A servant with a tray intercepted Maari and her princes, offering them each a glass of champagne. She accepted eagerly, and Malac took a glass for himself, but Jude and Orlann requested whiskey instead.
“I'm so glad you decided to come.” Clare took Maari’s free arm as the princess sipped from her glass. “I'm worried that I won't see you again for a long time. Unless you're coming to the wedding?" She turned to Jude with an expectant look. “We’d really love to have her for a week or so. It wouldn't be right without her in the ceremony.”
“You're getting remarried?" His surprise was understandable; Maari couldn't remember ever hearing about a widowed queen taking a second husband.
“No.” Clare’s jaw tightened, as did her grip on her glass. But she maintained her polite smile, despite the implied reference to her late husband, by the man who had executed him.
“It's my wedding,” Jaarod said. “Within the next few months, we hope. And yes, we would love to have Maari at the ceremony.”
“Who is the lucky bride?" Orlann asked, as the servant returned with two glasses of whiskey.
Maari glanced from her brother to the middle Camden prince, silently studying their exchange. Watching for any outward sign of their past relationship. But she found none. As usual, the two councilors were experts at schooling their countenances.
“I have not selected a bride yet," Jaarod admitted. “My committee is missing its most valuable member.” He aimed a pointed glance at his sister.
“Perhaps I could consult from here." Maari aimed a hopeful look at the Camden king. “I would love to be of assistance—”
“Absolutely not.” Jude punctuated the statement by draining his glass and setting it—too hard—on a passing tray. “You will not be involved in the building of a political alliance for another stead." Because that's what Jaarod’s marriage would be, after all. Not just a personal union, but a political one.
As disappointed as she was, Maari could see Jude’s point, especially considering how angry he still was over her “conspiracy” with her brother.
“Still, we would love to have her as a guest,” Jaarod said, and Maari noted that he’d addressed the request to Jude, rather than to her. “You’re welcome to accompany her. All three of you, if you’d like.”
The thought filled Maari with dread. All three of them? Displaying her—their spoil of war—for the whole world to see? In her own homeland, in front of her friends and extended family? She could think of no deeper humiliation, yet that might just be the price to pay, if she ever wanted to see her homeland—and her sisters, nieces, and nephews—again.
“You have my word that we will discuss the matter," Jude said, effectively tabling that very discussion for the moment.
“Well then.” Orlann began to make his way around the long table, which had been arranged with elaborate place-settings and glasses of water. “Shall I tell them we're ready for the first course?”
“That sounds wonderful." Maari finished her champagne, and immediately a server stepped forward to take her empty glass and replace it with a fresh one.
As they moved toward the table to take their seats, the soft creak of hinges drew her attention to the double doors, as they swung open. Her heart fell into the pit of her stomach as dread washed over her.
Geneva stood in the doorway, in silver stiletto sandals and a beautiful, sparkly silver dress cut to show off her growing baby bump. Her golden hair was swept up into a graceful twist, and silver teardrop earrings dangled around her chin. She stood with her hands clasped at her back as her gaze roved over the room.
Maari glanced uneasily at Jude and found him wound tight, the muscles in his neck standing out like a high relief sculpture. Had he invited his wife to dinner? The Stead Camden wife/concubine dynamic was new for Maari, but her understanding was that the two women should exist under completely separate social spheres. Queens had public duties and obligations including formal and state appearances, while royal concubines performed an entirely private role, and Jude had been quite clear about the fact that Maari and Geneva would never be required to ever exist in the same room, much less at a formal event.
So why would he have brought his concubine to a dinner he knew his wife to be attending?
Why would he invite his wife to a dinner with his concubine’s family, whether or not Maari would be in attendance?
Strained looks volleyed around the room, and the princess wondered briefly if she should leave, to alleviate the tension. But this was her night. The king had promised her this evening out, and it might be her last chance to ever see her brother and her sister-in-law.
“Geneva.” Jude marched across the large room toward her, his calm, outwardly pleasant tone belied by his tense stride. “I thought you weren’t feeling up to social events.” And suddenly Maari understood. The king hadn’t invited his wife. Or maybe he had, and she’d declined. Yet there she stood, face to face with Maari for the first time since she’d threatened to kill any child the princess gave birth to, three months before.
“I’m feeling better. I apologize for being late," she said as she stepped into the room, her eyes shining with a fevered glaze. “But I come bearing a gift. A new centerpiece for our table.”
Jude exploded into motion, closing in on his wife as a devastating epiphany twisted his features. “Geneva, come with me. Now!”
Just before he reached her, Geneva's left arm fell to her side, and she brought her right arm from behind her back, her elbow locked, her fingers clutching a handful of—
Jude stopped cold.
Maari gasped, horror echoing through her as she stared at the severed head the queen carried. The preservation process had changed Gareth’s face. He was paler than he'd been in life, and his skin looked oddly waxy. And his eyes…
Those weren't his real eyes. But there was no mistaking the corpse’s identity.
The Queen of Bannon held Maari's brother’s severed head out like a party favor, and there could be no question about where she'd gotten it. Geneva wasn't there when Gareth died. She wasn't the one who had placed the collar around his neck, nor was it she who’d pressed the button that had sent a laser slicing through the king of Stead Delayne’s flesh and bone.
