Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1)

by Melissa McShane

  She blinked up at him. “I love you,” he repeated, and caressed her cheek again, then slid his hand around to the back of her neck and stroked her skin, so lightly. Slowly, he drew her close to him. “Tell me if this isn’t what you want,” he said quietly, and lowered his head to kiss her.

  It felt as if he’d knocked all the air out of her, as if that thunderstorm had returned for a second performance. She felt as if she were falling, and put her arms around his neck to keep her balance, and he kissed her again, his lips lingering on hers, and then she was kissing him and she couldn’t remember why she’d ever thought this was a bad idea. His arms went around her waist, holding her up, and she felt the awful skirt swing up and away from her as she was pulled deeper into his embrace. He loves me, she thought, he loves me, and a knot of pain she hadn’t even realized she was carrying around broke free inside her and left her feeling as if she might float away if Anthony weren’t holding her so closely. She felt enveloped in his arms, protected, and it was such a good feeling that she clung to him and willed him never to let her go.

  He moved to kiss her cheek, her forehead, then back to her lips, murmuring, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of this.” She nodded in agreement, and her chin brushed his cheek as he moved to kiss her throat. She laughed, and Anthony drew back just enough that they could look at each other. “You’re still crying,” he said.

  “These are just leftover tears. They’ll dry soon enough.”

  “I hope so. I would hate for you to be trapped in this room all evening by a blotchy complexion.”

  “It’s a nice little room. And the company is excellent. Did anyone see us leave?”

  “You made a very demure exit this time. I probably looked like a man sentenced to die.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “In retrospect, I realize the middle of the ballroom probably wasn’t the best place to make a declaration of love. I’ll remember that for next time.”

  “You expect there to be a next time?”

  He smiled at her, that crooked, self-deprecating smile again, then kissed her, a slow, wonderful kiss that left Alison out of breath. “No,” he said. “But I intend to show you, every day, that I love you.”

  “I look forward to it. I wish we could sit down together and be more comfortable.”

  “I think, if we were more comfortable, I would have trouble stopping at kissing you.”

  “Oh.”

  Anthony held her close again. “I know what that sound means,” he said. “Would you like to know the truth about my sordid past?”

  Alison hesitated, then nodded, cautious of her rigid hairdo. Coming out of this room looking mussed, followed by the Crown Prince, would cause the kind of scandal even Zara would have trouble hushing up.

  “All right,” Anthony said. “When I was seventeen I had an affair with a much older woman that lasted about a month. She broke it off—I think she was using me to make a point to her husband. The next year I spent a week with an equestrienne who came through Aurilien with a traveling circus from Veribold. When I was twenty I had a woman in keeping for several months until we tired of each other and parted company. During those three years I spent the night—just one night, I mean—with maybe a dozen other women. And the reason I’m holding you so tightly is I’m afraid you’re going to flee in maidenly distress, but I want to be honest with you. I hope you don’t think I’m proud of any of that.”

  “I can tell you aren’t, and I’m not going to flee.” His matter-of-fact recounting gave her a little pain, but that was blotted out by her relief that the truth was so much better than what she’d imagined. “What made you stop?”

  “When I’d been with Lydia—my last lover—for several months both of us started to feel as if we were being torn in several directions. It seems that’s what happens when you abuse your family bonds by sleeping with someone who doesn’t share them; you start to lose connection not only to your family, but to the world around you.” He laughed. “And Zara threatened to cut off the relevant bits of me if I didn’t stop.”

  “She did not.”

  “You’ve met her. What do you think?”

  “Good point.”

  “Anyway,” Anthony said, relaxing his grip just a little, “I’m sorry I haven’t always made good choices, and I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

  “I won’t.” She drew his head down so she could kiss him. “You’re far too tall for me,” she said with a smile.

  Anthony put his arms around her waist and lifted her, making her shriek a little with laughter. “You’re right, I am,” he said. “I’ll just have to stop loving you and find someone taller.”

  “Don’t you dare.” She kissed him again. “Am I still blotchy? Because I think I would like to go out there and dance with you again where everyone will see us.”

  “You look wonderful.” He hesitated. “Would you mind terribly if we didn’t make our relationship public just yet?”

  “Why not? Are you ashamed of me, Anthony North?”

  He grinned. “People have only just stopped staring at us because of our scandal. I’d like to go a little while before they start again, even if this time the staring would be less humiliating.”

  “That’s…actually, I like that idea. How long?”

  “Until Wintersmeet? Five weeks? We can pretend to be merely friends, and then every time we meet will be a secret pleasure.”

  “I think I can last that long. And secret pleasure sounds lovely.” Alison took Anthony’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. “I love you. And I trust you.”

  “I promise to always be worthy of that trust,” Anthony said. “One more kiss, and then I think you should leave first.”

  “Mmmm. Maybe two more kisses.”

  “If it’s going to be two more kisses, it might as well be half a dozen.”

  “Or a dozen. Oh, Anthony, I do love you.”

  Eventually Alison tore herself away from his arms and peeked out the door. The shrouding blue and silver mist made it easy for her to sneak away and circle the ballroom to where she could watch Anthony emerge. He truly loved her, and she loved him, and it was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.

