The Queen's Bargain

by Anne Bishop

  Then, if he loved her, he would let her instruct him in the art of sex and lovemaking. After all, she’d had her Virgin Night, so taking an inexperienced lover wouldn’t be a risk to her power or her Jewels. And she couldn’t stand the idea of him being with another woman, even for instruction, and if he loved her, he wouldn’t ask her to endure that.

  When he still balked about having sex—after all, it wasn’t her reputation that would be harmed if anyone found out—she asked him to handfast with her, to be her husband for a year. If he loved her, he would do this for her, to please them both.

  If you loved me. If you loved me. If you . . .

  She taught him a great deal about sex while she stalled about making the handfast official. After all, they were married in their hearts, weren’t they?

  And then, finally uneasy enough about the delays and Blyte’s desire to keep their arrangement secret—for his sake—he told his family that Blyte had asked him to handfast and he wanted to proceed with the ceremony.

  When his father met with Blyte’s father to negotiate the terms of the handfast, Blyte hysterically denied making such a commitment to Lord Dillon. She tearfully confessed she’d been having sex with Dillon, but she was entitled to a lover, while he . . .

  Scandal. Accusations and counteraccusations. When his father threatened to take the matter to the Province Queen, who, unlike the District Queen who ruled their city, was not related to Blyte’s family, Dillon had received “compensation” for the “misunderstanding”—enough gold and silver marks to buy his silence and end the accusations.

  His family didn’t quite disown him—that would have negated the claim of Dillon being the wronged party—but his parents made it clear that it was in everyone’s best interest for him to settle in another city and start fresh. After all, he was twenty now and old enough to stand on his own, and there were his two younger brothers to think about. If he stayed at home, the smear on his reputation might stain his brothers, and he wouldn’t want that, would he?

  Of course not. But leaving home to serve in a court or to accept a position in another city to do one’s chosen work wasn’t the same as being asked to leave because he’d made the mistake of believing a bitch’s lies.

  Deeply wounded when his father, pressured by his mother, had given him a week to find another place to live well beyond their home ground, Dillon hadn’t been able to think, hadn’t known where to go. He blindly chose a Rihlander city on the coast of Askavi—a place where his family often took a “cottage” for a month in the summer as a way to show they were affluent even if they were a minor branch of an aristo family tree.

  The summer visitors had left weeks ago, but the aristos who lived here were easy enough to find, and it hadn’t taken more than a couple of days for him to make the acquaintance of a few young Warlords around his age. They’d been sufficiently impressed by his Opal Jewel to show him around, introduce him to other aristos. He was getting a feel for who was who and thought he might be able to wangle an introduction with the Steward of the District Queen who ruled this city. Thankfully, she wasn’t the same Queen as the one who ruled the city where his family lived. If he could get an introduction, maybe he could get a court contract to serve in the Second or Third Circle—a position that would allow him to finish his training as an escort while using the skills he’d already learned.

  After a year or two to gain some seasoning and polish, maybe he could head out to one of the other Territories. Someplace like Dharo or even Scelt, which was on the other side of the Realm. Or maybe even someplace more exotic like Tigrelan, a Territory that had two kinds of Blood. Both had claws and striped skin, but one race was human and the other feline. Both were dangerous. But wouldn’t it be exciting to—

  “There you are.”

  A bright, brittle female voice.

  Dillon turned and smiled—a carefully calculated smile that was warm enough to be courteous but not warm enough to be mistaken for an invitation. He’d learned that much before he left the school.

  Either the light wasn’t sufficient or Lady Carron didn’t choose to acknowledge the meaning of the smile. She walked toward him in a way that should have made his body hum, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He kept his teeth clenched to stop her from giving him an open-mouthed, tongue-tangling kiss.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, pouting.

  “Nothing’s the matter,” he replied.

  “Then why are you being like that?”

