Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  His fingers dug into her wrists. “Didn’t Grayson teach you how to break holds?” he asked, his tone mocking. “Those are the basics.”

  Her chest rose and fell with jagged breaths, her lungs screaming, her heart crashing as panic clawed up her throat. “Let go,” she repeated, a rasp edging the plea.

  “This should be easy—you hate me, so hurt me.”

  “Stop it!” she cried, her vision hazing with tears, a heavy weight pressing against her chest. She couldn’t breathe.

  Tyrell shifted his grip on her wrists until he shackled them with one hand, his other now free. He grabbed the pebble necklace hanging by her throat. “Perhaps I’ll take this. Give you an incentive to—”

  She lost all sense of sanity. The panic attack was all-consuming. She only knew that her body had turned against her, and that Tyrell had threatened to take Grayson’s gift.

  She struck out, jerking her arms down—heedless of his punishing grip that nearly snapped her wrists, or his nails that scratched her skin as she yanked free. Her thumbs went for his eyes and he reared back, dropping the necklace—and her.

  While he jerked back, she crashed to her knees, her aching hands barely supporting her as she gasped and wheezed for breath.

  “Mia?”

  Her fingers curved into the floor, her back arched as she struggled to drag in air. The pain in her chest was excruciating, the agony of a boulder crushing her lungs.

  Hands grasped her shoulders, twisting her until she was lying on her back. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and she grasped her necklace protectively in one hand, the other raking at Tyrell’s face.

  He dodged the strike and snatched her hand from the air, the pressure of his grip carefully controlled. Nothing like his punishing hold only moments before.

  He spoke through gritted teeth. “Easy, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The words were strange, coming from him, but did nothing to impede the devastating wave of panic that assaulted her.

  Tyrell leaned in, and Mia’s hold on the pebble tightened until it bit into her palm.

  He muttered a curse. “I’m not going to take that stupid rock, either. Can you just hold still? What’s wrong with you?”

  She couldn’t answer. There was no air in her lungs.

  Tyrell’s head cranked toward the door. “Guard!” The bellow of his voice made Mia flinch.

  His hand on her shoulder burned through her dress, and she tried to shrug him off, but she wasn’t sure if her body had even really moved. There was a horrible roaring in her ears.

  Devon had said a panic attack would not kill her.

  She thought he might be wrong.

  The door pushed open and Fletcher’s eyes widened.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Tyrell gritted out. “She just started gasping.”

  Fletcher ignored the prince and dashed out of Mia’s view. When he returned, he knelt beside her, the familiar jar of salts in hand. He slid his palm under her head and gently lifted. “You’re all right, just breathe,” he said, his quiet voice lined with steel. “Deep breaths, now.”

  Mia struggled to do as he said, her breaths ragged at first but gradually evening—deepening. The smell of lavender was familiar, and the more it filled her nose, the easier her breaths became. But her cheeks were flushed after the panic, and her eyes stung. She had gotten so much better over the years, her panics less frequent. Then she had panicked in front of Grayson, and she’d hated that he’d seen her like that. Now, Tyrell knew her weakness, too—and that was wholly humiliating.

  Fletcher helped ease her into a sitting position, angling her so she was facing him. She was grateful, because that kept a kneeling Tyrell in her periphery.

  Fletcher’s large hand was warm on her shoulder. “There,” he murmured. “You’re all right now.” He glanced at the prince. “I think you should go, Your Highness.”

  Tyrell’s fist tightened against his bent knee, his eyes on her. “Mia, do you require a physician?”

  “No,” Fletcher answered for her. “Your Highness, I must insist that you leave her to rest.”

  Mia could feel Tyrell’s eyes burning against the side of her face, but she refused to look at him as she spoke. “Go.” Her voice was hoarse, and she didn’t like how it turned her request into a plea.

  There was a short silence, then clothing rustled as Tyrell pushed to his feet. He stood there a moment, hovering over them both. For a brief moment, she thought he might say something, or question her about her panic attack. But he simply turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  Fletcher eyed Mia. “Are you all right?”