  Chapter Eleven

  The dark gray stones might as well have been made of ice, as cold as the Library passage was. Alison blew on her fingers and then shoved her hands deep into her trouser pockets. She should have worn a heavier coat, but she’d foolishly convinced herself that since she wasn’t going outdoors, of course she didn’t need more than her quilted jacket. She shouldn’t have needed a coat at all, but the old parts of the palace not only didn’t have Devices to heat them, they had been built to keep out the heat of an Aurilien summer, which meant in winter the ink probably froze solid.

  She quickened her step. Bancroft sometimes closed the Library early, no matter who might want to use it. Or, possibly, he did it on purpose to inconvenience her. Though it was true the cold seemed to keep most people away. The last time she’d visited, she had been the only person there who wasn’t a Scholia employee, and Baxter had given her a more sour than usual look. He’d had a large wrapped bundle of books on the desk when she requested Wonders of Eskandel, and when she’d peeked at the bundle—just a little peek, curiosity was natural—he’d almost bitten her hand off, then curtly explained he was taking them to the bindery for repairs and she had better not damage them further. His customary abruptness left her groping for a response, so she’d said nothing, but privately resolved to find the bindery and look at its Devices. Anthony would probably know where it was.

  She’d seen Anthony only four times in the two and a half weeks since Zara’s birthday gala, once when he joined his mother and her ladies for dinner, twice at informal parties which they did not attend together, and once, blissfully, when they went to the theater and secretly held hands during the performance and kissed madly in the privacy of the royal carriage. That had been a wonderful ride, and thinking of it now m
ade Alison’s cheeks, and other parts of her, heat up enough that she didn’t much mind the chill of the passage. As unhappy as she was about seeing him so infrequently, it was probably just as well, because she was very bad at behaving as if Anthony North were nothing more than her good friend, thanks to her blotchy blushes of guilt and excitement whenever he walked into a room. He, damn him, always looked indifferent to her, sometimes indifferent to the point that she felt a pang of fear that she’d misunderstood him, he didn’t love her and it was all a mistake and she’d made such a fool of herself by believing otherwise. Then he would catch her eye when no one was looking, and smile, and everything he couldn’t say was in that smile, and she would remember the touch of his hands and his lips and her fears shrank into laughable caricatures of themselves.

  She pushed open the door to the scriptorium. It was empty except for Edwin, who as usual turned bright red when he saw her. At least one person in the palace blushed even more dramatically than she did. “I’d like to see Wonders of Eskandel again, Edwin,” she said when she reached the librarians’ desk.

  “Just one…I’ll go get it, milady Countess,” he whispered, and Alison sat at what she’d begun to think of as her desk to wait. She donned her thin cotton gloves—she’d had to provide them for herself, which was just another of Bancroft’s shortcomings; it was appalling that he’d let people handle four hundred year old books with their bare hands—and waited. The book was in terrible shape, and handling it, gloves or no, made her nervous, but she was enjoying it far too much to simply leave it alone.

  Edwin carefully laid the book down in front of Alison, nodded, and backed away quickly. Alison ignored him and turned the pages to where she’d left off reading. They ought to at least re-stitch the binding, she thought, wincing at the way the pages shifted as she turned them. This one was very loose—

  She squeaked as an entire signature came away in her hand. Broken threads waved from its ends and trailed across the book’s remaining pages. “Edwin,” she said, “come and look at this.”

  Edwin began breathing heavily when he saw the damaged book. “This is terrible,” he moaned, and gathered the book into his arms like an infant. Alison followed him to the long desk with the loose pages. “Terrible,” he repeated. He put the book away somewhere under the desk, gasped when he saw what Alison was holding, and snatched the signature from her hand and stuffed it carelessly inside the tooled leather cover.

  “It’s not that terrible,” Alison said.

  “You damaged a book. Master Bancroft will never let you in here again,” Edwin said in a whisper.

  “I damaged the book? It came apart in my hands because no one here bothered to care for it properly. You can even see where the binding threads were frayed!”

  “Master Bancroft will never believe it.”

  “Edwin, you are such a…never mind. Just take it to the bindery and fix it. I’d love to see the Devices in action.”

  “We’re not allowed to take the books out of the Library. Master Bancroft’s orders.”

  “I saw Baxter taking books to the bindery just a week ago. I’m fairly certain Ban—Master Bancroft didn’t mean you weren’t allowed.”

  “Baxter didn’t—I mean, only Master Bancroft uses the Devices for binding. I’m not allowed.”

  “Sweet merciful heaven, Edwin, bring me a needle and a spool of strong thread and I can have it fixed in ten minutes, if it’s that dire an emergency!”

  Edwin shook his head. He was starting to look terrified. “I won’t tell him,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  Alison stripped her gloves off and stuffed them into her coat pocket. “Fine,” she said. “But I would think a librarian should care more about the books than he does about upsetting his superior.” She turned and left the scriptorium, wishing she had something to kick. Bancroft was arrogant and territorial, Baxter was a bully, Edwin was a coward. Nobody associated with the Royal Library seemed interested in it as anything but a way of exercising power over people. How long was a Royal Librarian’s tenure, anyway? Maybe Bancroft’s was nearly up. Maybe the Scholia would recall him and send someone a little less fond of his own privilege and more lenient in his policies. Though the way Alison’s luck had been running with regard to the Royal Library, the Scholia would recall Bancroft the day Alison’s term of service was up.

