Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  She fought a shiver, even though she was flushed from training. She dropped her own voice, though it came out a little too thready—she had yet to catch her breath from their sparring, and the way he looked at her wasn’t helping. “You do realize if you want a kiss, you’ll have to release me.”

  “Hmm. But I don’t think I should just let you go. You’re looking rather unsteady on your, well, foot.”

  Before she could toss a retort, he shifted his hold on her ankle and slowly, measuredly, sank to his haunches before her.

  Her breath caught. Her pulse pounded fast as she locked eyes with him. His neck was craned back, his intense gaze never leaving her face as he gently shifted her captive foot to the ground. “I wouldn’t want you to fall,” he said, his voice deeper than before.

  A shiver danced up her spine when he eased back to his feet, his hands trailing up her body as he rose. Her skirt rippled from his gliding touch and she could feel the heat of his fingers through the layers of cloth.

  Her chest rose sharply as his hands rounded her hips and hesitated at her waist, his thumbs pressing low against her stomach. “I will never let you fall,” he promised softly, before leaning in to press his mouth against hers.

  She kissed him, her skin flushed and her heart racing. Her palms were against his chest, her fingers curling into his loose white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer.

  One of his hands lifted, callused fingertips brushing her cheek. Her hair was done in a braided crown, though loose tendrils of dark hair had escaped and now curled against her jaw. He thumbed her smooth skin, cradling her head as he changed the angle of their kiss. His touch was a careful exploration, a caressing gentleness that threatened to melt her.

  When they finally pulled back for air, their breaths were coming quickly, their gazes holding. With his full lips slightly swollen and color high in his sun-bronzed cheeks, he was beautiful. Her heart squeezed, her smile unstoppable.

  “Fates, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

  “I was thinking the same of you.”

  He huffed, affection and amusement locked in the sound. “I’m beautiful? Not fiercely handsome?” One hand curled around the back of her neck and his forehead pressed against hers. The ball of his thumb slid up and down the side of her neck, his other hand still warming her waist. “Clare—”

  “Princess!” Lady Winsel called out, her voice winding from around the trees. “Princess, I have news!”

  Clare froze, but only for an instant. She jerked back the same moment Bennick did. She stooped to grab the wooden dagger that had fallen into the grass. She couldn’t hear much of anything beyond the pounding of her heart as she squared off before Bennick, both of them flushed as Lady Winsel, Venn, and Wilf came around the screen of trees.

  “Oh, there you are!” Lady Winsel called out. While she was beaming, Wilf and Venn looked decidedly tense.

  Clare straightened alongside Bennick, her instincts screaming. “Is something wrong?” she asked, striving for Serene’s controlled tone.

  Lady Winsel shook her head. “Not at all! I just wanted you to know that a delivery has come for you.”

  Clare shot a look at Bennick, whose expression had hardened. “Delivery?”

  “Yes, my parlor is overrun with it all. Jewelry, dresses, flowers, and—”

  “Flowers?” Bennick cut in sharply, his body tensing. “What kind of flowers?”

  Lady Winsel blinked. “Well, all sorts. Daisies, lilies, roses—wait, where are you going?”

  Bennick stalked past the woman and Clare scrambled to follow. Bennick spoke rapidly. “Wilf, take the princess to her room. Venn, you’re with me.”

  Clare’s stomach knotted. Flowers. Could it be a message from the Rose? She hurried to follow Bennick, Wilf striding along beside her. Lady Winsel blustered behind them, asking what was wrong.

  Bennick and Venn moved quickly through the gardens so by the time she, Wilf, and Lady Winsel reached the manor, Bennick and Venn were already at the end of the long main hall, Bennick’s hand wrapping around the handle for the parlor door.

  Clare ignored the staircase on her left and marched after them. Wilf grumbled, but didn’t attempt to stop her as he shadowed her steps.