Geneva wasn’t there when Gareth’s head tumbled to the floor of the Great Hall at Saintton.
But Jude was. He’d made the kill, and he was the only one with the authority to decide to preserve such a gruesome keepsake.
“Gods below," Clare whispered, and Maari turned to see her sister-in-law standing with both hands templed over her mouth in horror.
“What in the living fuck—” Jaarod demanded, but before he could fully articulate his outrage, Jude stomped toward his wife again, fury echoing in every step as he closed the remaining distance between them, his hand outstretched to take the grisly memento from her.
“Stop. Stop!” Maari shouted, because she could not stand to see him holding her brother's head. Not again.
Jude spun to face her, and distantly the princess noticed Orlann moving toward Geneva. “Maari,” Jude began, his hands out as if to calm her. “I’ll have this sorted out in just—”
“You’re going to sort this out?” she demanded through clenched teeth. “Like you might sort out a mix-up with the menu or the seating chart? Is that the kind of problem you think this is? A social faux pas?”
Jude’s gaze narrowed on her. “Malac, take Maari back to her suite, and—”
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” she shouted when Malac moved toward her, reaching for her arm in a gesture that fell somewhere between the duty of a party attendant and that of a security escort. She backed away from him, pointing at him with one finger. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” But when she turned back to Geneva, to gesture at her brother’s severed head, she found the queen’s hands empty.
Across the room, Orlann had set something on the table and was draping it with a cloth napkin.
“You both knew,” Maari continued, as Orlann turned to
give her a solemn nod. He would not lie to her. “And somehow, I doubt the queen has had my brother’s head sitting on a shelf in the family suite for the past thirteen weeks. You’ve had it,” she shouted at Jude. “He’s already been interred, and you’ve had his head this whole time!”
Royalty could not be cremated, according to Stead Delayne law, so Gareth had presumably been laid to rest in the Delayne family tomb. Part of him had, anyway. Not that Maari had been allowed to attend the ceremony.
She turned to her remaining brother. “Did you know? Did you bury him without his fucking head?”
“There was little we could do about it at the time,” Jaarod said through clenched teeth.
“Good gods,” Clare breathed as she sank into an empty chair, still clutching her chest. “That’s why you insisted on a closed casket? That’s why there couldn’t be a public viewing?”
“As I said, there was little we could do about it at the time,” Jaarod repeated. “But this is a different matter. This is completely unacceptable.”
“Barbaric,” Clare added.
Jaarod nodded. “I will be reporting this to the council, and I expect they will issue a swift censure and demand—”
“They will demand nothing!" Jude roared, turning away from both his wife and his concubine to face off against the visiting king—the man he had made a king by removing the head in question. “As unpleasant as this may be for you all to hear—and I certainly didn't intend for us to be having this conversation—a victor is entitled to the spoils of war, and that's exactly what this is. That's exactly what the council will tell you, if you file a formal complaint.”
“That can't be right," Clare said, tears gathering in her eyes as she stared at the napkin-covered atrocity on the table.
“And yet it is.” Orlann’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “Tell her,” he demanded, his focus settling on Jaarod. “You know it’s true, so tell her. The council has a long history of upholding the victor’s right to spoils.”
“Like me.” Maari’s voice sounded hollow to her own ears, as shock settled in. “They gave you me, so why wouldn’t they also give you Gareth’s head?”
“Precisely," Jude said with a satisfied nod.
“So what if that’s completely morally repugnant?" Maari continued. “Since when has anyone in power cared about little details like that?" On the edge of her vision, she noted that the shine in Geneva’s eyes had changed. That feverish glow had been replaced by an eager glee as she watched the chaotic fallout from the presentation of her “gift,” her hands clutched at her breast. “Your queen is not well.”
Jude turned to his wife. “Geneva, you will return to the family suite and you will stay there,” he commanded. “I—”
“Send it back,” Maari ordered.
The king turned on her, fury shining in his eyes at having been interrupted. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said send it back," she repeated, holding herself straight and tall. “You will release my brother's head to be interred with the rest of his body.”
“I most certainly will not!”
“You will,” she insisted. “Jaarod and Clare can take it when they leave tomorrow morning. Unless they’d rather go now. Either way, when they depart, Gareth’s remains will fucking go with them.”
18
Jude
Jude’s focus narrowed on his concubine, and he leveled a furious gaze at her, giving her ample time to reverse course. To apologize—to beg his forgiveness—for cutting him off and making demands of him in front of not just other people, but the king of the stead that assassinated his father.
In front of Jude’s own wife, who’d clearly lost her mind, and would soon lose much, much more, for stealing a treasured trophy from his office and crashing his dinner party. She’d pushed him way too far this time. Yet Geneva had never dared to order him around like a servant in private, much less in front of visiting dignitaries.
In his entire reign as king, only one person had ever tried to command Jude Camden. And as beautiful as his lovely little concubine was—as driven as she clearly was by grief and true outrage—she could not be allowed to get away with that.