  “Like what?” Dillon tried to disengage, but her arms tightened around his neck, pushing her body more firmly against his. “Lady Carron, this isn’t appropriate.”

  “I heard that you’re not a stickler for what’s appropriate. That you enjoy a good ride. Plenty of enthusiasm, if lacking the experience to be really good in bed. That’s what I heard.”

  His stomach rolled. “You’re mistaken.”

  Her smile had a knife-edge. “That’s not what my good friend Blyte told me. I know all about you, Lord Dillon.” She rubbed against him. “And if you don’t want everyone to know what Blyte told me about you, you’re going to be very nice—and very accommodating—to me.”

  He went hot, then cold. Wasn’t it enough that Blyte’s betrayal had smeared his honor and caused a rift between him and his family? If Carron told other aristos whatever Blyte had said about him, he would never be granted an audience with a Queen’s Steward, would never be allowed to serve in a court, because a Queen wouldn’t consider an escort with a stained reputation, not when there were so many unsullied young men for her to choose from.

  He had to do something—fast.

  “Not here,” he said. “Not tonight.”

  “Make it soon.”

  He heard the threat behind the words.

  Well, he would do something soon. Immediately, in fact.

  Burning with a corrosive, careless anger, Dillon walked out of the nook, one hand mussing his russet hair in what looked like some attempt to tame it, while his other hand ran down the front of his evening jacket. His green eyes scanned the edges of the ballroom until he spotted Lord Foley, the acquaintance who might have become a friend. Folly, as he was sometimes called by those who insisted they had sharp wit, loved gossip and couldn’t keep a secret to save his life—something everyone in the aristo social circles knew about the young man. And that made Folly the perfect choice.

  Dillon rushed up to Folly and pulled him aside. Not too far, not out of earshot of a sharp-eyed Warlord who looked at Dillon, then looked toward the nook where Carron had disappeared.

  “Folly, you won’t believe this, but I’m going to handfast with Lady Carron!” Dillon kept his voice low, conspiratorial, but just loud enough for the other Warlord to also hear what he had to say.

  “What?” Folly yelped. “You’re what?”

  “I know! We’ve barely known each other a week, but she said she needs me to be her lover. So we’re going to handfast so that I can be her husband for a year. And she’ll be my wife. Isn’t that wonderful? But you can’t say anything yet, because she just asked me and I still need to place the notice into the weekly paper that prints these announcements.”

  “B-but . . . ,” Folly stammered. “I heard Lady Carron’s father was negotiating a marriage contract with a Warlord from another aristo family.”

  Bitterness welled up in Dillon. His eyes glittered. “Maybe she’s already tried horizontal dancing with the man and decided he wasn’t up to her standards since he was willing to oblige her before the contracts were signed.”

  A flash of anger nearby told him his verbal knife had found its mark, and he wondered whether Lady Carron—had anyone else noticed her name sounded so much like “carrion”?—would have to find another potential husband or if the marriage contract currently on the table would become much more expensive.

  “I have to go.” Dillon clapped a hand on Folly’s shoulder. “I want
to write to my parents and send the news by special messenger first thing in the morning.” He raised his hand and held up a finger. “Remember. Not a word to anyone yet.”

  Dillon moved swiftly, hoping the Warlord who might have been the intended husband didn’t follow him. He’d had some basic training in how to fight and defend—every escort knew that much—but he didn’t want to find himself cornered by a man who had more training and skill.

  No one followed him. He slipped away and was heading back to his hotel room before Folly shook off the shock enough to start spreading the news—in confidence.

  * * *

  * * *

  The summons from Lady Carron’s father arrived before breakfast, but the meeting was set for midmorning, a time carefully calculated. The balance of urgency and courtesy made Dillon wonder what Carron’s father had said to her last night—or what her intended husband had said to her father. Was a marriage still being negotiated? If her father offered him a contract to handfast with Carron . . .

  Did he really want to spend a year of his life with her? No, he didn’t. Any girl who could be friends with Blyte would be a torment for him.