  They entered the sitting room together, where boxes of gifts littered the space along with endless collections of bright flowers. But the most surprising sight was a young woman, probably Clare’s same age, standing in the midst of it all. She was beautiful, with dark brown skin and even darker eyes. Her hair was black and piled atop her head in an elaborate bun, elongating her round face. She was rather short with high cheekbones and a pert nose. Her traveling dress was a deep emerald and covered in dust, but that didn’t detract from her easy elegance. Her slightly pointed chin was lifted and a grin split her face when her eyes latched onto Clare. She threw out her arms and cried, “Surprise!”

  Clare could only stare. While fondness resided in the girl’s eyes, she was a stranger to Clare. Obviously, the woman thought she was Serene.

  Bennick stood near Clare’s side, still gripping the door handle, but slowly the tension in his shoulders released. “Princess Imara. What an unexpected honor.”

  Princess Imara Buhari winked. “Sorry if I caused you any distress, Captain Markam. I know bodyguards don’t appreciate surprises.”

  “Not generally,” Bennick agreed. He glanced back at Clare, though his eyes immediately bounced behind her. He lifted his chin. “Lady Winsel, perhaps you could order some tea and refreshments for the princesses.”

  Clare was still staring at Serene’s cousin, trying to calm her racing heart. There was no threat. At least not at the moment. Now she needed to remember everything she had been taught about Imara. The princess was the third daughter of King Zaire, and it was known she was one of Serene’s closest friends.

  Fates, Serene probably would have embraced her by now.

  But then, maybe Serene would be just as shocked to find her cousin standing here without any warning whatsoever.

  Imara rolled her eyes. “You’re cross with me, aren’t you?” She did not wait for an answer, merely set her hands on her hips. “I know you didn’t want me to come, but how could I stay away when you needed me?”

  Bennick spoke before Clare had to stumble out some kind of reply. “Princess Imara, where are your guards?”

  “Oh, they’re getting the rest of the gifts.” She gestured to the flowers and riches surrounding her. “These are from the Zennorian court, signs of congratulations on your impending matrimony.”

  Wilf took up a position in the hallway and Bennick closed the door.

  Imara frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  Bennick sighed. “Your guards cannot know.”

  “Cannot know what?” Imara looked to Clare. “What is he talking about?”

  Clare shot Bennick a look and he sighed. “She’ll figure it out,” he said. “Better to tell her now.”

  “Tell me what?” Imara demanded. She was small, but her tone was uncompromising.

  Clare exhaled slowly. “I’m not Serene.”

  Imara blinked. Then her eyes narrowed and she studied Clare thoroughly. “Who are you?”

  “Clare Ellington.”

  “I see. A pleasure, I’m sure.” She turned to Bennick. “Markam, what by all the blasted fates have you done with my cousin?”

  “It’s a long story,” Bennick said.

  Imara eyed Clare. “Clearly, you’re a decoy. A very remarkable one, I might add. The resemblance is uncanny. Have things truly become so dangerous?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.” Bennick’s arms folded over his chest. “Imara, what are you doing here?”

  Her delicate face smoothed, the picture of innocence. “My father sent me. He wished me to be with my dearest cousin and to express Zennor’s enthusiasm with the coming peace between Devendra and Mortise.”

  “Somehow, I don’t quite believe your presence here is official,” Bennick drawled.

 
; Clare gaped at him. Could he really challenge a foreign princess like that?

  But Imara merely chuckled. “Oh Markam, I’ve missed you. You’re such fun.” She angled toward Venn. “And how are you, Grannard?”

  He dipped into a smooth bow. “Quite well, Your Highness.”

  “Good. I—”

  “Imara,” Bennick cut in. “You can’t be here.”

  She glanced around the space. “Actually, I find that I can.” At Bennick’s pointed look, she rolled her eyes and moved for a small beaded bag sitting on the settee. She opened the flap and dug around inside. “I do have an official letter from my father, as well as an invitation signed and sealed by my uncle.”

  “You don’t need to bother fetching them,” Bennick said. “I’m aware you somehow managed to get your hands on Newlan’s seal years ago.”

  Imara glanced up from her bag and winked at Clare’s gaping expression. “We all need our diversions,” the princess said.