  He was asking about so much more than this moment. He was asking about Tyrell’s visits and Grayson’s absence, and the cracking in her heart hurt so badly. Tears gathered in her eyes, watering her vision.

  “No,” she breathed. “I’m not all right.”

  Chapter 27

  Clare

  Clare closed her eyes, the corner of her mouth lifting as the morning sun warmed her skin. She pulled in a slow, deep breath, and there was only a slight pinch in her side.

  “Maybe you should sit down,” Bennick said, his voice laced with worry. “I’ll send for a chair.”

  “No, I’m fine.” She squeezed his arm, which she was proud to say she barely leaned on. “The physician said it would be good for me to be on my feet.”

  She was thoroughly grateful for the older man’s change of orders. It had been sixteen days since the disastrous Paltrow’s ball. She had been stuck in bed for almost two weeks after her injury, and though her side still ached if she over-exerted herself, the physician had allowed her to take short walks over the last couple of days. Today, he had encouraged her to join the party in the yard.

  The Paltrows were hosting an annual fair to help raise funds for the orphanage in Lindon, and the grassy yard was bustling with activity. Nobles had come from all over the area to participate. There were art pieces to buy, foods to eat, and games to play. Cards, lawn balls, and even grappling for the men—and all of it supported the charity.

  Lady Paltrow had informed Clare that even though the event was always well-attended, the princess’s unexpected presence was yielding a larger number of participants—and donations.

  Clare was glad there was at least one positive side to the delay; King Newlan certainly hadn’t appreciated it.

  After Clare had been injured, Bennick had written to Newlan, Desfan, and Serene, informing all of them about the anticipated delay so they could make any needed adjustments. Serene, Cardon, and Dirk would take their time traveling slowly between inns to avoid staying in one place too long, or reaching their next stop too soon. Even more letters were sent to host families they would no longer have the time to stay with, and several social events had to be canceled. The dedication of the king’s new road had been postponed, and even the prisoner exchange in Stills had to be pushed back.

  Even though they had cut out as many unnecessary stops as possible, the tour would be nearly three weeks behind by the time Clare was allowed to travel. The physician was impressed with her healing, and the scar on her side was small, and pain only sparked if she moved too quickly. But the mark served as a painful physical reminder of her brother’s betrayal.

  She had heard nothing from Eliot, not that she had expected to.

  His silence still hurt.

  She felt guilty, though she knew she shouldn’t; Eliot’s actions were not her fault. But it still felt like she was somehow to blame for being manipulated by him.

  Getting out of her room, being outside and surrounded by merriment . . . it was a distraction she needed. Normally she tired easily while pretending to be the princess, but she was actually enjoying the reprieve of so many conversations. But then, no one stayed overlong.

  Wilf towered behind her, his arms crossed over his wide chest. A single stare from him kept most people from lingering too long—and some from even approaching her entirely—which helped her avoid feeling the usual st
rain.

  Clare kept hold of Bennick’s arm as they wandered the fair, their progress slow, but perfectly enjoyable on her part. When they reached the grappling area, they paused to watch. It was a challenging twist on a simple grappling match. The opposing men each held onto the same long staff, their grips close together on the center of the staff. The goal was to put the other man on his back—without either man letting go of the staff. Men shoved, twisted, and jerked the staff, trying to force their opponent to the ground, or at least surrender their grip.

  Venn, who stood on Clare’s other side, whistled lowly. “Here’s the plan, Wilf. You take on four of those noblemen at once, and I’ll place the bets. We’ll split the winnings—after taking out the entrance fee, of course.”

  Wilf growled a little.

  Clare grinned. “I don’t think anyone is foolish enough to bet against Wilf.”

  “Come now, I’m giving them four against one!” Venn elbowed Wilf. “Try to look smaller.”

  Wilf shoved Venn.

