Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
“Iowe you a tremendous debt of gratitude, sister.” Desmond settles me onto a blood-red sofa in the small parlor off the main hall to which we have retired.
“I think Charlotte herself might have upstaged that dress, actually.” Aowen offers me an approving look before sinking into a velvet chair. Vesper is curled atop a throw pillow in the one opposite.
Lachlan guards the door, an unmovable wall of muscle to discourage interference with our impromptu conference.
I shift in my seat and the slit in my gown falls open, baring my leg from toe to hip.
“Get her a blanket,” Lachlan grumbles at Desmond.
Does he think I’m cold? I am shivering. But it is not due to temperature.
Now that the presentation ceremony is over, my anxious mind has decided to scale the next mountain of worries—will I be able to decipher Duke áine’s clue?
Will I be able to charm the duke himself?
Or will he reject me during my visit to Tír na Lune?
And what will happen if Duke Cernunnos doesn’t allow me to hunt for his piece of the Bannrhorn?
I sit on my hands to keep them from shaking.
Desmond shoots Lachlan an exasperated look, then drapes a blanket around my shoulders.
It looks like wool, but the texture is far softer.
He whispers in my ear, “Spun from sheep in the Brumalt mountains where the Wild Hunt is held. The views are even more spectacular than the fabric. You’ll see them if you succeed, darling.
” He squeezes my shoulders, then turns to Aowen. “Fetch her some tea. Now.”
“Like I have time to prepare tea when Vesper and I have so much work to do.” Aowen sweeps a hand through a sunbeam, then twirls her fingers.
A silver tea set appears on the table next to her.
“Charlotte will require a complete trousseau of day dresses, evening gowns, sporting outfits, riding gear, sleepwear and Danu knows what else.” She hands me a cup, and I take a deep whiff.
Lavender and citrus. Divine. My first sip is the perfect temperature, not too hot, not too cold.
“We need weeks to prepare something worthy of a proper quarry. And we have what? A day?”
“Make it happen.” The glare Desmond aims at his sister could peel the brocade paper from the walls. “This is the greatest chance we’ve had in years to restore the monarchy. I do not need to remind you of the stakes, do I?”
Aowen narrows her eyes. “Of course not.”
“Good.” Desmond turns his attention back to me. “You did well, Charlotte, but you mustn’t rest on your laurels. You may have charmed áine enough to gain an invite to his House, but you’ll need to stay on your game every second you’re in Tír na Lune.”
Lachlan clears his throat. “Permission to accompany her, Your Grace. If you please.”
Desmond tucks his chin over his shoulder. “What? Why?”
“Cernunnos’s rejection makes her vulnerable, especially to áine’s people. She’ll need protection. Surely he won’t question why we sent her with a bodyguard.”
“Yes, but my own bodyguard?”
“That might help,” Aowen chimes in, tracing a long fingernail along her jawline.
Have she and Lachlan discussed this? “It will signal Charlotte’s importance to you.
And make everyone even more curious about her.
Rumors will spread throughout the kingdom, maybe even all the way to Cernunnos himself in Tír na Dubh.
A little manufactured intrigue might be just the thing to make him rethink his rejection. ”
Desmond runs his hand over the back of his neck, addressing his knight. “Who’s going to help and protect me while you’re gone? You’re invaluable.”
Lachlan’s eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t budge. I suspect the man is the very definition of intractable. “Blevins and Carey are more than capable of managing your celestial knights in my absence. And I’ll have Sir Dunne assigned to guard your person.”
Desmond grouses, “See? You need three people to replace you. Aowen will accompany Charlotte as her sponsor for the Season and Tír na Strelle’s official representative. I’m sure she’ll be quite enough.”
Aowen smirks, mumbling something that sounds like, “High praise.”
“Tell me something, Your Grace.” Lachlan steps into his duke.
They are nearly of a height, but there’s a power radiating from Lachlan that Desmond, despite his title and regal appearance, just can’t match.
They are both broad and leanly muscled, so that’s not it.
Lachlan’s armed, but I don’t think that’s it either.
It’s his presence. Confident. Patient. Calm.
A man who needs no more than a stern look to command a room.
He continues, “Securing Miss Fitzroy’s candidacy is the single most important task that anyone in all of Tír na Strelle could be assigned right now, yes?”
“Of course,” Desmond admits with a resigned sigh. As if he knows Lachlan is about to win this argument. As if he has won every previous one as well.
“And the reward for securing her candidacy will be well worth the inconvenience of losing me for several months, surely.”
“Even if she finds the other pieces of the Bannrhorn, I still need to win the Hunt and claim her to become king,” Desmond counters.
“And when that day comes, I will be right by your side to ensure your victory.” Lachlan’s eyes dart to me for a moment, then back to his master. “But we won’t even have the chance if—Danu forbid—any harm befalls her in Season. She needs the best protection this House can offer. That is me.”
It’s not boastful or arrogant. Just a bald fact plainly stated. It launches a fluttery sensation in my stomach.
Desmond sighs again, his shoulders dipping. Lachlan claps a hand on one, then turns to Aowen. “Take Miss Fitzroy back to her quarters and finish packing for the journey. She and I will leave for Tír na Lune tomorrow. You and Vesper should go on ahead tonight to announce our arrival.”
“I’d like a moment alone with Charlotte,” Desmond whines. “In private.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Lachlan bows.
Aowen rises from her chair, and Vesper zips up onto her shoulder. “I’ll wait for you outside, Charlotte.” Her eyes dance with mischief as she whispers, “We’ll bring those dukes to their knees, don’t you worry. They’ll be begging to hunt you when we’re done with them.”
I nod, anxious but excited.
“Food,” Vesper chirps on their way out the door. “Trembling food.”
Lachlan steps toward me. “No dallying.” He rakes narrowed eyes over his duke. “He can be extremely long-winded once he gets going.” Desmond scoffs, then shrugs in concession.
I tilt my head back to look up at Lachlan, lowering my voice. “Are you sure about this? It sounds like you have many important responsibilities here. I do not want to cause a rift between you and your duke, Sir Cathal.”
“Miss Fitzroy”—he takes my hand, and every nerve ending in my body stands at attention—“you are the most important person in the Otherworld.” He switches to my mind.
I promised to help you. I am a man of my word.
Then out loud, “It will be my honor to guard our future queen.” He grazes his lips over my knuckles, and a riotous explosion of heat burns away that fluttering in my belly.
It’s still smoldering as the door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with the man who hopes to be my king.
Desmond’s sky-bright eyes dull with worry.
“You must be careful, darling. Aowen will help you navigate the politics and personalities, and Lachlan will do everything in his power to keep you from bodily harm. I wish I could accompany you as well, but that would be too harsh a breach of Seasonal protocol.”
He moves in closer, lifting my chin with a knuckle. “I’m sorry we won’t have more time together before you leave. But after the Wild Hunt, after we’re married, we’ll have a lifetime to get to know one another. Would you like that?”
“I—”
He doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead interrupts me with our second kiss in less than an hour. It’s chaste. Sweet.
Before I can figure out if I want it to turn into something more, he pulls back and whispers, “My queen.”
Goosebumps pebble down my arms.
Let the grand reinvention of Miss Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy commence.