  Bennick snorted and glanced at Clare. “Princess Imara is perhaps the most talented forger in all Eyrinthia.”

  The princess’s eyes twinkled. “Markam, you do know how to flatter a woman.” She tugged free two letters and fanned them out with a flick of her dark fingers. “Are you sure you don’t want to look? They took hours.”

  Bennick ignored the proffered letters. “I assume Newlan has no idea you’re here. Does your father know?”

  “He knows it was my greatest desire,” Imara answered promptly.

  Venn coughed rather suspiciously, the crinkles around his eyes betraying his amusement.

  “That’s not the same as knowing you’re here,” Bennick said. “Let alone granting his permission.”

  “I have his signature right here,” Imara said, waving the sealed letters. “It’s not my fault you won’t take a look.”

  “Princess, it truly is more dangerous than you know.”

  “Clearly.” Imara tucked the letters back in her bag. “Who in this house knows about Clare?”

  Bennick sighed. “Only the royal bodyguards and maids.”

  She nodded approvingly. “And where is my cousin?”

  “She is taking an alternate route with Cardon, Dirk, and a few other guards. Our paths will intersect rarely.”

  “Then I must stay a while. I haven’t come all this way to leave without seeing her.” Imara turned to Clare. “I’m sure the tea will be here soon, and I’d love to learn all about you. I have a feeling we’ll be friends.”

  “Imara.” Bennick’s tone grew harder. “You cannot accompany us.”

  She waved a hand at him. “I have my own guards. You won’t be put to additional trouble.”

  “There is a great deal of unrest in Devendra, and Serene has been targeted. You will be in danger. I don’t think Serene would want you to take this risk.”

  “Well,” she quipped with a smile. “I’ll just have to stay until she can tell me otherwise.”

  Venn leaned toward Clare, his voice low. “I don’t even know what to say right now. There’s already enough humor in this.”

  Clare swallowed a chuckle.

  “Does anyone in Zennor even know you’re here?” Bennick asked Imara, exasperation coloring his tone.

  She picked at a thread near her narrow waist. “Well, I’m assuming by now my father found my note. So, yes.”

  Bennick’s eyes narrowed. “And what about your betrothed? Does he know you’re here?”

  Imara shrugged one shoulder. “I would assume my father has informed Skyer.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Princess . . .”

  “You won’t get in trouble for this,” Imara assured him. “That’s why I have the letters. They will cover you from all blame. But you cannot make me go back. I will support Serene by going to Duvan. That fact is unchangeable.”

  Bennick seemed to reach the same conclusion. His shoulders lowered and the room filled with silence.

  Clare was the first to finally move. She stepped forward and dropped into a short curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Imara.”

  The young woman grinned. “Please, just Imara. And no need for courtly niceties. We are cousins after all.” She reached out a hand, which Clare took with an answering smile.

  Venn elbowed Bennick’s ribs. “Just wait until Imara teaches her forgery.”

  Bennick muttered a curse.

  Chapter 14

  Clare

  The concert hall echoed with the final swell of music from the stage, the strings and flutes twined together and supported by a rolling drum in the last crescendo of the evening. Applause rang out, Clare clapping along with the rest of the audience. She shared a private box with Princess Imara and Lord and Lady Winsel.

  The evening had been exciting for Clare, as she had never attended a concert before. The performance had been beautiful and exhilarating, and during the intermission she had enjoyed the fact that the gathered nobles were eager to speak with Imara. The Zennorian princess was an excellent conversationalist and had a natural ability to make those around her feel important. After only one day around the princess, Clare was already beginning to see her as a friend.

  On the floor below, the audience filtered their way to the exit, talking and laughing as they went, with many stealing glances at the box the visiting royals occupied.

  Bennick and Venn stood guard at the back of the box, along with two of Imara’s bodyguards. Wilf had gone to help bring the carriage to the front of the concert hall. Until it was in place, Bennick had asked them to remain in their seats.

  “Did you enjoy the performance?” Lady Winsel asked, perched on the edge of her cushioned chair.

