girl could see the man, not the horrid markings on the knight’s body, good for her. Good for them. Let Artan, too find someone in Greenwald.

  Leargan fought the urge to close his eyes as pain rolled over him in waves.

  Ansley.

  She still moved with Alas on the dance floor, graceful and elegant despite the required speed of the lively group song. At least he didn’t have to endure watching his friend hold her close during a love ballad.

  His breath had caught when he’d seen her enter the great hall on her father’s arm.

  Gorgeous.

  Her hair in intricate braids and Ansley’s gown a dark green, the same color of the soft doublet Jorrin had insisted he wear to the feast. Lord Aldern had showed up at his door, pushing the garment at him, ignoring his raised eyebrow and questions.

  Obviously, Lady Cera had taken a page from Queen Morghyn’s book and matched them.

  Too bad Ansley hated him.

  Hadn’t spoken a word to him all night, even during the meal at the head table on the dais.

  Leargan’s heart had stopped when she’d appeared to choke. He’d wanted to rush to her side. But her father was right there—proving to be an oversized buffer—and he hadn’t been able to get close to her all evening.

  Not that she’d let him anyway. Ansley had made it clear that afternoon that she still thought he was a liar.

  Still hated him.

  “Leargan.” The king’s deep voice took his attention.

  “Sire?” Leargan’s legs pushed him to standing of their own accord.

  Sir Murdoch was at the king’s side. Both large men appraised him. The king’s expression held concern, but Ansley’s father’s was tight, suspicious.

  “Come, lad.” King Nathal beckoned with his hand.

  Leargan looked away, meeting Artan’s dark eyes, but the other knight only inclined his head. A gesture he returned as he left the table, nodding to Bowen and Kale as well.

  He gulped, then chided himself.

  It’s not like King Nathal will let him kill you.

  But Leargan felt as if was headed to the gallows as he walked to Jorrin’s ledger room with two very large men.

  “So, what is this all about?” Sir Murdoch asked without preamble, glaring at Leargan.

  King Nathal cleared his throat as he settled in Jorrin’s chair. “Your lass is stubborn.” He gestured for them to sit.

  Leargan was antsy, but one didn’t refuse the king, so he sat in the very chair he’d been in when the duke had presented him with the scroll.

  Ansley’s father remained
standing, his thick arms crossed over his impossibly broad chest. Sir Murdoch made a face that Leargan couldn’t decipher, then gave a curt nod. “She is much like her father.”

  The king chuckled.

  Leargan sucked in a breath, but Sir Murdoch didn’t relax as he looked to him and back at King Nathal.

  Should he say something?

  No.

  King Nathal seemed like he was going to lead the conversation, and Leargan was happy to let him do so.

  “Ansley believes that Leargan’s intentions are solely because of my disguised order,” King Nathal said.

  Leargan cleared his throat and Ansley’s father’s teal gaze shot to him. “I was less than upfront about the scroll…the order.”

  “I suspected she wouldn’t take too kindly to my interference,” Sir Murdoch said, “But the lass is my heart, and I want her happy. I thought you could make that happen.” The last part of his statement was an accusation.

  Leargan bit back a wince. Truth. Time to tell his former captain the truth. “I want to make her happy, sir. I love her.”

  Sir Murdoch gave a curt nod. “Good.”

  That was it?

  Only one word to say about an uncomfortable confession?

  Leargan blinked. Searching for the right words, he forced his mouth to remain moving. “She feels if I was dishonest about the scroll, I don’t actually want the marriage, or her. I was honest with her before I gave it to her. I told her I wanted to marry her. I’ve never lied to her.”

  “And?” Her father’s one word was demand and order at the same time.

  “She doesn’t believe me. All but called me a liar. Convinced I’m only following orders.” Leargan’s gaze darted to the king, but the man only nodded encouragingly. “She was furious with us all, Lady Cera and Jorrin, too. Forgiven some, obviously.”

  Too bad he wasn’t included.

  “Would expect no less from my lass.” One corner of Sir Murdoch’s mouth rose, and Leargan wanted to growl.

  He was amused?

  Leargan took a deep breath, then another and closed his eyes. Weakness was something these two men had trained him to never show. But here he was, about to beg his former captain’s help. “I don’t know what to do. I want to marry her.” Leargan dropped his voice. “I love Ansley more than my own life.”