  Nothing was said at first when Dillon was shown into the man’s study, but he knew the Warlord took in Dillon’s Opal Jewel, weighing that power against his own Summer-sky and making some adjustments in how this meeting would go.

  “There was a misunderstanding last night,” the Warlord said, watching Dillon.

  “Sir?” he replied politely.

  “My daughter couldn’t have offered you a handfast. The man she’s chosen to be her husband and I have been negotiating the marriage contracts for the past two weeks, so she wouldn’t have offered you a handfast.”

  “But . . .” Dillon looked painfully confused—an expression he’d practiced for an hour last night in anticipation of this meeting. “She asked me to have sex with her. Insisted that I oblige her.”

  The Warlord’s face flushed. “Yes. Well. A young woman who has gone through her Virgin Night has . . . needs, and there is nothing wrong with her enjoying a lover.”

  “You are, of course, correct, sir,” Dillon said. “But a young man doesn’t have the same freedom, and a young man who obliges before a formal contract is signed can be . . . misunderstood. That’s why, when Lady Carron insisted that I provide her with sex, I confirmed that she was asking me to enter into a formal contract, because I know she wouldn’t want a man to do anything dishonorable. After all, if she thought it was all right to use a man that way, then that would be like giving other girls permission to pressure her brother into providing them with sex. Wouldn’t it, sir?”

  The older man’s face turned white and his eyes filled with fear at the mention of that potential danger to his son’s reputation.

  Seeing that, Dillon thought that maybe, in time, he could forgive his father for caring more about his brothers’ reputations than about him.

  “My daughter deeply regrets giving you the wrong impression.”

  I’m sure of that, Dillon thought.

  “I’m told you’ve recently come to town.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Warlord called in a thick envelope and held it out. “You’re a handsome young man, Lord Dillon, and temptation is easier to resist when a girl doesn’t see it every day. I’m hoping you will oblige me by . . . relocating. This should cover your expenses and be some compensation for the inconvenience my daughter caused.”

  Dillon took the envelope, opened it, and riffled the notes inside. Three thousand gold marks. Three thousand. Even more than the compensation he’d received from Blyte’s father.

  “Yes, sir.” His voice sounded brave, sad, and understanding. Sounded perfect. “I wish Lady Carron all the best.” He paused. “If you will excuse me, sir, I think the sooner I’m gone, the easier it will be for all of us.”

  As soon as he left the man’s study, Dillon vanished the envelope. He walked a block before hailing a horse-drawn cab and returning to his hotel. Anticipating the need to get out of this city quickly—there was always the possibility that Carron’s intended husband would challenge him to a fight—he vanished his already-packed trunks, settled his bill, and went to the Coaching station to buy a seat on a Coach heading for a town he was sure his family hadn’t visited before. With any luck, no one in that town would have heard of Carron—or Blyte.

  FOUR

  Jillian stood outside the front door, taking another minute to breathe in fresh air before she entered the Yaslana eyrie. No school today, so she had planned her arrival for after breakfast—and hoped Prince Yaslana was already out and about.

  After a week of discomfort, she was getting used to the feel of the sexual heat washing over her when she was near him, was getting used to the punch of it when she first walked into his home. It was like an odor permeating the eyrie’s stone walls, but more intense when he was physically present. No, the diaper pail was an odor. Yaslana’s sexual heat was a spicy, potent, alluring scent. Not all that different from his physical and psychic scents, actually, but sexual. Definitely sexual.

  But not for her. He couldn’t help being who and what he was—and who and what he was had gotten her and Nurian out of the service fair and had made it possible for them to live in Ebon Rih, had made it possible for her to go to school and also receive training in the use of Eyrien weapons. If she thought of the sexual heat as being similar to a cologne some men wore to be more appealing to women, then it wasn’t any different from the scent Nurian sometimes wore when she wanted to feel more feminine. Wasn’t any different from a bowl of potpourri that Marian used to freshen rooms in the winter.