  Clare laughed, though the flash of pain in her side ended that quickly. She tried to cover it up by clearing her throat, but Bennick’s sudden tenseness made it clear she hadn’t fooled him.

  His brow furrowed. “Perhaps we should go back inside for a while.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Clare gently rubbed her side. “I’ve had enough of inside. And I would think you have, too.” He had rarely left her side during the last two weeks.

  He sidled closer, his voice dipping so others wouldn’t hear. “I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

  Wilf and Venn had drifted back slightly, but Clare still kept her tone quiet. “I know you’re worried, but I’m perfectly fine. I’ll tell you if I need to rest.”

  His lips pressed together, but he didn’t argue.

  “Excuse me, Princess, but I’m pleased to see you looking so well.”

  Clare turned, her smile genuine as she recognized the man before her. “Lord Finch. It’s wonderful to see you again.” She extended a hand, which he took at once.

  “You’re too kind.” He dipped his head, pressing a barely-there kiss on the back of her hand, brown hair falling over his forehead. He had a simple grace and a charming smile, something that made him memorable even though they had only shared one dance at the Paltrow’s ball. A feat not all noblemen could claim.

  When he straightened, his eyes carried a gentle hint of concern. “I was horrified to hear what happened. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Much improved, thank you.”

  “Thank the fates.” He glanced at Bennick, and Clare recalled their conversation on the dance floor.

  “Lord Finch, may I introduce you to my guards? Venn Grannard, Wilford Lines, and Bennick Markam.” She shot Bennick a small smile. “Lord Finch mentioned he has followed your career.”

  “The princess is too kind,” Finch said, shuffling his feet. “I’m afraid I’m quite the enthusiast, much to my father’s chagrin.” He extended a hand, and after a slight pause, Bennick shook it.

  “I’m not sure why,” he said.

  “Don’t be so modest,” Venn cut in.

  Finch flashed a smile. “Indeed. Though, you’re all quite legendary, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed we are,” Venn agreed with a grin.

  “Princess!”

  Finch twisted aside, revealing Lady Paltrow and Imara. The Zennorian princess had been an immense help during the last two weeks. Not only had she distracted the noblewoman from constantly visiting Clare, but Imara had spent hours in Clare’s room, sharing stories of Zennor, her family, and the many and varied adventures she and Serene had taken part in over the years. She also asked Clare to share stories of her own, and it had been healing to talk of home. Imara had become a true friend.

  Imara spared Lord Finch a quick smile before her eyes shifted to Clare. “Sorry to interrupt, we merely wanted to check in.”

  “Do you need anything?” Lady Paltrow added. “Anything at all?”

  Clare sent the woman a smile. “No thank you, I’m quite all right.”

  “Perhaps a chair,” Bennick said.

  Clare shot him a look, but the gray-haired lady was already nodding. “Of course.” She signaled to a servant. “We can all have a chair and watch the grappling for a while.”

  Imara moved closer, her eyes wandering the men gathered around them. “Are any of you planning to grapple?”

  “No,” Bennick said.

  “Oh, but it would be lovely to have your participation! I’m sure there are many here who would love to pit themselves against a royal guardsman.” Lady Paltrow glanced at Wilf, her head tilting back so she could see all of him. When she looked back at Clare, her eyes were round. “It would be the match of a lifetime. Especially with you watching. It would help raise more coin for the children.”

  “I think that’s a splendid idea.” Imara glanced to her guards, who stood like silent shadows. “You’re both up to it, aren’t you?” They glanced at each other, then silently bowed their heads.

  Lady Paltrow beamed. “Wonderful! What about your guards, Princess?”

  Clare eyed the three men beside her. “What do you think?”

  Wilf’s stare was telling, but Venn nodded enough for them both. “I think it sounds fun,” Venn said.

  Lord Finch eyed Bennick, a smile climbing his cheeks. “I must admit, Captain, the idea of trying myself against you is most exciting. Are you up for the challenge?”

