Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
The next day, I head down to the stables feeling like a duke’s confident fiancée, sartorially if not mentally. Aowen and Vesper left me an elegant sapphire riding jacket, butter-soft leather breeches, and a pair of comfortable boots that lace up to my knees.
They also left me some very small undergarments which, according to Aowen, are called panties.
Apparently, the women here wear them beneath all their clothing.
She was a bit aghast yesterday when I told her we don’t have anything like them in the human world, unnecessary with all the layers under our gowns.
“It’s rather an unpleasant word, panties,” I said to her, grimacing.
“Not when the right person says it.” She winked, then bid farewell.
I enter the stables, marching past stalls filled with the most stunning horses I’ve ever seen. Gleaming white manes and tails offset hides of dark gold, and doleful brown eyes peer at me as I deposit myself on a bench outside a stall.
Moments later, Lachlan emerges with his mare.
He’s wearing a different kind of uniform today; one that resembles his white armour, but looks to be made of leather rather than metal.
The horse clacks her hoof against the floor and throws her head back, snorting, as he begins saddling her for our journey.
He murmurs as he works, then fishes a pink sugar cube from a sack hanging on the wall. Her lips snuffle over his open palm, and I catch the tail end of his praise, delivered low and soft as he pats the side of her neck.
“…my good, gentle girl.”
Something deep within me perks up. I hastily shove it back down.
“Do you like kelpies?”
His question startles me—I didn’t think he realized I’d arrived. “I thought she was a horse.”
“Kelpies resemble horses. But they’re ancient shape-shifters, really. They can travel through certain natural phenomena faster than you can blink. Water, wind, clouds, shadows. This girl here’s a light kelpie.”
“Well,” I say, fascinated, “I suppose I do like kelpies, then. Since I like horses better than most creatures. Especially humans.”
He snickers, gesturing for me to join him at his kelpie’s side before placing a sugar cube in my hand.
I flatten my palm beneath her snout, and she gently takes it. Warmth radiates through my chest that I have been deemed worthy of her trust.
That, or she’s easily swayed by sweets. We will get along famously.
“What’s her name?” I ask as we walk out into the paddock.
He raises a dark, pierced brow, then turns to her. “Tula, light kelpie of Tír na Strelle, meet Charlotte, queen-to-be, most recently of the human realm.”
Tula flares her lips, snorting at her master, while I try to recover from Lachlan wrapping his lush voice around my first name. I want him to say it again.
It is a thing I suspect I should not want.
I shake off the daze and approach Tula, who dips her head and allows me to pet her neck. “She’s sweet. But who will I be riding?”
He stares down at me, confused. “We’re riding Tula.”
Before I have a chance to protest—which, let’s be honest, I would have done rather weakly—Lachlan cups my waist, his large hands spanning my ribs to the flare of my hips, and lifts me bodily into the saddle.
“I could have done that myself. I know how to mount.”
His pierced lip twitches as he shrugs, then hoists himself up behind me, wrapping thighs as hard and thick as iron posts around my own.
My face reddens at the intimacy of the position. George wasn’t much for riding, and even on the outings he’d deign to take with me, I always rode my own horse.
Lachlan clicks his tongue, flicking Tula’s reins, and she ambles through the paddock gate.
As soon as we exit the castle grounds, we are swarmed by fae with the same pointed ears and ethereal beauty as the man behind me.
I recognize a few from the ceremony yesterday.
They follow our progress down the paved marble streets, tossing cut flowers in a shade of pink so pale it almost looks white.
Lachlan tells me its petals only open on clear nights when the stars are visible.
“For good luck,” he rumbles at my back. “They are wishing you well.”
Shouts of my queen and kingmaker ring out in our wake. It is a strange thing, adoration from complete strangers. Will they turn on me if another duke wins the Wild Hunt? Or will they respect me as their queen regardless of my husband’s House?
Lachlan receives as much attention as I do. More, even. Fawning glances abound, and as we pass a dress boutique, a group of bold young women wolf-whistle. He tenses behind me.
I wonder whether he has a wife. There’s no ring upon his finger. I suppose it’s likely he has a lover, maybe more than one. I can’t imagine a man like him—handsome, powerful, self-assured—goes without companionship for long.
