Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
The world is swaying. Or I’m swaying? Or something is swaying beneath me.
When I crack my eyes, white armour sits inches from my nose. It takes a moment too long to realize Sir Cathal has me cradled in his arms.
It’s morning now, but I have no sense of how much time has passed.
Hours? Days? Beyond his broad shoulders lie vast, sun-dappled gardens.
Trimmed hedges surround mounds of golden flowers that dispel a hazy aura, as if they’ve spent the night absorbing the moonglow.
We walk past row after row of trees laden with pale yellow apples, each one ideally formed, as if painted by an artist with a painstaking attention to detail.
“Where is your horse?” I croak, my throat thick and dry and how is that my first question?
"In the stables. Breakfasting.”
A man of few words. Just my luck.
He carries me onto the veranda of a many-spired castle that could have been plucked from the pages of a storybook. A furry, winged creature lazily circles the towers; some unnatural cross between a lion and a bird of prey. Quite impossible. I look away before my brain breaks and I faint again.
“Ah.” A male voice drifts over. “You’ve found her.”
“Can you put me down, please?” I whisper to Sir Cathal, who obeys instantly, one large hand splayed across my lower back to steady me.
I pull at my neckline and run a palm over my frizzy waves. Heavens, I must look a fright. I plaster on a smile as I lift my gaze to—
Another absurdly handsome faerie man.
About my age, perhaps a year or two older, formally dressed in a royal blue tailcoat with gold embroidery. Blue-black hair sweeps back from a sculpted face just as devastating as Sir Cathal’s. Perfect beyond any natural parameters. He’s Prince Charming with pointed ears and a rogue’s smile.
“This is the Favourite?” he asks, confused but intrigued.
“Oh no,” Sir Cathal says wryly. “This is a woods nymph I crafted from mud and stardust when the real Favourite failed to show up.” He assesses me theatrically, and my pulse spikes. Does he know? “I did a pretty good job. Wouldn’t mind keeping her if she doesn’t suit.”
Prince Charming says nothing, merely blinks at his knight.
Sir Cathal plucks up my wrist, careful to avoid his bite marks, and taps on the ring. “Of course she’s the Favourite.”
The man surveys my attire—nothing but a tattered chemise stained with dirt and sweat. Where and when did I lose my dressing robe? “You might have spun her some more appropriate clothing for breakfast with a duke.”
Sir Cathal shrugs, and the duke—not a prince—claps a hand onto his upper arm, tinkling the chain mail. “Grab some breakfast. It’s going to be a long few days.”
The knight offers me an encouraging smile as he steps away.
Clasping my hand between his own, the duke’s expression is as warm as his greeting. “Welcome, darling. I trust your journey was not too disagreeable?”
“Truthfully, I don’t remember much of it, Your Grace.”
He grins, staring, and rubs his thumb across the heavy metal ring on my finger. “We have much to discuss.”
Sir Cathal makes his way to a wrought-iron table set for two and rummages through baskets full of scones and those perfect apples.
There are cups of soft-boiled eggs, a plate of cured meats and cheeses, and a silver carafe of what I am praying to whatever deities exist in this world is coffee.
I think I recognize its bitter scent, though I’m not entirely sure I can trust my senses here.
I turn back to the duke. “Forgive my ignorance, but … where precisely are we?”
“Precisely? The veranda of my castle in Tír na Strelle.” He leads me to the table and shoos his knight away.
I wrack my brain for a seed of recognition, but I have never heard of a city, town, nor even a collection of cottages called Tír na Strelle.
The duke pulls out a chair. “You should eat.” He rounds the table and picks up the carafe. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He fills my cup, then adds a teaspoon of sugar and a generous helping of cream. It’s exquisite, rich with a bitter edge. I help myself to an egg cup, then crack the shell with a spoon. The yolk is warm and runny; just how I like it.
As I munch my divine breakfast, Sir Cathal pipes up from where he’s leaning casually against the balustrade. “Did you send the declaration to the other Houses?”
The duke’s previously pleasant expression sharpens. “Do you think me a fool?”
“Depends on the day.” Sir Cathal chomps into an apple.
“I sent it as soon as you informed me you’d retrieved her.”
“Good.” Sir Cathal nods, turning for the steps.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The knight glances over a pauldroned shoulder. “To help with the preparations.”
The duke grins. “I think not. You can stay right here. Stand behind us and look menacing.”
Sir Cathal polishes off the apple. I never knew it was possible to eat fruit angrily, but he pulls it off. He chucks the core over the railing. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
“He is rather good at that,” I offer, trying to ease the tension.
“Good at what?” the duke asks.
“Looking menacing.” My eyes dart to Sir Cathal. The faintest twitch lifts the corner of his mouth. Better than the scowl that was forming.
“Yes, well, at least he’s good for something.”
“What would he do if I leapt from this table and ran away?”
The duke scratches his temple. “And why would you do that?”
“Well, I have no idea where I am nor what your intentions are. Nor even what your name is.”
He presses a palm to his chest. “Duke Desmond Macán. You can call me Des.”
“Can I? Seems a bit informal. Is that what all your subjects call you?”
His eyes twinkle. “I do not have subjects. Yet.”
I cock my head, confused.
Desmond adds softly, “There are many rules to this game we are about to play. You will be embroiled soon enough. For now, eat. Relax.”
I try to do as he’s asked, managing the eating part far better than the relaxing part. But my eyes won’t stop drifting toward the hulking tower of armoured muscle standing at attention behind him. “But what would he do?”
Sir Cathal’s deep blue eyes bolt straight toward me. “I would hunt you down. And return you.”
My excitable heart lodges somewhere in my throat—entirely the wrong reaction for his answer—and I glance back at Desmond.
He leans across the table wearing an amused expression, then whispers loud enough for Sir Cathal to hear, “Hunting maidens used to be his favorite pastime. Perhaps you should run. You’d give him the most thrilling morning he’s had in years.”
Warmth floods my face, even though I haven’t been a maiden for quite some time. When I muster the courage to look toward Sir Cathal again, he’s blushing as well. But his impenetrable stare has returned to the gardens.
“Forgive my insistence,” I ask Desmond, who’s slouched with an arm thrown over the back of his chair, “but what am I doing here?”
“What’s your name, darling?”
“Charlotte. Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy.”
He smiles, as if he’s about to bestow a great gift upon me.
“Well, Miss Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy, you are here to marry me.
“And become queen of the celestial Otherworld.”