When Maari silently refused to take back her insolent words—when she boldly held her ground, despite the generous opportunity he was giving her—Jude’s temper exploded like a supernova. “You will apologize!” he roared.
Clare jumped, startled, and Geneva giggled like a fucking madwoman.
Maari took a deep breath. She held her head high, and it didn't seem to matter to her that even with the extra inches from her stiletto heels, she was still several inches shorter than the king and both of his brothers. “I will not,” she declared with an infuriatingly calm demeanor, her words as respectful, at least on the surface, as an outright refusal to a king could possibly be. “This is wrong, and you know that. You know what the right thing to do is, Jude, and the only reason I can think of that you would refuse to do it is out of stubborn pride and insecurity. Out of the juvenile fear of losing face. Of looking weak, if you were to right a wrong that you—”
“Enough!” Jude roared, his skin on fire as fury pooled in his every capillary. He stalked forward and grabbed her arm, then he forcefully escorted her from the room before she could make any further objection. Before she could think to kick or scream, or dig in her four-inch heels. “Malac, escort the queen to her room and see that she stays there," Jude said from the doorway. “Orlann, see that our guests are served dinner and keep an eye on my belonging. I will return as soon as I can.”
“Your belonging?” Maari snapped as the door swung shut and he pulled her down the hall. "Don't you mean your trophy? Because that's what my brother's head is to you, right? A trophy, just like I am!”
“Yes, exactly like you are.” His grip on her arm tightened, and she struggled to keep up without losing her balance in the new heels. “You belong to me, just like your brother's head belongs to me, and I'm not going to apologize for keeping both of my prizes. That's how it works, when one wins a war. To the victor go the spoils. Perhaps you've heard that somewhere before.” Jude threw open a door around the corner from the dining room and hauled Maari into a formal salon full of antique sofas, rugs, and tables. “I feel like it should go without saying that you are not allowed to issue orders to a king. Especially in the company of another king. Yet evidently that does need to be said. Evidently you need to be taught what respect looks and sounds like, and that I will accept nothing less from you!”
“Fine, do whatever you want to me.” Maari jerked her arm from his grip. “I won't fight it. Just please send my brother’s head back home, so he can be buried intact."
Jude stared at her, stunned. Enraged. “You're still trying to negotiate with me? Have you learned nothing?”
“I've learned a lot," she insisted. “I've learned that despite the image you like to project, you are not without mercy. You are not without reason. I think you care for me. I don't know that I can truthfully call it love, because I don't think a man would treat someone he loves the way you treat me, but I do think it's affection of some sort. I also think you are a good man. Or at least, you could be. And I'm giving you an opportunity to be that man. I'm asking you to be that man. I’m begging you, Jude.”
“Unbelievable,” he growled, his voice echoing with quiet violence, like the rumble of a warship’s engine. “I'm giving you a chance to apologize. To ingratiate yourself and get back in my good graces. Instead, you insult me, and you continue to try to bargain with me, now that your attempt to command me outright has failed.”
Jude grabbed her chin. “You…cannot…negotiate with me,” he snapped, as her eyes filled with tears. As she pried at his fingers, trying to free herself from his bruising grip. “You have nothing to bring to the table, because you've already admitted that you don't know how to overcome the ‘gift’ you've inherited. And even if I wanted to send your brother's head back—even if I might have been inclined to honor your request, had it been made properly
, in private—I certainly can't do that now, can I?"
“You can," she mumbled, her jaw still held captive while she clawed at his hand, pulled onto her toes by his grip. “Please,” she moaned, and Jude let her go, but he refused to step back. “You can grant my request, and if you do, you will gain immeasurable favor with Stead Delayne.”
“I don't need their favor! And you have nothing to offer me on your own behalf.” He turned away from her in disgust, and she grabbed his arm.
“Affection!” Maari blurted, and he could hear the desperation in her voice. He could feel it in her grip. “Isn’t that what you want from me? That's all I have to offer. If you were to give me this, how could I not feel something for you? How could I not see that as a sign of true compassion and affection for me?”
Jude stared down at her. Studying her.
If she fell in love, she would not be able to prevent pregnancy, and if she fell pregnant, he would get to keep her. That was the driving force behind nearly everything he’d done since he’d claimed her. Yet… “There is nothing but contempt and loathing for me written on your face. Which is exactly what Geneva intended.”
“But don't you want to change that? I'm asking you to do something for me. Something important. You say you care for me, but how am I supposed to believe that if you’re willing to put me through something like this? If you won't do this one thing for me, just because you love me?”
“Loving you isn’t about just giving you anything you want, Maari!” Jude stormed away from her, struggling to control his temper. To make her understand. “This is much more complicated than that, and you damn well know it! You just tried to command me—a king—in front of my greatest political rival. In front of a man who was my mortal enemy three months ago. In front of officials representing the stead that assassinated my father. Executions have been ordered for less than what you did tonight, and even if I wanted to indulge you on this, I couldn't now. I can't appear to reward behavior like that. You just ensured that the one thing I cannot do is send your brother's head back to Bannon." His scowl narrowed on her. “You brought this upon herself."
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