The buildings stretch fewer and farther between, and the crowd thins as the paved road gives way to packed dirt. Lachlan steers Tula into a wild forest, beyond which the sky is a mauve watercolor smear of approaching twilight.
He turns Tula down a steep path leading to a dry riverbed, and I nearly tumble over her neck before he winds an arm around my waist, securing me against his chest. My focus narrows to his solid heat at my back, the brush of his soft hair against my cheek, the press of his forearm against my stomach.
“How long will it take to get to Tír na Lune?” I ask to force my focus to less treacherous territory.
“Not too long, Miss Fitzroy.”
“Charlotte,” I say.
“Pardon?”
“Are we back to formalities again? Now that you’re my official bodyguard? I hope you’re still allowed to use my first name.”
I like the way it sounds in your mouth.
“Charlie,” he says.
“Who’s Charlie?”
“Could be you.”
“Charlie.” I test out the nickname. “It’s lovely, but I’m not sure it suits me. Shall I give you a nickname as well, then? Which do you prefer—Lach or Lannie?”
“Use either, and I will pitch you from this saddle.”
I laugh as the path flattens, and Lachlan removes his arm from around my waist. A pang of disappointment sparks in my chest that I do not spend any time examining. Or at least, not much time.
I know this feeling. This blinding, white-hot attraction that lives much lower than my head or my heart. What I mistook for love with George.
It’s lust, pure and simple. Nothing more than an ill-advised crush.
Still, Lachlan and I will be spending an awful lot of time together this Season. I suppose there’s little danger in getting to know the man.
“How long have you been a celestial knight?”
“For the past nine years. Since I was twenty-six.”
I do a quick calculation, seven human years for every one faerie year. “You look very spry for two-hundred and forty-five.”
He chuckles. “And your arithmetic is very advanced.”
A small insect whizzes by my ear and I flinch. He steadies me with a pulse-quickening brush of his hand against my hip.
“Did you always want to be a knight?”
“Since I was a lad.”
“But you did not become one until your mid-twenties. Is that typical?”
“No.” A single, strained word. “Before Desmond hired me, I had a … different profession.”
His tone has me avoiding asking exactly what his previous profession was—if he wanted me to know, he would have said, so instead I ask, “Did you enjoy it?”
“Parts of it.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I was … Well, I suppose you could say I was fired.”
He’s being more cagey than I expected, but goodness knows I haven’t been completely forthcoming with my details.
“Do you like working for Desmond?”
A wry smile. “Parts of it.”
“Which parts?”
“You’re rather nosy, aren’t you?” There’s no cruelty in his words, only genuine curiosity.
“I just … I like to know the truth of things. You don’t have to tell me.”
“It’s no secret, really. There are perks to being a celestial knight, to be sure. I always have a place to sleep. I never have to worry about where my next meal is coming from. I am respected by the people of Tír na Strelle.”
“But?” I peer at him over my shoulder.
He cocks his head, questioning.
“You said there were parts of it you liked.” I brush a fallen leaf off my sleeve, my fingertips grazing his hand on the reins. “That implies there are parts you don’t. Parts that are influencing your desire to leave, perhaps?”
His chin nudges my temple, as if he’s pleased I remembered our conversation from two nights ago. “Celestial knights are not allowed to marry. We are not allowed to own land. We are not allowed to form attachments to anything other than our duke and his people.”
I frown, a little sad for him. A little sad for myself, if I’m honest. Which is useless. “So, this is the next chapter you were talking about. One full of attachments?”
“Something like that.” I can hear the smirk in his voice.
We fall quiet again, nothing scoring our journey but birdsong and the gentle clop of Tula’s hooves. I think about the perks he mentioned—constant shelter and guaranteed meals. Has he had to worry about those before? Asking directly feels impertinent. Perhaps I can get at it from another angle.
“Did you grow up in Tír na Strelle?”
“Depends on who you ask.” At his odd answer, I turn again to find him grimacing. “I grew up in a region called Campan’s Vale.”
“And? The look on your face would suggest there’s more to it than that.”
“Do you really want to hear the boring politics?”
“If I’m to be queen, I should know all the politics, regardless of their entertainment value.”