  Jillian grinned. Sex potpourri. Something to be enjoyed for a moment and then forgotten as a background scent.

  She walked in, hung her cape on the coat-tree, and went to the kitchen. The table had been cleared, but the dishes weren’t done.

  ٭Marian?٭ she called on a distaff thread.

  ٭I’m changing the baby. Again.٭

  Poopy diapers. How fun.

  ٭The children are picking up their rooms,٭ Marian continued, ٭and Lucivar is in his study.٭

  ٭I’ll do the dishes.٭

  ٭There should be a couple of meat pastries in the cold box for you if the men in the house didn’t stuff them into their faces the moment I left the kitchen.٭

  Daemonar might have grabbed for another one before they were put away—the boy had a staggering ability to eat—but Yaslana would have stopped him. And to be fair, if told the pastries had been saved for her, Daemonar probably would have left them alone, because taking care of the women in the family was a man’s privilege. Of course, not eating something that had been saved was seen as an insult and resulted in hurt feelings.

  Boys could be so peculiar.

  After filling one side of the double sink with soap and water, she washed the breakfast dishes and was rinsing the bowl that had been used to make the pastry when she heard the eyrie’s front door open. Curious, because the family was accounted for and anyone else should have knocked, she grabbed a dish towel to dry the bowl as she walked to the archway between the kitchen and the big front room—and then forgot what she was doing.

  She’d seen him plenty of times before, but, Mother Night, he was beautiful! That almost painfully exquisite face and mouthwatering body. The thick black hair was a little long and artfully disheveled, and the gold eyes . . .

  Those eyes looked at her, recognized something in her, and started to glaze as the room began to chill in warning.

  “Witchling?” Yaslana’s voice, coming from the corridor that led to the rest of the eyrie. “Jillian?” Sharper now. Commanding.

  She blinked and turned her head to look at Yaslana as he entered the front room. For a moment, for just long enough, the sexual heat that was becoming familiar created a barrier between her and Prince Sadi’s darkly seductive sexual heat.

 
“I . . . I have to do something.” Jillian hurried to the pantry, leaned against a shelf, and hugged the bowl she’d been drying. Prince Daemon Sadi was . . . Mother Night! She was pretty sure the bones in her legs had just melted from his heat curling around her.

  Potency and power. The darker the Jewel worn by a Warlord Prince, the more potent the sexual heat. Sweet Darkness, he was potent!

  She frowned. It was more than that. If you put aside the sexual heat, because only Warlord Princes had that as part of their nature, Prince Sadi was still exciting because he was sophisticated and educated and . . . other stuff that Eyrien males didn’t care about at all but that seemed desperately important all of a sudden.

  Even if he wasn’t married and unavailable, it would take a strong, sophisticated, educated woman to be his lover. And she was too young to be anyone’s lover. But . . .

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be courted by a Warlord who was like Prince Sadi in most ways?

  * * *

  * * *

  Lucivar led the way back to his study. “What brings you to Ebon Rih so early?”

  Daemon’s psychic scent felt jagged, and that was a worry. Sadi’s mind had been shattered, and repaired, twice, and any sign that he might be slipping toward the border of the Twisted Kingdom was cause for concern. Daemon was Saetan’s true heir and, as Saetan had before him, ruled the Dark Realm as the High Lord of Hell—and he was more dangerous and lethal than their father had ever dreamed of being. Since Saetan had once committed genocide, destroying a place called Zuulaman and everyone from that race, anything that threatened Daemon’s control of his temper or power needed to be stopped before it went too far.

  “I wanted to check the supplies at the cabin,” Daemon replied easily. “I’ll spend a day or two there once Surreal is back at the Hall and available to be the parent on duty.”

  Lucivar settled in one of the visitor’s chairs instead of the chair behind his desk. “Where is she now?”