  “Oh, yes,” Clare said. “The musicians were very talented.”

  “Agreed.” Imara glanced to the stage, where the large velvet curtain had just swished closed. “I love comparing the differences between Devendra and Zennor, especially when it comes to the arts.”

  “What differences might those be?” Lady Winsel asked, her tone politely curious.

  “Usually in a performance like this, there would be an accompanying narration between the pieces. It helps bring the songs together with a story.”

  Lord Winsel—who Clare had only heard speak a handful of times—glanced up from his book. “That sounds like the better way to do it. It’s easy to grow bored when it’s just the music.”

  His wife shot him a look. “I’m sure you jest, my dear.” Her fan fluttered, teasing her hair. “The music tells its own story, if you’ll only listen.”

  Clare looked at Imara. “Do you have a favorite symphony?”

  “I have several favorites. But if I had to choose . . .” She nodded once. “The Widow’s Braid.”

  Lady Winsel’s fan stuttered in her hand. “If I might be so bold, that sounds quite depressing.”

  “Oh, it is,” Imara said. “Tragically depressing. And yet, beautifully romantic.”

  Lord Winsel lowered his book. “Forgive my ignorance, but is the widow’s braid still practiced in Zennor?”

  “Yes, it is. I’m surprised you know the custom, my lord.”

  “When I was a child, I spent a couple years in Kedaah, as the son of an ambassador.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” Imara smiled.

  “It was,” he said. “I’ve always thought it beneficial for people to live in other kingdoms. One can learn a great deal about themselves and others by simply walking roads they would have never otherwise traveled.”

  “A lovely sentiment,” the Zennorian princess said.

  Lady Winsel frowned, clearly not appreciating the fact that she’d been left out of the conversation. “What is a widow’s braid?”

  Clare had been wondering that as well. She had studied about Zennor, and even had Zennorian ancestry through her maternal grandparents, but she was unfamiliar with the term.

  “It’s a tradition,” Imara said. “And like all traditions, it began with a story.”

  “Perhaps you could tell it,” Lord Winsel said, actually
closing his book. “It has been many years since I’ve heard it, and we have the time.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly a performer, but I suppose I can try.” Imara cleared her throat, her voice taking on a richer tone, clearly enjoying her attentive audience. “Long before the Zennorian monarchy was organized, Zennor’s borders belonged to a nomadic people. The clans were ruled by the strongest warriors. One warrior was well-known among all the clans. His name was Jaymet. He had a beloved wife, Helenera, and when news came that she was with child, Jaymet returned from his latest war campaign to be with her. The unborn child’s time was half-fulfilled when a rival clan made a surprise attack on their main encampment.

  “Jaymet and his warriors fought as fiercely as panthers, but they knew the rival clan would soon overpower them because most of Jaymet’s men were still away on their campaign. When he realized defeat was imminent, Jaymet ordered men to guard the retreat of the women and children. They used their bodies as shields to allow their precious ones to escape into the jungle. Jaymet learned Helenera lingered, urging other women to precede her to safety. He left the front lines to personally guard her retreat, but when he took her arm, an enemy warrior jumped out of the foliage. Helenera could do nothing but watch as her brave husband was struck from behind—felled in one surprise blow. Helenera fell to the ground with her husband and held him as he died. Her heart broke in that moment.”

  Clare’s heart clenched, feeling pain for Helenera—even if it was just a story.

  “Fates,” Lady Winsel breathed.

  “She would have been killed as well,” Imara said, “but the enemy warrior was slain by one of Jaymet’s most loyal men, and he continued to guard Helenera as she mourned her lost husband. Helenera and Jaymet were so respected, there is no doubt the valiant warrior would have guarded her and the clan chief’s body until every drop of blood was wrung from him, but Helenera was not unaware of the danger. To save her unborn child and the selfless warrior, she rose from Jaymet’s body. She continued to weep as she braided her hair, binding it so she could run with ease. She left her beloved where he lay and fled with the warrior into the trees.