  Bennick’s stare was almost as impressive as Wilf’s, but Imara spoke before he could. “Of course he is.” She grinned at him. “Aren’t you? I’ll cover the entry cost for you both.”

  Finch grinned. “Thank you, Princess. But as it is a benefit for children, I don’t think they’ll mind if we both pay the fee.” He tipped his head to Bennick. “I’ll add our names to the next available match.”

  Lady Paltrow’s smile widened. “I shall spread the word so others have a chance as well.” She hurried off, and Imara turned to face Bennick.

  “Oh, don’t look so unhappy,” she said. “Consider this a gift, Markam. You’ve needed a moment to relax.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Grappling with a pompous lord is relaxing?”

  Imara raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t seem pompous.”

  “He isn’t.” Clare frowned at Bennick. “But if you don’t want to—”

  “He wants to,” Imara cut in. She turned to her guards. “Let’s find you some partners as well.”

  As she walked away, Clare peeked up at Bennick, noting that his jaw was rather firm. She winced. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice, keeping his words between them. “As much as I’m not in the mood, I think I’ll enjoy knocking that charming grin off his face.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted. “You do realize you have no reason to be jealous?”

  His only answer was a grunt.

  Lady Paltrow returned at the same time the chairs arrived. Clare allowed Bennick to help settle her into one, as that seemed the least she could do for him. Lady Paltrow sat beside her, and Imara returned to sit on Clare’s other side. Lady Paltrow must have done a good job spreading the word about the royal bodyguards being available to grapple, because not only did many men step forward with an interest in grappling, but the crowd itself swelled with spectators.

  Clare sent Venn to pay the entry fees, and she was quite certain some of his own coins would join the betting pool before he returned.

  As they waited for the next match, Bennick flipped open the top button on his uniform collar and stretched his arms and neck. Clare tried—and failed—to ignore the way his uniform strained as his muscled body flexed. But when his shoulders rolled and the dark blue jacket pulled over his chest . . . she couldn’t look away.

  Of course, he glanced over and caught her staring.

  Her cheeks warmed, but his quick half-grin made up for the swell of embarrassment.

  A cheer rose from the grapplers and Clare looked ov
er to see the victor offer a hand to the loser. As they cleared the grassy square, Bennick and Finch were called forward.

  They stood across from each other, only a pace between them as they took hold of the long staff. Their hands flexed beside each other, testing and tightening their grips, while the crowd finalized their bets.

  The game master stepped beside them, raising one hand as he called for them to prepare.

  Bennick shifted his stance, his eyes on Finch. The nobleman flashed him a smile.

  The game master threw down his hand and cheers erupted as the competing men pushed against the staff. Clare felt a spark of surprise that Finch did not crumple at once, but he was well-built for a nobleman, and he seemed to be matching Bennick’s strength. Their heels dug into the ground, leg muscles straining as they pushed against each other.

  Bennick suddenly shoved forward and Finch stumbled back, his grip on the staff sliding a little. Bennick jerked the staff, twisting it in on Finch, but the man only grunted and struggled to find his footing. He was twisting his body, absorbing each push that Bennick delivered and even turning some of them back on him. Their faces grew red as they continued to grapple, heels digging into the grass that had been well-trampled even before their tense dance.

  Clare’s fingers curled in her skirt, her heart beating faster as they continued to twist around each other, dipping, shoving, and spinning each other. She wasn’t worried about Bennick. This was only a game. But for every moment it continued, the knot grew in her gut. The building tension made her shoulders rise.

  While the crowd continued to call out, a muscle ticked in Bennick’s jaw, and the tendons in Finch’s neck bulged as the staff wavered between them. Almost too fast to track, Bennick yanked on the staff with a brutal twisting movement. Unprepared for the sudden lack of resistance, Finch stumbled forward—and then was promptly shoved back.

  The crowd shouted as Finch’s back hit the ground, his hands slamming into the grass.

  Bennick stood over him, the staff still gripped in both hands, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.