  That thought made her stop in the middle of the hall. What would happen when it was time for her to leave? Anthony couldn’t follow her back to Kingsport, and she couldn’t stay in Aurilien—she had too many responsibilities back home. Could they continue to love each other under those conditions? Should they continue to love each other? Alison began to feel ill. That her tender, newborn love affair, still finding its bearings, might be destroyed filled her with horror. Right then she wished she could run to Anthony and remind herself she wasn’t lost and alone, a wish she indulged for two seconds before mentally slapping herself. She wasn’t alone, Anthony loved her, and there would be plenty of time to worry about what-ifs when spring came. But, she thought as she continued on down the hall, I wish Wintersmeet were here and gone already.

  “Another note for you, milady,” Belle said, her hand outstretched. “Certain sure you’re not courting with the Crown Prince?”

  “I’m certain,” Alison lied, in the same teasing tone Belle had used. “Besides, I think this one is from the Queen. She’s inviting me to dinner in the east wing tomorrow.” Alison tried not to let her excitement show. I can see Anthony. I have to pretend he’s no more than a friend, with his sister sitting right there between us. This is going to be terrible.

  “Good afternoon, Alison,” Zara said when she entered the east wing dining room. “Thank you for joining us. Won’t you sit down? Anthony seems to be a little late, but I don’t think we need to wait for him.”

  “Thank you, your—Zara.”

  Zara smiled, a tiny smile that barely stretched the corners of her mouth. “It gets easier,” she murmured. “Try some of the soup. It’s a tomato bisque the chef learned to make in Veribold.”

  Alison nodded and sipped her soup. Anthony ought to be here by now. She was prepared; she wasn’t going to blush, or refuse to meet his eyes, or anything stupid like that. But her emotional self-control was slipping away from her. “I’m looking forward to the Wintersmeet celebrations,” she said. It was the only topic she could think of. “I’m told they’re quite elaborate.”

  “The ball is certainly the biggest social event of the year, much less religious than Midsummer,” Zara said. “And it’s exhilarating to be a part of such a large crowd when the season shifts and the lines of power react to that. I imagine, knowing my mother, that you and her ladies already have your gowns.”

  “We have final fittings tomorrow,” Alison said, then heard the door open behind her, and her heart began to pound. Don’t blush, don’t blush!

  “Sorry I’m late, sister mine,” Anthony said. “Good afternoon, Alison.”

  “Good afternoon,” Alison said. No blushing! “What have you been doing?”

  “I’m afraid I only just rose an hour ago,” Anthony said. He spread his napkin over his lap and helped himself to a slab of glazed ham. “Very late night. Don’t look at me like that, Zara, it was just a party with some friends. Very quiet.”

  “I’m sure,” Zara said drily. “How much did you lose?”

  “I won, actually, and you’re going to give the Countess a bad impression of me.”

  “Worse than the one she no doubt already has?”

  Good heaven, the Queen is teasing him. I had no idea she could unbend that much. “I think Anthony isn’t so terrible as all that, and at least he can afford to lose occasionally,” she said, and warmed at his smile.

  “You’re very generous of spirit, Alison.” Zara tore a roll apart and, to Alison’s astonishment, dipped a piece into her soup, completely unselfconscious of her breach of good manners. “Tell me, has your experience with the Royal Library improved since last we spoke?
”

  “Not really. At least I’ve been able to see more of the books. But Bancroft—Master Bancroft still hovers over me when he’s there, as if he thinks I’ll try to smuggle a folio out in my trouser pocket.” She cut a piece of ham and bit into it with some ferocity. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m just tired of not having access to the Library. Back home, I belong to two different lending libraries and I have access to new books not only from our own press but from several others we have business relationships with. And I can visit the library at my manor any time I want. This is stifling.”

  “How many books do you actually need?” Anthony said, amused.

  “Who says it’s about need? I love having my own library. It gives me pleasure to walk through a room full of books and know that one of them might be the next story I fall in love with. A new book—it could be anything. It could be awful. It could be magnificent. And some of them are simply beautiful, physically I mean. That’s part of why it would be such a great loss if the Library collection really is damaged.”

  Anthony leaned on his chin and gazed fondly at her. “I take it back,” he said. “You love books far more than I love my horses.”

  Alison blushed. “I seem to have been rattling on a bit, haven’t I?”

  “No need to apologize,” said Zara, finishing her roll. “People who have a grand passion are either tedious about it, or they have a gift for making others understand that passion themselves. I’m happy to say you’re one of the latter, Alison.” Zara stood and pushed her chair in. “And speaking of passions, I have no idea why the two of you are trying to keep yours a secret, but with the way you look at each other, it won’t stay secret long.”

  She disappeared through the invisible door, leaving Alison and Anthony staring at each other. “Was it that obvious?” Alison said. Now she was blushing.